LETTERS 

The writer had finally found the depraved artist. He had thought about him and knew he existed but, finally, there he was in his stinking lodgings sitting on a lone chair, in a bare room, with dust and spider webs dotting the atmosphere.

'Now, depraved artist, what is it next? What is your next project?'

The depraved artist had a haircut like Caesar's and was absolutely aristocratic in demeanor. He sat erect and silent, proud and without regard for the environment as the writer leaned against a brick and board bookcase.

'This next project will prove that I'm dissatisfied with my obscurity and want to join the crowd.'

'Can your vision be summarized?'

Over the skyline of the city, over the grey blue of the horizon, a single plane travels just out of eye of the crawling humanity ducking into alleyways and buildings. It drops its load-a detonating blockbuster filled with oils, melted crayons, pigs blood, the come of a lost tribe of giants, mucus from old pensioners, tears of gallant lassies waiting for their lads to return, im- ported piss from Patogonia, liquid pulp from the Black Forest, maple drool, anything THEY could find that was running rich boy bodies lost in communion, rampant genius afraid of itself, dispirited souls claw- ing from black machete's, bodies chasing naked shadows, shadows skipping along corrugated walls after naked bodies, abandoned hairy cats searching the woods for a choice morsel, all the bulls moving south in stampede drawing their hoofs in slippery fluid . . . they and all are inside this blockbuster falling through the clouds towards the unsuspecting who have frozen in a kind of epileptic movement.

And when it explodes, the animated figures think it's Fourth of July. They come out and serpentine the streets, arms thrown skyward, letting their bodies swim in the deluge.

Only a few have the courage to begin drawing on the buildings. To understand, even when the damn thing's falling, that it's time for rearrangement ... rearranged anew amid the flapping hands of burnt hearts and minds.......

'Your depravity serves well the times, artist.'

He sat erect and silent and drew a long white cigarette from a pack on his knee.

The writer quietly stood up and opened the door without making a sound. The door opened effortlessly and he was out in the sunlight among the cheerful denizens who read each other the headlines from the news and gave money to the homeless.

We are, he thought, here and nowhere else.

---

David Eide
November 16, 1999
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