(On reading Joys and Perplexities)
you write of peni and diarrhea, and bill climbing (always) and
mary and jack (our old friends) and partch and cage and henry cowell, and
teaching, and all those old greeks, and brandon, and new zealand, aptos and
java, and monochords and the bomb, and a litany (where's quechua?).
and i read it all, and my first thought: where does he get the f---ing time?
but there's always been time. for us (you showed us what it means to be and
to do) and for work. all our lives, we pick up many things, but we have
to give them all back. when cage died you said to jody (i hate the phone)
"now there's just me and hovhaness." but peter said (postcard, from java)
"now there's just lou and conlon." both wrong: there's me and jody and peter
and paul and so many others, and partly because of you, we don't
have to give it all back. we are the ones living in other places.
so go ahead and write about avicenna and vd and mumps
and be your own font as you have been to others, and paint, and sign, and
while you're at it, knock out a few more symphonies, and some large gendhing.
we'll never have to give these back. nor trade them in for the new models.
When i'm done and i've done what you've done, i'll write about urinals too.
september 15, 1992
lebanon, new hampshire