Here’s a letter I wrote to Pat and Stephanie in early 1991, found in Patrick’s files. Pretty boring stuff, but I do mention John’s death and Mary’s suicide.Continue reading “JP to Patrick and Stephanie (2 Jan 1991)”
This letter is happier than its predecessor.
Here’s a letter that my dad John wrote to my dad Patrick, in which he describes his hope that Patrick can regain custody of Jennifer and Gretchen.
Here’s the first of many letters I referenced in the New Year’s Eve 2018 post. I feel badly for my mom. She really, really had it rough her whole life. I believe if you click on the images you will be able to see a larger version of each.
it’s christmas day.
the wind is up a bit,
clouds are preparing a total invasion – it’s been blue skies for weeks.
long live merrie, and happie kubrick
already the days are a few seconds longer than last week;
that always encourages me to get my wind up,
to take a new chomp at the biscuit of significant living.
like a prestidigitator, the mind pops out of the hat
the world as we have known it, large as life,
sitting in the sun on the St Marks square,
scarf flapping in the breeze, smiling or bite your beard.
you in your kitchen in freeport making simple soup
a morning in the blue room in salisbury on the way to tampa,
light playing in branches outside the window,
f with a cup of coffee looking askance at the slightly uneven keyboard of
the piano, and whoosh
my brother in dark glasses in the airport bar, plotting murder,
mari leaning against marble fluted columns at the temple of aphrodite
somewhere in turkey,
her white skirt blowing (does that photo still exist, you wonder),
but this vision is run over by a red mercury convertible on a dusty road,
or left in a minimized window
when fred clutches his right(?) hand under his armpit as the swelling begins
and we all jump
into her car and puncture in our haste the oil pan,
and so on and on,
a veritable pride of kodaks in this and that apartment or field or why not,
the smell of a street in athens, where the roasting meat makes memory
salivate for more?
the wind howling in kushadasi…
marvel at the gigabytes we have in common memory…
and yet we are all puzzles to one another,
most of the pieces scattered in the many years of silence and no contact
soon our satellite will leave the influence of the sun – think of it!
it seems whatever we find, we have space for it under our skulls
where did i see this: like a sponge too drenched, the mind when saturated
with grief spills and thus we created tears
also: when soaked with such splendid shared time, we overflow into smiles
and lungs swollen with exhilaration as if we could breathe life into each
other and the universe itself, merely by saying robert, fred, italy, greece,
doug, leftittown (to prequote robbie), tree, rose, red clay, green fields,
as 9-year-old yoji in soller said if god is everywhere you and i are god
Lots of love from
together with you on this celestial RR (pace e.m. forster)
From Patrick on 25 Dec Y2K
Hope you all had a happy Christmas.
I sent this to a couple of friends who are older than I am, Fred Young (in North Carolina), and Robert Dreicer, now in Florence, Italy. We all met when I was teaching on Long Island, and they met all of you, and Donna, so I thought, you might want it, since it is in a way, part of your history, too.
Now we are all so much older, and hopefully some of the sorrows of then have been healed. Some, I say, because never can all be cleansed. Each of us has deeds to regret, and mine are awful and inexcusable…
Still, much love to you all, and may you prosper in this new millennium.
And from 29 Dec Y2K
Yes of course [you may post it]
It was composed on the spot
and sent without further thought- –
which one day I might regret:
but not yet.
Have a good blowout
but not on your Widget!
Patrick liked the writing style in this letter from Gretchen, as did I, though it was painful for him to read. Some references have been edited at my sister’s request.
WARNING: Sensitive readers may be offended by this letter’s foul language or the reality of the tale itself.
You pegged Pedro dead to rights, when I called him a neanderthal. You said “no, cro-magnon, he wouldn’t eat his own children, but he would eat anything else.”
But at least he noticed I was there. Which was more than could said for you … during the important bits.
By the time we got hauled out of the 2nd orphanage, (the BEST SETUP EVER, lemme tell you) I didn’t even know who was doing the hauling. They SAID … but for all I knew, she could have been the Fucking Tooth Fairy, rumored to exist but rarely seen, since you had to believe it first.
Or the rare triangle-spotted ocelot. Continue reading “You Coulda Been a Hero”
Hey Patrick, it’s JP.
I’m wearing that robe tonight, the maroon one that you and Ivonne bought for me when I came to visit in Palma—so long ago it seems, although it was really just a year and a half ago. So I’m wearing the maroon robe and I’m thinking about you.
You know, things are going ok. Of course, I still miss you like crazy. It’s what, one in the morning and I’m thinking about you.
I think about you a lot.
Still, I’ve dialed it back some. Continue reading “Letter to Patrick”
Here was a 1984 note from Pat and Stephanie to a friend (Bob? Fred?) in honor of their 60th birthday. I especially like the detail work in the flame.
A couple of notes to a sister about Wednesday the 22nd of March.
Not sure if you’re getting these email messages. Anyway here’s another from last night.
Patrick has taken meds and gone to bed. He’s still in a lot of pain and has a hard time getting around tonight but he had another solid dinner so at least he’s eating again. Continue reading “Wednesday (22 March 2017)”
In response to a YouTube video called Rules for Rulers, Patrick responded on 16 Nov ‘ 16:
Pretty good video. But democracy has one big problem.
If you can keep people dumb with entertainment, and make them think what you want, you control everything without giving true rewards in proportion to the value of the normal person – if they can’t think, they won’t get what they want or need, but will blame it on somebody else.
It’s like dictating what you have to think.
Oh well, I don’t know why the mob prefers football to understanding life a little bit.