Dear Ivan:
Apologies for having not written in a while … You’ll never
guess – I did indeed blow my brains out.
Haha! And I am now writing to you
from Cloud Nine in invisible ink, by spectral hand, and at a desk made solely
of water vapours etcetera. You see, after
the dirty business of suicide, as if by magic, my soul left my body and
ascended to heaven (St Peter, did, however, take a good long look at me at the
pearly gates – part of my frontal lobe was missing of course - but let me in
when he was told who I was: That, I suppose, was the most amazing miracle of
all).
Heaven’s alright, you know.
But, I confess, it is a bit like being back at the asylum – white washed
walls, everyone in white uniforms, and it’s awfully quiet. Started playing some of that Coltrane you
gave me a few years back last week, and immediately was ssshed by a passing
choir of angels (I am beginning to despise choral music – just too damned
holy!).
Anyhow, it was good of you to write, even if you have some
darned silly views on bull-fighting.
Death is everywhere, you should remember – death in the morning, death
in the afternoon (did you really not like this one of mine?), death when the
fat old sun sets (and yet the sun also rises! Ha!). That said, I’m glad you think I was writing
‘as well as ever’, up until the whole shotgun finale.
On blowing my brains out: don’t be sore about it. It was what I wanted. As you said I’d lived three lives wrapped
into one, and should really have died a handful of times before – the war in Italy , and
those two plane crashes. Anyhow, when
you reach the end of your tether you’ll find out too that reason and freedom
are wasted on you. Again, don’t be sad. You never know, it might even bring you and
that scheming wife of yours back together. Loretta: a tricky one, but goddamn
beautiful! (Better scribble out the
goddamn, won’t get past the censors here).
Ivan, you are not terrible, and certainly in comparison with
me you are steady, not prone to feeling awful, drinking too much (its what we
writers do mind you), or flying off the handle in a rage. Stay calm, and life will sort itself out, and
things will become clearer. Be a man! You said you could stand the pain – so do
so! I would say the Lord will provide,
but you and I both you he won’t (no, I haven’t met him yet), therefore here’s
looking at you kid!
Yours eternally,
Ernest.
PS. Do miss fishing up here, several thousand miles above
the sea. Long to wrestle with a 1000lb
Tuna again – remember the one you and I had for nine and half hours before the
sharks got it? The head alone must have
been 250lb! You win, you lose: existence in a coconut shell.
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