a letter

(aka addressing everything i might’ve missed over the semester, and accounting for them here) Aka Death with Dignity.🤍👐⚔️🤦



To Whom It May Concern:

Well, here I am, doing something for those years 2321 and 2221 (and, hence, 3121), respectively (or not), since they were unaccounted for, if it’s not too late. By too late I mean the commencement of your final audit, in which the accounting—the part often deemed by those in your profession to be the most heinous part of your job—is finally bow-tied for Big Brother, or, as my professor for my Casting & Auditioning class that just finished today (in which I just played a scene from Silver Linings Playbook for as a character whose confidence I wore for a while, which I think has changed me, in a way, forever) calls ‘Management.’ Anyway, it doesn’t really matter, because I want to do it anyway. You see, I’m really trying to be an honest citizen. I know the numbers are looking a bit weird, so I’m trying to figure that out for myself and you.

My stepmother somewhat recently became an accountant. When I lived with my father for a few years in high school, she was studying for all those tests they make you do so you can legally become somebody who can check if people and their numbers add up good.

I bet she’s decent at it—when she creatively tore my parents’ marriage apart it showed real ingenuity and heartlessness, so I bet all the rows and columns are totally no sweat after that.

For the record, I’m just joking. I’m post-forgiveness now—let me tell you! Let me TELL YOU: I ‘ M ! ! ! H E A L E D ! ! ! I'm healed, goddammit!

In all seriousness, I’m pretty serious about that. Stuff like that—ugh so trite—is actually probably all the best shit that’s ever happened to me, self-ascension-wise, of course. That it's all my OWN THING, and those enlightened fuckers harping about forgiveness are FUCKING RIGHT, amen. And that we're all trying our best—as Kurt Vonnegut once said, when his children were complaining about the state of the world to him, that he just fucking got here himself. He also "urge[d us] to please notice when you are happy, and exclaim or murmur or think at some point, 'If this isn’t nice, I don’t know what is.'" And that’s what I’m talking about: the shit in the letter that makes you cry. Or letters. The way words are put together like a little perfect clothesline. Do you put these boxers here? Linens three-shirts down? I want-no, I need it to look good for me, for you. Really for you. (But I’ve learned that if I do it for you, it never looks right. So I have to somehow do it for me, to learn to like myself enough so I can do that. Shit)

Maybe that’s why he was able to have people cry. Not that that’s what he did. But maybe he did.

I don’t know why I couldn’t get myself to do the In and Of and Life on Mars response then. I think it’s because I wanted it to be too perfect, and writing is important to me, and also because—if we want to bring in more excuses in (the whole band!)—in the beginning of the semester I was coming off of almost ending my shit (woodwinds) and I was just coming back into the magic of things (flutes) and maybe I didn’t want to say anything except something real (strings) and I was maybe worried, in a way, about saying something real (percussion), because I didn’t want anyone to worry about me (lead synth). But how else do you tell your tale, then?

It’s funny, because the guy who was busking in Central Park was doing it in the Literary Walk. I helped watch his busk for him as he ran to the bathroom. He was using a vocal harmonizer pedal, which we chatted a bit about. Turns out, he was a Bowie-busk specialist. And he sang Life on Mars.

And then, a couple days ago, I was watching The Life Aquatic for the first time ever. And, naturally, heard that rendition of it. Very cool—coincidence alert!

(BTW i offered the word coincidence when i did because that was the most spiritually neutral term for it. maybe i should've said miracles—miracles, love, decay.)

Astronauts maybe are kind of like volcano scientists in that they are somewhat Forced To See, or Confront, depending on where they Are. There’s something about learning to love decay there.

I like silver linings. The existence of them. Which I am, thus, purporting right now here. I swear they exist. Maybe because I have, in a way, been forced to look for them. Thank God that they’re everywhere, though. I think the trick is to look for them.

I liked how In & Of became almost a... facetious allusion for us this semester. I can’t believe so many people hated it. Are they cynical, or am I? Probably none of us, ‘cause that’s not even the right question—I know, I get it. But sometimes when people don’t like something that you found some sort of fondness in, you can finding yourself springing to don patriotic crusader clothes on its behalf and soon there’s the scent of metallic chiding in the air that always comes with any blood spilt, as if we don't have a choice about our buttons, you know what I mean?

I’ve never taken any drugs before, that’s just a stupid choice of mine, but I’ve been really lost and desperate before, which is kind of like the real thing as much as watching a movie of a magic show, or something. Like, I think I was there and that I get it, but what do I really know? Maybe the sleight-of-hand was way more obvious in-person.

Here’s where I am now: still thinking about perfection. Realizing that that’s inherent in the torn living of it. The bag I've been using for the past few months is one whose straps I festooned myself, out of climbing gear. I think I saw the exact Black Diamond strap in Free Solo. (Is that a miracle?) In many ways, we’re using it in the same ways. But I think Alex uses it better, of course.

Anyway, this class was funny. After we clicked off for the last session I suddenly realized I should’ve told everyone that they rocked and I love them, or something, even if a lot of them hated a lot of the things I didn’t. That’s almost controversial today, to love decay unconditional, in a way. Well, so what: you know what I realized about outer space? it’s my own holy mountain; every man an island, blah blah blah.

See, when you know of the way things can fall into place, in ways you wouldn’t believe, so beautiful you couldn’t possibly write it down, you can’t bear to fuck it up by trying to make it happen, like you used to, anymore. That’s the hard work thing: I’m still trying to figure that one out. (And also the insecurity thing. It’s like I’m embarrassed by everything I do, sometimes.) (And also on Helping Others: the tragedy of being on the other side of one of the infinite bridges, unable to help those who are on the shoreline you just left, even though you know exactly how you did it and somehow think that could get them across, too.)

Does this make up for anything? I don’t know. I had almost a 5.0/4.0 GPA in high school, because I had a stick up my ass. (Which is why I could've graduated college two years early, credit-wise.) When I finally began noticing the fucking stick, I promised myself I wouldn’t give a fuck about my grades in college because that Wasn’t The Point; unfortunately, I still wound up on the dean’s list here—which means the mirage almost got me again—and I started worrying about the B+ on my midterm for Occupy Outer Space, like that was more important than all the stories we shared with each other, or something. Well, today I left my apartment and told myself I didn’t have to do any accounting and I’d let Mgmt get me good and that my life is not about that anymore, because that’s the path to hellish realms, as it were. So, of course, in letting that bird fly the inspiration for this letter soon-after came, and here I am writing, as if I knew it all along. (And for no reason other than that it feels fun and indulgent, at that!) Isn’t that so funny and true? Ha Ha Ha.


Thank you, so what, and good luck.


Yours truly,
𝔢𝔢𝔢𝔢𝔢𝔢𝔢𝔢𝔢𝔢𝔢𝔢𝔢𝔢𝔢𝔢𝔢𝔢𝔢𝔢𝔢𝔢𝔢𝔢𝔢𝔢𝔢𝔢𝔢𝔢𝔢𝔢

(or,

IGNTP ( I Got Nothing To Prove ))


P.S. I realized, too, after our final day that I never really even explained my name. I chose it for myriad reasons but one of the main ones is because, well E = mc^2, obviously, and that outer space is relative. And that the calligraphic E= is just like the attempt at making a beautiful life.

P.P.S. Thank you for the music recommendation of Carrie & Lowell. We’re all gonna die, indeed, and what’s the point in singing songs, if they’ll never even hear you?

Should the body be gassed before...?

The outro of Drawn to the Blood and Carrie & Lowell are my favorite tracks right now, I think. At least they are today. :~)

P.P.P.S This has been on my mind recently. Have you seen it? You probably have. A true fucking classic, at this point. Thanks for sending Andy's song to us. I genuinely think it's a work of pure genius. These days I often just sing "I trusted you!!!!" over and over to myself, too. It helps—kind of like in Good Will Hunting when Sean finally breaks Will down by going it'snotyourfault it's not your fualt it'snotyourfaultit'snotyourfault etc etc etc. When I saw that scene for the first time (last week) I wailed and cried just like Will, but a couple seconds ahead of him, so I had no idea that he and I were going to end up in the same state, which was a profound thing. Aka it worked on me, too. And because that happened, I was reminded again how important it is to me to reach some sort of jagged perfection with this piece of consciousness I have because then maybe I could make something helpful too.







“We are here to help each other get through this thing, whatever it is.”
― Kurt Vonnegut, A Man Without a Country