An Open Letter To Stanley
Lovely Stanley,
I never see you anymore. Why is this? I wander around Charlottesville, poking around here and there, and you are nowhere to be found. You are not at my house, and you are not at Arby's last night, and you are not anywhere on the sidewalk during my walk to the Downtown Mall and back. Where are you? I spend my evenings drinking wine, talking, sometimes driving, sometimes writing, sometimes sleeping, and you are never there to remind me of all of my horrible shortcomings, and to make fun of my friends, and to say inappropriate things at inappropriate times, which I like. Where are you to keep me in check? Where are you to remind us that it's all pointless, it's all a farce, a coop, a dirty chicken coop? Where are you?
I guess I could call. But I never do that. I won't.
And why would you be moving to Philly? I think it would be a great thing if you did, because Philly is wonderful and I always have a great time there and then I would have more of a reason to visit, if you were there. Because I have other friends there, too, and we could be a big gang of white kids, wandering, buying beer in those interesting beer stores that they have, for like $34 per six pack. And we could go to sports games, because they actually have professional teams. But why would you move there? Is it a job? Is it the trombone sextet? Is it me?
This is my open letter. And I don't know, precisely, what "open" means in that specific context, but it sounds right. So this is my open letter. It is open. It is letter.
Ghoulishly,
Ryan
I never see you anymore. Why is this? I wander around Charlottesville, poking around here and there, and you are nowhere to be found. You are not at my house, and you are not at Arby's last night, and you are not anywhere on the sidewalk during my walk to the Downtown Mall and back. Where are you? I spend my evenings drinking wine, talking, sometimes driving, sometimes writing, sometimes sleeping, and you are never there to remind me of all of my horrible shortcomings, and to make fun of my friends, and to say inappropriate things at inappropriate times, which I like. Where are you to keep me in check? Where are you to remind us that it's all pointless, it's all a farce, a coop, a dirty chicken coop? Where are you?
I guess I could call. But I never do that. I won't.
And why would you be moving to Philly? I think it would be a great thing if you did, because Philly is wonderful and I always have a great time there and then I would have more of a reason to visit, if you were there. Because I have other friends there, too, and we could be a big gang of white kids, wandering, buying beer in those interesting beer stores that they have, for like $34 per six pack. And we could go to sports games, because they actually have professional teams. But why would you move there? Is it a job? Is it the trombone sextet? Is it me?
This is my open letter. And I don't know, precisely, what "open" means in that specific context, but it sounds right. So this is my open letter. It is open. It is letter.
Ghoulishly,
Ryan
posted by Ryan at 11:01
1 Comments:
Dearest Ryan,
I must begin this comment with a moment of sheer flattery: your comment made me smile and chuckle to myself, all alone in my living room.
Which brings me to my point-by-point response, below:
- I have been holed-up in my living room.
- I'm rarely invited to Chez Jenkins these days. (For shame.)
- I don't, generally, eat at Arby's
- I am on the Downtown Mall a fair bit; I had br/lunch at Rapture today; it was excellent. I'm sorry you missed out.
- I do think it's all a farce, but I'm not a nihilist. I do think meaning can be imputed. I'm optimistic, in this regard.
- Philly's largely an A.Smith plan; I'm the least likely Spark to move; hence the tension.
I hope this comment---it is open; it is comment---addresses your concerns.
With warm regard,
Stanley
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