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THE CORRESPONDENCE written by Ribitch
My dear friend �Wandering Jack�; There are deserts and deserts you are one of them� I found myself thinking of you the other day. The wind was a melancholy bystander dressed in a black coat counting all the birds that flew by. That was when I found myself thinking of you. You have been gone such a long time. I think that you have perished. How does it feel to be in death? You have wandered far from the life, as we knew it� Your mother was by! What could I tell her, what could I say? There are statues erected in your honor. They are cracked and worn. Perhaps will come the day of your return, your resurrection. I have waited for thirty years now. My beard has grown to such lengths that I sleep under it as though it were a blanket. Speaking of sleep, I dreamt of you yesterday. In my dream you wore a frock coat covered with stalactites. You resembled the earth. You were very old. I hardly recognized you, but you spoke to me. Your voice had that familiar sound. You told me of your death beneath the wheels of a train. What could I tell her, what could I say? Remember the time when we were young? We would watch the trains pass on the trestle and dream of long off days that trailed smoke like a winding worm. We dreamed of clouds covered in silk. You told me that you would ride the back of the worm like a cowboy. There was dust in your eye. I could see it made you cry. We were so young, but age clung to the edges of our faces like old cobwebs. What could I tell her, what could I say? There are no more trestles, there are no more billows of smoke, there are only monorails, electrical bloodlines that connect the dead with the dead. Even the skin of the earth is blistered and is no longer brown, but a pale dead gray. They still sing your name, those who dream under the splintered remains. What could I tell her, what could I say? (You can count on me when the whistle blows.) Until that time� Mr. Bones * * * Dear Mr. Bones; I think I miss you as well, especially that unruly mop that sits atop your head like a flaming nest of a bird. It has been a long time. The years cover my suitcase like mold and like mold those years are at times hard to breath. This dream of yours disturbs me. I find myself thinking of it often. The dust follows on my heels and I can�t seem to shake it. Yes it�s true that I died under the wheels of far to many trains. It�s funny how you mention our youth. That was a thousand years ago and I don�t think I can remember any of it. Perhaps if I sleep it will come back to me in dreams. Perhaps if I sleep I will see what it is that follows me with such persistence. Remember me in your dreams! Your old friend �Wandering Jack� P.S. Tell mother nothing, it would only create more questions.
* * * Dear �Wandering� Jack; Nothing seems the same anymore, but it was good to hear from you. I can�t get your smile out of my mind. It was always such a warm welcoming smile. I hope that it is still a part of your face. It would seem so empty without it. I fear that I am growing old. I can�t seem to concentrate on the cards any more. I lost a fortune last week and I can�t seem to recover. Do you remember San Antonio Red? She was a rodeo star back in 1952. She showed up yesterday with some vague notion that you were still alive. Are you? Or do I correspond with a ghost, a vague notion conjured out of my failing memory. I smelled the smoke of an old freight before I awoke this morning. I asked myself if it were a dream, but it lingered and mingled with the bitterness of my coffee. Perhaps it�s that old whore memory again. I can feel the sharp claws of her presence lash at my throat, where every so often I feel a lump. In tears I reply. Friends always, Mr. Bones
* * *
My dear Mr. Bones; How it is that you go on with the past, some deep-seated memory of yours. All that I have is a cheap mirror from Woolworth�s that I use to shave my face once a month. Even as I stare into it�s scratched surface, I can no longer recognize the face that greets me there. It�s a ghost that I no longer know. He wears a grimy old Stetson hat. (May have owned it since my skin was pink and smooth with youth.) My skin is now yellow and cracked from the years and miles that coat it like graveyard dust. I see eyes that are set deep in the hollows of my skull. It is a lifeless cave where no fires burn. San Antonio Rose? No, I don�t want to remember. Tell them I am dead. Keep alive only the myth of my death. I only keep my correspondence with you because we were born in the same hellish wind. We took our first breath from the same dust of despair. We are the same, you and I, as if we were cast from the same seed. I guess that too is memory. It is a wound full of puss. My dirge was the last freight whistle out of Kansas City. Don�t wait up too long for me! A man can loose a lot of sleep. I remain your friend. �Wandering� Jack * * *
Dear �Wandering� Jack; You are so far away and the whistle no longer blows. Where is the young cowboy sitting on the fence, his eyes full of dreams, his heart full of adventure? I saw him board a train and disappear in smoke and cinder. I have a bag of marbles. I�ve separated all the claries. They resemble moons. So many moons! The bag is etched with an old wood burning set with the �JACK�. God, these marbles are cold. They freeze my hand. What can I say�? Your mother was by again. I believe she is dying. I can see it in he eyes. She asks about you. She always asks. It�s hard to lie in the face of someone�s death. What can I say�? I can only avert my eyes and peer deep into a handful of moons, cold ice moons that rattle when I shake my hand like wheels on a steel rail. Before my hand freezes I must pour these moons back into a leather bag with those big clumsy letters, �JACK�. Waiting as always, Mr. Bones
* * *
My Dear friend �Wandering� Jack It�s been six months since I last wrote and nearly a year since I heard from you. Where does it all go? The time, the years? I can hear the morning doves singing in the snow. How sad they sound, as if to mourn the coming of the sun. I can�t walk any longer; my legs have shriveled up under me. The doctors say they don�t know what is wrong. I know, I�ve always known. Running along the rail. Wait Jack wait! Sitting sown and crying tears as big as the state of Texas. The cold steel on my rump felt like it would cut me in two. I could hear that distant rumble even then. Running along the rail. Wait Jack wait! I�m haunted Jack, by a thousand memories that won�t let go. They hold me like shackles to the walls of this room. I am nailed to a stack of old photos that are stained yellow with the decay of age. Old toys line my shelf like dying soldiers. Running along the rail. Wait Jack wait! As always Mr. Bones
* * *
Dear �Wandering� Jack; Your mother died this spring. Before she went she asked, �Where is Jack?� What could I tell her, what could I say? The morning doves sang for her. It�s funny but their song resembled the distant whistle of a train blanketed in fog. I was the only one present at her funeral. I buried with her a bag of moons bearing the name �JACK�. What could I tell her, what could I say? With all respects Mr. Bones * * *
My Dear friend Mr. Bones; What prisons we make for our selves. I�ve been behind bars many time in all these years, but none so binding as those upon the heart. You with your memories, old photographs, forgotten toys and marbles that are moons. And me with my shoes full of holes, my eyes full of smoke and my head full of dreams that run along the rail faster then I can run. My arms are outstretched, grasping only the ghost of my desire. It eludes me like a chimera veiled in the soft down of spider webs. I chased it through the flatlands of the American dream, letting it slip through my fingers. I followed it to Mexico and into the steaming jungles of South America. I chased it across the ocean and hunted it in the alleys of Paris. I climbed the highest peaks of the Himalayas hoping to trap it in the rock crags and snowy depths. It took me to the orient and it eluded me in its smells and exotic tapestries. It lead and I followed, or at least that is what I thought. Now it is clear to me that I did not pursue it, but it pursued me. It chased me like a hound of hell across the earth. I ran to keep ahead of it, not to follow it. I glanced over my shoulder only to see it�s nostrils flared and it�s teeth bared in hot pursuit. Going back to an old letter of yours, in which you said, �There are deserts and deserts and I am one of them. I have sought after water without seeing the sea. I have searched for flowers, not noticing that they grew up from my toes. Even with this knowledge I hear the whistle moan and my feet began to run. I desire to ride the back of the worm like a cowboy. To ride it into eternity. You will have to excuse me now; there is dust in my eye. Till the whistle brings me home I remain your friend always, �Wandering� Jack * * *
Dear �Wandering� Jack Running along the rail. Wait Jack wait! Running along the rail. Wit, Jack wait! Mr. Bones * * *
Dear Sir; I am sorry to inform you of the death of Mr. Jack Thomson. The cause of death was an apparent suicide. Since Mr. Thomson has no living relatives we are mailing you his possessions. Enclosed, you will find one mirror, a Stetson hat and box of correspondence. His body shall be shipped by rail as he instructed.
Regretfully yours J. Allen Carter Coroner Amarillo Texas * * *
Dear �Wandering� Jack; Running along the rail. Wait, Jack Wait! Mr. Bones
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2002 02 08 |
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