River of Mnemosyne
10th Daughter of Memory
muse 4 5 6

Muse 4
Finding my favorite stoop, I sat to retrieve the letter. The swashed bugs on the open page proved a your letter was written En Plein Air and confirmed you are still on-the-lam.
Like so many other possibilities, I have committed it to memory.

‘My dear friend,
What is it called when you dream of wildfire and awake to flood?
When you invent something so intriguing in your dreams, but cannot bring it to the light of day?
What is it called when you have the pen and paper but not enough light?
What is it called when you can finish it in an evening or you could finish it in a night and what you really want to do is never finish it at all?
What is it called when someone purchases a better something but the other wanted something they thought lesser?
What does it feel like to be thinking-of-nothing and write a book?
When you realize you are outside of realism?
I may/not be her.
I am. And will be.
Repillee Scooter’

Yet another device. The old diversionary tactic.  Logic will be of no use on this one, so let it go into percolation mode.  It stutters a click of a breath, sputters two words like a candle going out and retreats to touch the back of the stage wall til the encore.
Not liking math closes doors and eventually seals them shut, as I have noticed. (Teansie me)

 Muse 5
Instead of eating the letter I added it to a Borofsky exhibition down in SoHo. Jonathan would never notice because of all the garbage covering the floor in his installation. Artful trash is another story for another time.
All that now remains is the faint odor, just a trace of ambergris on my palms and cuffs from the stationary. I will not accuse, though weren’t you in the wake as she entered with that perfume wafting behind her. That, before she told the reporter she was vegan. This morning? Or later. Depending which continent you're sitting on.
Which side of the road you are driving on and where you put your accents.
I will continue this process when I figure out the sequence.

Muse 6
I DID recognize her picture in this mornings paper even though it was 150dpi black and white. The story did not read as a space Iliad. However it is epic in its confusion. A light force expelled her. The release was printed before your letter and am assuming you are not on the ship. But then again the 'finger' prose wasn’t delivered by you, so no tellin.  Squinting my eyes and at the appropriate distance from  the photo I recognized the ring on her right hand near the jet window. How strange it looked like your knuckles. As if knuckles could be unique.
It was in the New York Times. God and everyone else knows that demands belief, as evidence that  paper is taken seriously as a bloodhound.
Looking for the jump. The page was ripped. Literally.

7 8 9


  1. ha. i love your tale...your descriptors are awesome...

  2. Good gracious. It's like floating around in the Large Hadron Collider watching words collide together and new ideas emerge.

  3. I Dont Know It's Name But I Recognize It.

  4. Quick edit: "Depending which continent you're sitting on."

    I love the smooth abrasion. That's the only way I can think of to describe this. Maybe abrasive smoothness.

  5. whew--finally getting around to reading all the entries.

    always, always love your quirky style...so inscrutible, but so engaging. I like letter-tense. But would have loved more of your art along with it.