Letters to No One

Letters to No One
Dear Friend,
  Hey, I haven’t heard from ya in quite a while, so I thought I would say hello. I am doing quite well; I have found a new hobby. I've taken to lurking in phone booths waiting for an unsuspecting wrong phone number call. To my dismay phone booths are becoming quite archaic, but by happenstance there is quite a cozy one not two blocks from my humble abode. It is surrounded by a frenzy of traffic and gas station patrons living the menial American dream. Sitting in my glass enclosure I am quite entertained by these spectacles as I wait interminably for that misplaced call. I hope that when that rove call finally presents itself all the provisions I have undertaken will assert their selves in a courteous and helpful manner. Well, I must be off, but keep one thing in mind, one day you may place a call and you may mistake a digit, or your finger may simply slip and you, yourself may wind up in a misdirected call. I may become recipient of said phone call and turn a disconsolate situation and fill it with laudable pleasantries. The civilityof it is astounding, don't you agree? Hope all is well.
Your Friend
Blair
Dear friend,
  In case you didn't know I have spent the last several weeks occupying a local phone booth. My aim was to comfort those who inadvertently placed wrong number calls. After several weeks with no phone calls things began to look bleak, so I had to move forth to my next capricious outing.
I have baked a wholesome batch of marijuana brownies and plan to sleep over at the local Toys-R-Us. How will I achieve such a devious task? Simple I will hide in one of the floor samples of the child sized plastic houses when closing time nears. In the morning I will repeat my adroit measures and slip out unnoticed, the in-between impetuousness will be a grand childhood tea party like symposium relived. Wish me luck and c-ya soon your cerebrally challenged friend
Blair.

P.S. If it works for me, I plan to throw a party in this format.
Dear friend,
  I like to tell you that my Toys-R-Us endeavor went well, but nothing could be further from the truth. Last Tuesday at 8:45 p.m. I attempted my week long dream of inhabiting an empty Toys-R-Us store through the tenure of one night. When I tried to put my plan into action by ducking into one of the plastic floor model houses I found out I wasn't alone. There I sat with a rouge bum. At first he seemed a bit surprised, but that rapidly turned into contempt. He tried to get me to abandon my task by giving me slight arm shoves and dirty looks, but I warned him not to blow our cover. I was subject to cold irascible stares till the last employee left. When I was sure we were alone I crept out and looked over the store. Soon I came face to face with my co-inhabitant. He was about six inches from my face, his breath stank and he was pissed. I tried to pay homage to my nocturnal host with my freshly baked marijuana brownies, but he just knocked them to the ground. "This aggression will not stand," I said as I vehemently pushed him into several effeminate display stands. He stumbled to his feet and gave his mightiest feeble scream as he attacked. I knocked the fucker out with one fell swoop. He dropped like a ton of bricks into a myriad of consumerism. Let me tell you there is nothing worse than a defeated man sprawled out unconscious on a gigantic mound of Strawberry Shortcake and My Little Pony dolls. I knew I couldn't proceed forth with my desired course of action, so I did the only thing I could. I gathered up my brownies and broke the front window. I ran off into the night while the alarm rang loudly. I said to myself,” better him than me."
Hope all is well. Your friend,
Blair
Dear friend,
  After the fiasco that ensued at the local Toy's R Us I felt so disconsolate that I decided to walk aimlessly and partake in what was left of my brownies. I must have been on the toe heal express for about two hours when I noticed I was irrevocably stoned. I had a strong craving for a drink, so I stopped at a liqueur store. I bought a luminous bottle of Night Train and a menthol pack of GPC'S, I then proceeded to walk. I strolled engulfed in all the fruits of intoxication for an interminable amount of time. I soon came to the realization that I was dead in the heart of city of Chicago. My lower appendages were completely spent, so I languidly footed an alleyway for a rest.
  When I came to it was daylight. There seemed to be lots of ruckus around in the distant street. It sounded like a parade. I stood up feeling quite groggy and made my way towards the commotion. "How gay," I said out loud, but to myself when I saw what was going on. There were men walking around holding hands and wearing ass-less chaps. There were rainbows everywhere and women that looked meaner than the local bully from when I grew up. Also, there were floats, and upon these floats were signs advocating the practice of homosexuality. The most frightening thing was this float that had a huge salad bowl. There were guys in leather underwear holding large salad forks and spoons, and there was a huge sign that said we toss salad. It really was a terrible eyesore.
  I am not a hater of the gay community, but this garish forwardness was a bit too much for me. I thought to myself that they were being American about this, meaning they were exercising their right to assemble, so I figured I would do the same. That's when I made my mistake. I ran down the alleyway and found some cardboard. I always have lots of markers and pens in my backpack, so I pulled out my black Sharpie In big bold black letters I wrote the words "how gay" on the card board and sauntered towards the street. Well, I've told as much as I can tell right now, because I am in a lot of pain and it hurts to write right now. I am recovering quite nicely though.
Your friend
Blair
P.S. I am sorry to break off in mid letter like this, but it does add to the element of suspense, doesn't it?
Dear friend,
  In the midst of my last correspondence, I'm afraid, that I concluded my letter in the most egregious way, but I assure you it was indicative to the injuries sustained by my foolhardy actions.
  Let me start off with this simple emphatic notion, what the fuck was I thinking? In a society where free speech is fundamental one must consider am old rudimentary law of science brought forth by Isaac Newton, "Every action has an equal and opposite reaction." Sometimes the world functions wholly on this principle, if not all times. In that being said, I would also like to point out that presentation is also a large factor to consider. There I sat, a six foot man, skinny but lean, with tattoos,  a bald head, and a goatee, holding an ambiguous sign that said "how gay," at the Pride Parade, not a smart move. I was out in the street but a minute when a heard of bull dyke man haters stampeded me like a drunken rodeo clown.
  Getting your ass kicked does something to you. It's a visceral thing, but getting trounced by a pack of dick hating dykes is odious. I have healed well, and yet, I sit deep in malaise. I have diagnosed myself with a form of shell shock. I still see a frenzy of lesbians screaming, kicking and punching. Their pugnacious and incendiary actions have put me teetering on the edge of a nether world of disconsolate thought.
  I hope this letter doesn't make you worry, because when I have somebody like you to listen to me, well, it makes a big difference. For now I must be going. I hope all is well on your end.
Your friend,
Blair     

Dear friend,
 
  I have been feeling a little a little better, but my mind will not settle, although I have stopped thinking about the beating my mind has become really discontented. Last Thursday night I was so bored and stoned that I decided to clean out my fridge. I was up to my elbows in gunk when I came across a putrid bowl of beans whose delectability had long expired; it was border line toxic. With evasive action I traversed the kitchen floor to the sink where I proceeded to dump the remnants in the garbage disposal. I turned the faucet handle and flipped the disposal switch and with delicate precision I dumped the beans into the drain. A foul stench arose and gave my stomach a kick. I darted for the washroom and had a hearty puke.
    I returned from the infirmary to a sink of water draining in a clockwise fashion; moments before I had witnessed the toilet bowl do the same. I thought in the southern hemisphere the water drains counter clockwise. So, in relation I thought of the earnestness of science and how it applies to this situation. Some buffoon by the way of happenstance observed this occurrence and brought forth the conjecture to the scientific community, and somewhere a team of people became elated with such a theory, they, then realized it was an aggregate with a maxim called the Coriolis Effect. It all has something to do with the earth’s rotation. But, then I thought of a small percentage of scientists who say the Coriolis Effect isn't significant enough to work on such a diminutive level, thus negating this whole drain theory. I thought to myself that these people are just a bunch of bookworm Nazis’ who haven’t considered all the variables. It appears that in their equivocation they are more concerned with chicanery than the pursuit of the rectitude of science. When said variables and their influence embark on the minute effects of this Coriolis Effect , in our drains and in our toilets, they create out of the ordinary circumstances that dissipate the influence of the Coriolis Effect, but given the right conditions the result is constant. This effect is ever present and waiting to do its deed. These book worms would rather chouse you into thinking that they are actual pundits with superior intellects rather than letting you know they are making up for getting bullied when they were kids. I could picture them forming a strong arm committee to put their scientific principles into practice; I could picture them prevaricating the world with their shitty one sided views. They’ll do things like rename gravity by putting a slight twist to the law. They’ll call it something like Arnab's Earth Pull Theory, and with each of their new doctrines the world will get stupider. In mid though I stopped short, I felt a cold nose touch my leg, it was my dog Bonnie telling me she needed to go out. I put the leash on her and led her out the door "Wow yeah, I think I need to go out too." I felt so restless and bitter and doubtful, but then it came to me. I need to really get out. Perhaps a road trip will do. The next letter you receive I will be spreading my wings, so to speak, and traveling abroad. Hope all is well
Your friend
Blair   

Dear friend,
  Have you ever heard of making the best of a bad situation? Well' here I sit discontent, again, in an odiously precarious situation hoping for the best. I sit held up with three companions in a corn field. It is now early Sunday evening and we've been perched here in Auburn, Illinois since about 4:30 Friday afternoon.
  When we left the "good ole" Southside of Chicago we headed south down Interstate I-55. We rode for about two hours when my temperature gauge started running hot. We stopped and I filled the radiator with fluid and let the car sit awhile we had lunch. We then set forth again towards desultory means, but then I began to feel diffident about our situation when the gauge began intermittently climbing. At the very brink of overheating I frantically took an exit and tried to find a mechanics garage. The effort was to no avail and I wound up blowing the head gasket. We called a tow company, but this was a small town and they couldn't help us till Monday when they reopened, besides all the garages were about to close and wouldn't open till Monday. We as a quartet of travelers felt quite stricken with the menial constraints of home, and, even though we had only small increments of monetary means, opted to get the car fixed and continue on our journey. We d decided that in the interim between Friday and Monday we would tough it out in the cornfield directly behind Marciano’s Truck Stop where our chariot lies in wait, which, I might add is an excellent source for food and water. Our border lines consist of a cornfield, the back of a truck stop, and two sets of parallel railroad tracks. In the distance about 3/4 of a mile off you can see the farm house where the owners of the field reside. Thus far, surprisingly, nobody has protested our little sojourn.  We have filled our time with hippie parlor games such as frisbee, hackey-sack, and the volatile learning of how to handle devil sticks. Since we did, at one point, have an ounce and a half of weed we tried an experiment. We sought to find out the ramifications of what mass amounts of marijuana, time, and copious amounts of sunshine can do  to the human psyche, but halfway through we had a sobering thought and said that the experiment had all ready been tried. They said it was like living in California for the last forty years. I don't know why, but we just laughed hysterically for about a half hour from that. So, we really just smoked and tired not to become querulous people. When things are crazy like this, when there is so much pressure in the air, when things are so up in the ambiguous, in order not to flip-out, you act absolutely puerile and laugh in a maniacal way about everything. Well that does it for now I must be getting back to my strange situation. Catch you on the flip-side.
Your stoney friend,
Blair                                               
Dear friend,
  Our little sojourn as children of the corn has ended. I cannot say that is has gone complete without incident though. Friday thru Sunday a certain malaise seemed to encumber our thoughts and even though, as I said before, we laughed a lot, it tugged at our very beings. We braved the lurking variables like young children who have ventured to far down the street from our perfect homes. We knew we were beyond our perimeter, but with hesitant and devious smiles we pushed on in our minds, even though our bodies lie in tarry, that, out there, there was something waiting only for us, and by chance that mommy, daddy, or any other authority figure were to notice our waywardness, we with luminated and unwavering smiles show the want of a different experience, and we were ready to pay the consequences.
  On Monday our subtle dread seems to be vanquished as we called a tow, but as we lay into wait into the third hour constrained looks began to resurface. It seems our tarry was regrouping. Everybody seemed to remain optimistic, but, to me it was a false countenance that made me very bitter, so in order to seek mitigation I went to the cashier at Marciano’s and received two dollars in change to make some calls from the pay phone. I was fiending for extrication from our situation. I deposited fifty cents and dialed(it's amazing that in this day of technological wonder that none of us had cell phones, but that is exactly what we didn't want anyways. We were trying to get away). I planned to chastise the fucks a A-Reliable Towing for the false pretense of their timely arrival. The operator chimed in and asked for another dollar fifty and angrily I deposited it. I was contemplating the expense of the call when a voice answered. It turns out that I misdialed and received a phone booth in Times Square. Holy fuck, New York, and a phone booth no less, do you even begin to understand how alarmingly uncanny that was? I began careening from all this tremulous fraught. Here we sat right smack dab in the middle of an ambiguous cluster fuck We knew yesterday and it was just as unknowing as that day, but that day was supposed to be different. That day they were supposed to fix my car, that day we were supposed to leave that soul suck of a corn field, that day we were supposed to make leaps and bounds on American highways with music blasting and wind blowing freedom thru our hair, and here we sit supine. I don't have the foggiest fuck of a notion of how much the repair to my car will cost. I've had enough of our obsequious manner. I hit the cashier up for more change and huffed my way back to the phone. I called the garage, and to my surprise they were expecting us. They had talked to the tow company on Friday. They said if the problem was what it sounded lik e we would be on the road today, but they couldn't say for sure without the car right in front of them. They said the tow guy was a friend of theirs and not to worry. I called the tow company next and they said the guy would be there soon and not to worry. I hung up the phone.
  An hour had passed and there we sat still stationary. My aplomb passed silently out into the summer sky while I went to retrieve an article from my trunk, by the time I closed it a querulous bitch boy had surfaced. I screamed vehemently as I slammed the truck. I began to growl obscenities as I kicked the living shit out of my bumper. Agnes, one of my traveling companions, came forth and embraced me. She looked at me with her big and sad brown eyes and then shoved my head into her ample bosom, as if to say, these will assuage your fury. Ya know what she, was right. They say music soothes the savage beast, well, I think breasts do a fine job too, because I became placid. As soon as I became aware of my calm state the tow truck pulled up. I began scrambling around with empathic whoops. I went to hug everybody and as I came to Agnes I tried to seek more solace in her womanhood and was met with a loving but forceful push.
  We sat at a bar near the garage, and without drinking; we waited a whole four hours. The redneck locals actually were quite nice and bought us a pizza after hearing our story. By six o'clock that day we were on our way. We had had no destination, but then again we had no worries and it felt good to be young, well at least semi-young anyways. Hope all is well in your perimeter.
Your friend
Blair
                 
Dear friend,
  I sit in veneration of the sunshine as my friends and I drive through the verdure of Mississippi. There is something about being the passenger on a long drive that can make you feel quite pensive. So, I hit the pipe, grabbed a pen, and wrote you this letter.
  A man named Dale Carnegie once uttered these words "You can make more friends in two months by becoming interested in other people than you can in two years by trying to get people interested in you."  Another man, a philosopher by the name of Soren Kierkegaard once said "
Life can only be understood backwards, but must be lived forwards." A small increment on introspection has brought forth the notion that I am revealing many things about my life without giving you the opportunity for recompense, so I sit here precariously between said quotes hoping to come forth into a propitious stance with you. In summation, I have had quite a small adventure in the last two months and along the way, in-between the mishaps of stepping on  a few toes, I have been fortunate enough to meet a myriad of people and hear of their joys and sorrows. To pay tribute to these delicate souls, I, in turn am writing you about my life in hopes t hat I have something to offer, and offer it in such a way that you may attentively listen. In a certain sense I stand looking back at my life in it's conveyance to you. I suddenly feel even more reflective because of a song that one of my traveling companions has put on. It was a song called "Change" by a band called Blind Melon. It fit my mood like a work glove and as I grabbed my mental shovel I dug deeper into myself, I realized that for me this song is eternal. It pretty much envokes the same thoughts it did fifteen years ago, only now it's contents seem truer due to life experience. Yes, "life is hard," and "you have to change." A little to much and much to fast don't ya think? When the song comes to my favorite part the music lulls and the late Shannon Hoon exerts the words "I'm gonna write my words on the face of today," then the music kicks in and with a quick and emphatic tone he states "then we'll paint it." I began to think solemnly of how I am still trying g, since I was a kid, to write my words on the face of today, before you, this, all of us get painted over by tomorrow. This is what I am trying to accomplish as I write these letters to you. If  I could communicate one true moment, or idea to at least one individual in my lifetime I would be a better man, but, with that thought, what if I could convey truth everyday to all the people around me, my friends, my family, anybody else intuitive enough to listen, and if I  was humble enough to hear their truths, could that make me a great man. It all depends on what one thinks is great I guess.
  In the perpetuation of our lives can we look back and see that our aesthetic truth was the search for and the wanting of love from the people around us, and the words on the face of those days past was how we were touched and how we touched these people and their lives at that time? No matter how everything changes your relation with these people and the time that you have shared with them can never change, because it is something that lives somewhere inside you and is indelible.  Is this how we write our words on the face of today, is it not? Well, I guess that's something that that one must decide for their selves.
  Now that I've sat with my feast of thought the banquet is over and I am still hungry for something, but I can't place quite place my finger on it. Maybe it has something to do with why I am sitting in this car so far from home and not wanting to return home, at least for right now. The want to go further seems implacable and I feel I must sate it to the fullest. What that means I cannot say, but J.T. has requisitioned relief form the wheel and that literally puts me in the drivers seat, free to dance with the swell and ebb of the earths rhythm. Hope all is well.
Your friend
Blair

Dear friend,
  Sometimes there is nothing better than the immediate gratification of a frivolous whim. Our desired destination was New Orleans, but something wasn't sitting quite right with me, We were rapidly approaching the point where we would enter the state of Louisiana and with each turn of the tires my seething grew. As we drove along the highway the road began to slow into a traffic jam. Slowly we crept forward in a series of starts and stops until we reached the source of the interruption. It was a car wreck, and by the looks of it, a pretty serious one at that. I felt sad for those involved. Their happy lives changed in a matter of seconds by a hulking mass of two thousand pounds spinning out of control.  We passed the accident site and the traffic began to pick up. I was thinking of the grim scene and glanced at all the sleeping passengers in my car. I was glad they hadn't seen the wreck.
  Wreck? Wait!  That's it New Orleans is a wreck right now. That hurricane that hit a couple of years ago practically pounded it back the 15th century. Right now they are encumbered in a complete state of restitution. I don't know the slightest thing about the humanitarian effort down there and we do not have much money to spend, so how can we contribute? We can't, and it's simply not the place for us to be doing whatever it is that we are doing; besides it's unbearably humid down here this time of year. I thought of an old saying written by an Indian newspaper journalist, but made famous by Horace Greeley, "Go west young man." It seemed to make perfect sense when I saw the sign for highway 20. I knew that it was a straight shot west, the whole scenario was just way to strange to dismiss. So, I decided to proceed with my desired course of action and not to consort with my colleges. The democratic process is to slow for fast moments such as these. When t he time comes to take control seize it as if there is no tomorrow, that way, when you get to the journeys end and your not satisfied you have only yourself to blame.
  I was completely jacked on energy drinks and pot when Agnes stirred. We were well within Texas territory. One look at the scenery and she knew we had strayed the course. You see New Orleans is not Texas and Texas is not New Orleans and if you been to at least one of these places you know one is not the other and the other is not the one. Agnes asked in a soft, sleepy, but empathically quizzical voice of our whereabouts. My reply caused her to become livid. The car became strident with curses and put downs.  J.T. and Dagwood woke from the slumber scared shitless. The car was buzzing with such chaotic fury that I had to pull over. I explained my reasoning for my actions and J.T. and Dagwood accepted my explanation. Their reasoning was that this was a wandering road trip and such action kept true to our desultory endeavor. They also said that I was probably right about New Orleans. However, Agnes's face grew dark as she heard their acceptance. She started to pick up rocks and whip them at us. We tried to mitigate her irrational affront while dodging the bombardment of rocks, but all efforts were futile. A malaise began to encumber our thoughts. We were worried about the police coming, because we had pot. We tried to elucidate the severity of the situation to her, but she was intransigent until we got into the vehicle and started to pull away without her.  We began driving down the highway and Agnes would go into sporadic bursts of chastising me and after a short time I became very weary to the abuse. I waited for an opportune moment and when it appeared I seized it. I recognized something that would pull the strings of irritation to the fullest extent. It was something I knew she would feel totally uneasy about. I pulled over to the side of the road and picked up a hitchhiker I saw.

  The hitchhiker that we picked up turned out to be quite an affable young man. At first we were un sure of how long we would allow him to travel with us, because he had a hell a effluvium emanating from his being. His foul stench contaminated our cars' atmosphere instantaneously, and because my decision my decision to pick him up was out of spite, we almost dropped him off as fast as he was picked up. He must have notice out disagreeable conjecture about his being because right away he began to palaver about his life in the most congenial sort of way, and to propitiate the situation he offered a twenty spot for gas. After the twenty proposition things became awkward, but Dagwood broke the strange silence by saying, "O.k. if you’re going to be riding with us we have to stop at the next truck stop and your goin to have to take a shower, because you fucking reek."  We conceded with a nod of our heads combined with a empathetic chorus of "yeahs".  "Is it that bad," he inquired as he stuck his nose in his shirt? He pulled away and let out a gasp and stated "hi I'm Chris and I'm a smellaholic." We all kinda laughed and knew he could stay. And, yes, Agnes countenance became calm.  Hope all is well.
Your friend
Blair