Dear Próinsias,
Got that I am , that in reading this down, I should be scrolling up these You To Me To I To Us Two letters. Not down but up. Yes, too long German´s inbuilt con-man ” M ´illumino / D´immenso ”
stuff. Extraordinary.
Phrank
Dear Phrank,
we are both too long here in High Germanee . ” The Great NO THING an-nihil-ates . Us both, thrashing and turning and disappearing on our weirdly wide , momentarily placid John Montague ocean.
Got that? ”
Próinsias
Dear Próinsias,
Please. Ideally bottom scrolled up to top . – I / you love / are / am / need / answer / ask / complement / cross-question/ tease / drown / word and sing / compose / decompose / dance on /
dance under / brake / break / refashion / bake / re-knead / re-read / you / Me .
What was that you were on about a few e-letters ago : ” Nothing ( No thing , Nothung ! ) . It dis-nots . It de-knots us. ”
What was that all about, eh ?
Phrank
Dear Phrank,
I´ve lost it . Read this letters rondo top to bottom ? Bottom up ? Unscroll ? Rondo form, near enough.
Próinsias
Dear Próinsias,
this one only short.
Who are you ? Peel off what layers ? Thrash around on which ocean ? No thing at all ? Our oceans all distroyed thermonuclearly ? ( Destroy an ocean. Dislocate a shoulder , a self )
Phrank
Dear Phrank,
That was a nice touch, your ” I or Me” , and all waiting for the cosmic click to click his ” him ” away. Into virtual space ? Into the molecules´ gardene of delighte ? Delightes? Yes, that ” immense
and still ” ( I like that too ) water as our scary mirror of nothingness , of formlessness and wet purposelessness and deep unprofundity and no why in sight at all down at the totally dark ocean-bed.
Yes, shudderingly cold. Still.
Your still dry Old Other Self,
Próinsias
Dear Próinsias,
Well, yes, I had promised a less sluggish ” I To Me To You ” electronic ping-ponging in this abiding cold January.
It´s not only that ” Me ” or ” I ” will be waiting for the quick click that´ll make my Holy Name vanish – for ever
– or at least until the next click clicks ( – ” For whom the clock ticks “, ” To every tock its tick, ” etc. ) .
It is the smooth ( ? ) surface of that immense and still water ( “Upon which we all turn / Turn and thrash / And disappear ” . John Montague . ) which will open and swallow me
down. Down into oceanic nothing.
Shudderingly cold today, Próinsias ? Don´t think of me , Phrank
Dear Phrank,
Apparently Job never felt the cold at all , neither the submarine temperatures of his frightful ( though mobile ) oceanic tomb, nor before nor indeed since. Oh, sorry, he had no ” since”. – Is it
this which might be moving you to be e-penning me, eh ? The good old-fashioned “Caoin tú féin, a Phraink Bhoicht !” ? – Is it that you´ll become nothing? – you will become no thing ? Not a thing? –
A former person, now dis-jointed, dislocated and , well, disintegrated ? Not a shadow.
Remember thou art not dust, no earthly thing, – once you were earthy; yes, ho -ho, now you´ve apparently no now, you possess no future; your once and only, lonely past seems to have got lost in
your Stygian “journey”, if that is what necessarily self-contradicting language has to risk calling it? So that´s it, then ? Kerner Wuetzfeld was / is not / nor will “he” be, for ever and ever and ever, –
he´ll be a mere nothing, merely ” nothing ?
What , then, Phrank, is
this ” nothing”, this ” mere”, from whose bourne no traveller returns his e-pen?
Próinsias