Hi, Finally I have gone and finished all of Mitch’s book. A year ago, as I had begun, I had what felt like mild dyslexia from an anomolous spine. Maybe I hadn’t been able to focus from general anatomical discomfort. I envisage myself near the Marble Valley Transit the former summer, in a tattered hoodie, a smell of exhaust.... waiting for a bus to Burlington to see either King Buzzo or Duo De Twang- trying hard to read, not making it far. I missed the bus. Now healthy as I am reading does not feel as arduous, nor do most things. However I have a fear I am not besting myself. Most days felt like a huge haul, as relative to my ‘fore health. Anyhow the book I figured you might appreciate as I am aware of your fondness of him. Muffin Top, Uluate, Donkey Punch, Bum Chum, Rusty Trombone, and Slob on Someone’s Knob- all of my favorite terms in The Little Red Book. It’s a book I held onto from my uncle and aunt’s antique shop or house in Maine, after a month long, by around the middle of it, spiritually injuring venture. Majority of the associations I have with the state are pronouncedly horrible. Only negative sexual experience I’ve had- human had been from Maine. In Stewarts after a walk from at that point the defiled graveyard, for a hearty sandwhich and at least 8 month old OJ I handed I-forgot-his-name my credit card to find only her blood on my fingers. Either she had menstruated among my fingers or my insistence had been much too aggressive. Worst show I’ve ever been apart of had been in my first trip to Portland. For a sole sake of brevity I’ll spit at the whole thing as a flaccid farce….I am happy this book hadn’t left me feeling fucked. All of that said there are misnomers- such as “breast” which in my head is not at all vulgar. You might deduce from the address I am residing in New Hampshire. Around fifty hours a week I am working on this farm and house. In a practical way I am doing what I have wanted, giving myself to meaningful work all the while picking up new skills. I have become fairly accurate with an axe, splitting wood. My art is a thing for which I am trying to find a regimen. I met a human. Her name is ----. I adore the arc of her hazel eyes, the kink in her wild hair. Also she has a magnificent fanny which I frequently want to mauraud. She flirts, fucks with me. The other night amid one of my fairly impervious do-not-fuckin-bug-me-with-horseshit-isolated-in-my-head-moods. Around the table she went, in a black frock, elegant on her, as she bent down in front of my face for rice on her plate and turned around thereafter, putting her hand meekly on my left shoulder. However her and I have severely different views around life. It is her who accepts herself as a tramp for time and place, the filth of culture into which she had happened to fall. And it is me who accepts himself as a waif that owes only himself a meaningful existence. Honestly I have no interest in having my heart furrowed for a human who has no idea how to honor herself. None of this (-change of pen, nevermind) may be a fair assessment. How are you? -Heriot Note: Might you return to me Enderby after you are finished with him? In late August I return to Vermont.
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