Picture yourself, young master, tying your shoes, relieving yourself in our cafeteria, doing whatever it is you do. Can’t you see yourself, believing yourself, finally being free of yourself, and owning it all? Come, lie dormant for a while. Habituate. Lose yourself in the blue lakes of aphasia while a band plays knowingly in the background. Forget we are even here! Do you belong to daddy? Does reality own you, too? Hey, look over there! Ponies.

Dear Martha, 

Life at base camp is a hoot. The apple moon rises while the swallows are sorrowing in the orchards. Stan says hi. His noodle stew is vertiginous. Mangoes grow wild here and you can barely put a foot down without stepping on a rind or two. Still I’m somewhat blue. I miss you. What kind of life is this—taking core samples, harrowing the drifts, sifting silt for godknowswhat? Will we ever find what we are looking for? I feel like a fool. Captain Pout says we must keep our spirits up. I dream often of Tulsa, my home, where the bread bakes itself and the knives melt like poisoned soldiers. Wait on me, Mawmaw. See you at The Big Show! 

Truly Yours,

Captain Spengler

Gaunt little nibblet. That dark pardon me feeling. Parsing meanings with a filet knife. An inexact science is what it is. Moments pass. Everyone lies down. ¡Que verguenza!  I am leaving now through this doorway. Can’t you see what is going on here? There’s snow in the hospital. Earthquakes in the night. Rain for weeks at a time. Time to dust of the ark, put the kids in it. The bees in their dark hives

Sometimes a girl just needs a break. Between work and play and everything else it gets to be too much. Fred called to make a date. I would have gone, but he broke his neck. Everything just goes around and around—off and on, like a wheel. I don’t think anything will ever change. I guess that’s why I’m just sitting out here in the yard. Trying not to look at the fire hose. Not thinking about politics or Fred’s neck or anything else. Doing nothing. Just waiting.  

Look into my eyes. Yes, that eye—deeper, deeper. My dear, you are fetching! There is no other word for it. You run me down. There is no one with whom I would rather share these moments. I can see you are feeling sleepy, queasy, uneasy, bored. But let’s enjoy this while it lasts. I’ve traveled awfully far and my eye is tired. Across eons of time. Your eyes, well, they are really something. It’s hard to put my finger on it, but may I? The dimple in your chin writhes and squirms. This was worth the wait. Worth the long slog through fake streets and egoless rooms, through the data centers and forests of hot mics.

SOMETIMES SOMETHING SILLY HAPPENS. YOU’RE IN YOUR PLANE FLYING OVER THE JUNGLE, WHEN, BAM!, OUT OF NOWHERE, YOU GET ALL LIGHT HEADED. SHOULD YOU EJECT? OF COURSE! AND OFF YOU GO, DOWN THE RABBIT HOLE. DRIFTING DOWN OVER TAIPAI. OR IS IT OXNARD? HARD TO SAY. BUT DOES IT REALLY MATTER WHEN IT FEELS THIS GOOD? NAH. IT’S A NEW FEELING AND WE’RE ROLLING WITH IT. LIFE GOES ON. I’LL CALL YOU WHEN I LAND.

Dear Mr. Stein,

The peach tree blooms but once a year. Never would I say this another soul, but I am like that. Ever becoming. Soon to arrive. Maybe soon we can stroll the aerial orchards, or should I say, groves? Your call. See you soon! Love, Mort

Remember how the music was? Before the war? Not that war. The other one. The one we lost. The way the music made us feel. Like we were bristling everywhere. Like we were bursting. That bottomless caroming sound. How it bounced off the walls. How it hovered over us in place, careful as a hummingbird. We listened for the low twang, the hum, the high wavering. We called it drone pop. The whistling. The cool air. Out there in the high winds. Yeah, like that.