RE: Grace Cathedral Hill just wont be the same.

from: ["Alan Stevenson" astevenson@sbcglobal.net]
sent --- 20:32:11, 9.4.08
to: ["m moure" m@mmoure.com]

Or should I say Moxie? Milkshake? Who are you these days? And yeah, I am confused because I thought, nay--you led me to believe--that I knew at least somewhat who you were. Now you're skipping town without a goodbye and living two states away doing god only knows what. Are you writing? You're fucking, yes, I can see that. And what exactly are you garnering from it?

Mirans, I'm not "that guy". I'm not pissed in the traditional respect, but fuck. Fuck I mean, even Mark hasn't seen you, I know, I called. And I know a guy who knows that Nick kid--you haven't seen him in weeks either. Nor all of your mutual friends from back east that live on the same block as you. Or used to, I suppose. The grapevine, as it wil, has proved fruitful for me, but the only thing it hasn't materialized is you.

And the worst part is that you're going to post this, I'm sure I'll read it shortly on the fucking internet because you either A) enjoy using certain parties as your playthings or you B) don't want to appear both to me, and the rest of the world like anyone can make you not post this because C) you clearly--at least somewhat--devalue your own fucking conscience.

Hmm. You're both right. That is a nice device. I think I'll use it myself.

But device aside, wait. I'm sorry, that's not entirely fair. You have a...cultivated moralistic nature, yes. And yes, it's valuable, and it is honest. But those of us on the slight outside tend to be on the side of your morays that leans toward your being indifferent because you assume that we are capable of living without you. I didn't mean it like that, I mean, I can physically live without you, but why are you so quick to assume that we--meaning me, and Nick and Pant and Kristen and god knows who else you've left before all over the country--are wanting to live without you?

No wait, what do you plan to do about it? Huh? What's you're fucking plan now?

Okay. Yeah, I'm a little biased because of all the words, the tape recorders and years and dirty sheets and morning eggs and bagels and coffee. Yeah, I got it. I'm not supposed to be fucking my subjects--and further more you told me that. You warned me in the exact same manner that I've warned you so many times, and over the years I watched your manner go from irreverent and callous to vulnerable and flighty and a lot of that was my fault. At least--it was my fault that what came from your mouth changed--and yeah. I reduced the you that is on paper that you yourself don't manipulate to a sniveling inconsistent little girl. Fine. You were right. You were right about us fucking and you were right that I do fear navigating that line between friend and lover and subject and where they all cross my career.

But I was right too.

You don't have to tell me or anyone, because I know exactly why you're there. I thought you gave up "stories as combat", so what made you decide you had to have one more?

I saw you. You were writing and re-writing and stagnant. It wasn't ending, so you made one. Remember all those years ago when you left Alistair sleeping in his bed while you quietly dressed, clicked his door behind you, and padded down the long hall of his flat only to put your Chuck's back on on his front porch? Making stories. How many have you made since that very first active one? That first one that was conscious and premeditated only to later look so very fucking shocking on paper? I ask you Miranda...

...are you enjoying living in the end to your novel?


No comments: