Thank you all, once again, for the New Year invitations. They brought a strange synergy, augmented by reading your collective Skunk River Review pieces while listening to the Columbia University Orchestra playing the Fratres for Cello.
Sadly, the outer walls of my domicile were wavering too fluidly to contain any forms of synergy beyond those found among the silent multi-legged animals who eat the paper beneath the letters while the dried ink falls to the bookshelf between library bindings and dust jackets and smythe-sewn backstrips, mingling among the tiny sands left by legions of departed roaches. Is it notable that they do not eat the ink, only the fibrous? In their chewing they eschew the words.
Yes, definitely let’s get some gether by 2015 or so—we are all overdue. You name the time and place, and I’ll follow suit, naming my own time and place, and with luck their coincidence will be both temporal and spatial.
The poet came yesterday, demanding a little market research, and I have not left him entirely in the land of sark. My weakness, yes, but the wolf does deposit strings of slather upon the poet’s doorstep and mine now and then, which quickens the accursed mercantile juices.
May the ghost of Flan O’Brien sully your scripts, my friends.