the clock unwound

December 1st, 2045

Muchfurtherdowningtown

That Foetid Swamp On The Delaware

My hearer, my prominence, my apogean self.

Caius.  Not in a dog's bent and broken age has your name passed these fulsome lips, their tender repose undisturbed by the fluttering you erstwhile induced.  The thrushes, cicadas, and wisping cattails alike set aside their impatient murmurs, and set the sun too, and my brow lowered, and you were gone.

I have been ill, my bosom pal, too ill to sing or speak or stand or hold a wavy image of you in my tired mind.  Wherefore my sorry state, the physickers have little notion, but they pat my shoulder most reassuringly.  The missus has assisted, in her insuperable manner, but finds herself oft affected by the ague, by which I mean, of course, that our children bother her inscrutably with this or that nonsense, to my utmost chagrin.

Reduced to this pitiable penury of powers, I have sought diverse amusements which can be undertaken by a man in his frailty.  Did you know, sweet Caius, that there exist seventy-seven separate rhymes for the word 'disputable'?  Ah, it is a terrible thing, to be ill, and perceive no cure to grasp at.

So it was with you, beloved Caius, whose wings grew ever wider than I'd surmised.  Was there a thought spared for me on that golden pate?  Did your thrumming mind, amid its dovey ascent, but once come to rest on my much-beleaguered face, my soapy eyelids, my blithe mien?

Bah, but I hate this doddering, senseless prattle!...I am not despondent and I am not demanding. Suppose me, not a supplicant, but a supplican.  Wasn't there a time you and I stood tall, two kings of the Better Way, in spite of all their sycophantic slobbering to the contrary?  My pride, it is, that does me ill, and besets upon my breast the cough and lather.  And if you'll forgive the ugly, Shakespearean horse-sense for what it is, you may detect within it the quiet call of yesteryear.  O Postverta!  Waggle not those hips at me, which contain the centuries.

That's the gist, you noble soul, the upright news of a downcast heart.  To the extent that what former passed between us, moreso than the many letters, beyond the sallow humor and the reaper's disdain, in excess of the gross camaraderie which somehow persisted outside the bonds of alcoholic valour, was, above all, the cool complement of two most excellent souls, as is beyond dispute, I write to propose a very swift and merciless resumption of that galling interchange, now and to the death.

A cry for help??--Pah!  A plea for challenge!  Are you wanting, young C?  Revive me, if you can!

infused with light from a silver tree

that's how I'd know you, and you'd know me

In terms of insipid, inspirited, idiocy in excelsis (known only to the brave),

The Right Noble Mr. Buttercup (and heirs)

friendly futures

March 19th, 2049

By-and-By the Rising Tide

Upland, Penn's Woodland, The New World

My General, My Leader, My Liege,

Today has been more remarkable than most in the old Hansen house-hold!  The sovereign lady of the estate awoke with a fiery thirst for cider, which no mortal reason could o'erpow'r.  Deaf to my protests, she forbade its absence with a truly regal wave of her hand, and off I went to the store, lickety-split!  I, who once thought myself something of a Lothario, am now reduced to nothing more than a LABRADOR.  I wish I could report that the tragic injustice went fully answered, but yours truly returned in due course from the market with one fine jug of the stuff in each hand (for good measure).  The piquant thirst of the lady satisfied, I was at last able to begin my day in earnest, and would have gotten a fair heft of work out of the way if it weren't for her infernal glug-glugging!  I confess to you, my earnest and discreet friend, that little of the fabric of marriage gets woven on the classical weft of love and kisses.  The greater part of it is, I've learned, hand-sewn from irritants, bad habits, and a bit of cartilage.

The old bag appeased, I set my sights hungrily on my favorite of breakfasts, the story enclosed in your latest epistle.  As expected from your seasoned pen, "The Crime of Eliot Doveman" is quite pleasing, quite pleasing indeed!  I devoured it all in one gulp, and the lady found me smacking my lips happily shortly thereafter.  Your sense for the mysterious and suspenseful is as masterful as ever; to boot, your handling of swordfights and similarly wild scenes has grown tremendously.  As I read, I caught myself ducking to avoid the blows of your "bedeviling ruffians"!  Yes, a bit of the schoolyard bravo came back to me; I rose from my chair to engage the world, and nearly knocked out the floor-lamp!  But do not confuse me with old Don Quijote!  This old man is not about to give up the fight!

I received a note the other day from our Boy Down South, inviting me to take a week or so to visit down there and take in the sights.  I normally wouldn't brave the heat, as you know, but I have yet to see the new layout since the Great Rearrangement, and there's a piece of adventure to it, as well.  The wife has put her imprimatur; all that's left is for you to jump in as well, O Caius!  There's room enough for three, or four, or five!

Lastly, hmph -- thou knowest well how this blustering sage lives, and it's without focusing overmuch on hisself.  I proceed along much ever as I have.  My eyes open, and it's all downhill from there.  But the dreams I have, such dreams!  Take note for when I've gone, my friendly -- Freud himself could not interpret my visions, nor any other somnial sage.  Avast!  You and I each carry secrets, if the world only knew!  I've half a mind that mine are premonitions, but the future's in code, and I'm no cipher.  Lucky Nostradamus, who never knew he did not know!

Welp, the Summer Moon rises, the Winter Sun sets, and the Harvest Boots are out to dry on the patio. I'm off for that conference we'd discussed, the one with too many baguettes and not enough bagels.  Woe to me, that I should think of two instances of travel in the same letter!  Much trust and love to you for your generous offer to oversee our little rodents -- if they give you any trouble, the little "Barbecule" and I are only a tin-can phone-call away.  Now shove off, you rappscallion!  You're scarin' the fishes!!!

With deepest respect & unending servitiude, YRS,

Bartholomew Logjam II

the lettered

January 21st, 2051

That Little Something-by-the-Sea

Northeast America, Earth, Sol, LIC, LB, Orion Arm, Milky Way

My dear friend, my comrade-in-yearning, Caius--

I was greatly intrigued to read of your interest in these up-and-coming warblers--I've never been much for the easy-bake trills and viral melodies preferred by those still new to Euterpe's embrace, but having ever held your taste in high regard, I endeavor'd to give those winking cherubs some small piece of my attention.  And lo--what a racket!  I confess that I sniffed poison in the well before I ever drank, but give me the lilting tones of Debussy or a good haunting by Rachmaninoff over your little Preschool Paganinis any day.

Things go well here, and the days pass as they must.  I have scribbled a little since I last wrote, and hope to include some samples of those works with my next missive, short and bitter though they may prove.  I am reminded of Mz. Parker's Lament ("I hate writing, I love having written!"), may she rest in the eternal torment that so amused her in life!

Is it strange for me to identify so well with a woman who thrived best in the air of a century-and-a-quarter ago...?  I enjoy my little modern conveniences too much to ever wish I'd been a part of that past, but some piece of me lives whenever Dorothy does, and I suppose it must have died with her, as well.  Oh, to be born out of phase with one of like mind!  It does the heart and mind little credit to dwell on such, insofar as it gets in the way of Proper Business, but the little unkillable romantic in me does read her verse and swoon!

You know I have little regard for my own works, be they poesy or prosy, and derive more delight from expelling the ugly words out of my head than ever from reading them again.  I believe it is the fate of all those who pour themselves into their creations, to be their own greatest critics.  Certainly Mz. Parker found her works to be trashy, dashed-off efforts, not worth the ink used in printing them (or so she said), yet anyone with half an eye for rhyme or meter can see the utter brilliance gleaming right there on the surface.  To ask how a firebrand such as she could not have realized the depth of her achievement is to realize that we are all in the same (sinking) boat, but only some of us can swim!!!

Long have I expounded on the value of a certain Mr. Lovecraft (Here He Goes Again...), but one point about the man is worth mentioning.  He wrote often of the esteemed personages he felt lucky to have met and corresponded with, and often voiced his utter confidence that so many of them would have great and illustrious careers.  I have eagerly sought out the fates of these happy friends of his, but not one has a biography, nor even a full page in the encyclopaedia dedicated to him- or herself.  No, it is always the same line, always, always!--

BEST KNOWN AS A CORRESPONDENT OF H.P. LOVECRAFT

In the end, Lovecraft himself was the most famous person he'd ever known, and the great destinies he foresaw for his friends (and the ignominy he predicted for himself) were quite reversed!

My point, my dear Caius!!  Take no action as though it would not be studied by HISTORY.  Utter no word as though it would not echo through THE AGES!  Your life is merely a scaffolding for the construction of the historical YOU.  Build it well!

Ever your ludicrously well-appointed Squire,

HOMO BREVITAS