The first sting of winter. Stuck in here, with the wanna be tourists. The freaks, and the security guards.
Looking back, but trying not to, He did end up taking care of them. Kate, or is it back to Kathy?, got married; had a kid. After sleeping with hundreds of men, some women she'd never fess up to, and three acts of collicuide.
And her date of birth? September Eleventh. She was probably on this island.
My old man almost lost it all, only, with the help of his only friend who has since died, converted a barn that housed cows into apartments. He's a great landlord. As long as you pay the rent...
My big brother, who wanted to be the next Beatle, is an attorney.
Joy was the last woman I knew, and it was in Prague. We did every position I'd always wanted, and with my big sister trying to sleep.
She too slept around plenty, probably ten times as many; she was an L.A. girl. She got married, had kids.
My mom died in South Africa. She left me a lot of money, and I'm still waiting on it.
I have nothing in this world, save my faith, my story, which I now share, and my word. And my idea.
To go back up state, and to open up my place. A very special place. Where no money changes hands; it is dropped off at the door.
It's a place about nothing, like that famous tv show. No juke box, no radio; no i-pods or gadgets allowed. No violence of the tongue. People will have to talk to each other, or just take it easy.
Beer n' wings, and they'll help themselves. Juice for the kids.
There's live music, with three strewing out a little rock n' roll. At the end of the night, yours truly'll belt out a few songs.
I came back from Prague in '92 to unite my country in God on the date of the landing at Plymouth. I had to hitchhike cross Europe to catch a plane. Had about 48 hours, to be safe. Getting the rides, dodging across the autobahn by foot, and riding the German train as a stow-away. Eating a loaf of bred, some sausage, with my pants down hiding in the bathroom, apprehending the moment I'd get caught. I did. I'd made it through France, and started my last hike at a Sherman tank commemorating Patton's charge.
I landed at the air port named after this country's slain leader, of whom the general populous does not care to know who actually did the killing. Then I realized I was a man with no money, no where to go, and who, while His Book says a few things 'bout what He did and who He did it to, didn't know a bloody thing 'bout God.
Thus began a journey filled with greatness, and pain, utter humiliation and embarrassments. Of which I am in no position to recount in my mind, let alone share. Sixteen years, just like Roy Hobbs in what was my favorite film. And here, by His grace, my bitterness and the Holy Spirits' working, I am at last a Published Author.
It is due to a young woman, a surprise. We'd corresponded three times, my first stuff I'd written in Seven Years. She's beautiful, and while no saint, nice. (And this city has taught me the imperative of nice).
To her I say anyone over the age of Nineteen who has a BF or a GF is waisting time. And doing that, playing the game of love, is joy masquerading Death. Sex is for cats and dogs; men and women make love.
Touching Home Base before marriage is landing in a world of shit.
There's nothing like holding a letter, with their own words in their own hand writing. I'd like to publish all of this in my left hand's writing, so may be a few bucks'll come my way and I can hit Kinko's and Face book it.
Also, there's a song that girl inspired. I'd like to record and stick it in here somewhere...
Yeah, that girl. I'd like to throw away her letters. Got no drawer and no table in which to keep 'em. But nobody did the letter "l" the way she does.
With love,
Behn
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