|| August 14, 1996
Dear Frank: I always thought that Hell is other people was
a great line. So did Sartre, apparently.
There may never be time for me to write again. I am surrounded by friends.
A brick in a wall at least has mortar to protect it. I am going back
to ISU in a week and a half to do another semester and I am very happy
it. Well, here I am writing. I guess I cant be too bitter, no?
You disappeared somewhat abruptly. Im glad you sent me your address.
I thought for a while that you were going to fake your own suicide
by driving your car into the Mississippi River. I hated my time in West
Virginia. Dont even ask. Im convinced Ill never write
again. Did I mention that? I think I did. Rettberg is passing through
here on Sunday.
What am I doing with my life? Why am I asking you? What are you doing
with your life? I hate not being able to write. I get very sick and mad
at my friends. This letter is circular. Not the page, of course,
which is rectangular. Just the fact that it cant ever go anywhere.
Sure is hot. Of course youre in California. Energy tablets?
I just took a caffeine pill. Maybe that will help me finish this.
Yesterday I bought Harry MathewsCigarettes. It had been
in the Babbitts in Urbana for at least
six months. I guess I felt kind of inspired. Is this insipid? Please
understand: I have been living for the last two months in intentional
unable to write. These sentences are some of the first Ive typed
since June. I am now writing a poem a minute
for forty minutes, listening to the ResidentsCommercial Album and
adding these sentences during track 34. Did you know that the Residents Commerical
Album is forty songs, each exactly a minute in length? I saw Krass-Mueller
yesterday but didnt stop to talk to him.
—Your fragmented pal, William