To all to whom it is a concern.
This is a letter to myself. I don’t know how you can say that you can write a letter to yourself, but I think that you can. You’ve gotta try anyway, because if you don’t try then you stop thinking altogether and then you sit around all week smoking pot and watching t.v. or going to a job that you don’t like every day and every day after that. You are the one who wouldn’t allow thought to continue. You are the one who would not allow the moon to rise for fear of its mythology. You are the one who think that you are so shattered that nothing that you ever do will ever, ever matter. Well, you are wrong. Joey Kantor
The Sweet Dreams of Dying Dogs
My brother rocked. I mean, my brother rocked. He just rocked. He Rocked. My brother fucking ROCKED!!! Albert
Love is a strange beast. It is included in the anthology for strange beasts. Without it’s arms we would never suffocate…under love. Without it’s terror we would never wake up in the morning. We are also the ones who said “no” to love. For she is a terrible monster and to some of us, must be destroyed. Jed
The only hope I ever knew for Jed Jones was his ability to go far. He wasn’t much of a thinker, although he wasn’t dumb. He was a no good, low-down son of a bitch, but people loved him, ‘specially his mother. Jed Jones was the one who went far. That’s why we named him Fargo. Jed would go as far as the world and then circle it again for fear he’d left something out. He was that thorough. And if it had to do with love, real love, then he would go three times as far. And if that wasn’t enough he’d do it again and again and again and again until he could no longer stand. And when he was at his last step he would simply stop, probably light a cigarette, and look back at where he was. Of course, he would see the very planet he used to be on. And way down there on that planet he would see it exactly where it was at. Love. And he’d dive back down and go get it. Jay.
The axe is too dull, dear Liza. Liza, the ax is too dull.
Sharpen it, dear Henry. Hone it.
On what shall I sharpen it, dear Liza. On what shall I hone it?
On a stone, dear Henry.
The stone is too dry, Liza.
Well, wet it dear. Wet it.
With what shall I wet it, dear Liza. With what?
Try water, dear Henry.
In what shall I fetch it, dear, Liza.
In a bucket, dear Henry. In a bucket!
There’s a hole in the bucket, dear Liza. A hole! Henry and Liza in San Francisco 1878
I’ve been wanting to write a novel for a long time, so I started, but it was all fucked up because I thought that maybe I would do the music for the play that I’d written first and in order to gain notoriety for the play I would write a novel and maybe make some money off the novel. But the play is free. I want all of the money for the music and script to go to the Diana Fund.
I found that it isn’t easy to write a novel. Mostly a novel to me is what I think of. And most of the time I don’t know what to think. So if you think that you know how to thread all of life’s stories together in fake people then you’re sadly mistaken unless you eventually won’t go crazy unlike most of the other writers who try and become somebody else too real-like.
There ain’t no explaining it. A writer like me who can barely talk good english good and so by trying not to talk right is able to talk right in another fashion, another voice. I guess that’s all novel-writing really is: trying to find voices for characters who don’t really exist except in your own head, because you decided that you would make a deal with yourself and publish any old damn thing that sounds slightly like James Joyce, who you admire. So you go forward listening to the howling laughter of the world critics aimed at you because they don’t know that you also think somewhat like James Joyce did, but only you weren’t famous and, most of all, it is more an unfortunate thing than fortunate.
So I got my characters in my life. Hell, I even got a hamster named Joey Gant. His formal name is The Hamster. Actually, I think Joey Gant is his formal name and the Hamster came later. Either way, the Hamster refers to himself, I think, by The Hamster. All caps. Yeah. No motherfucking bones about it. Albert