Friday, September 27, 1996

Letter to Jutta


Thank you for the tour of Germany 96 postcards. I have a little expo on my wall. All famous sites. Here is the latest.

On the way back to New York the plane from PIA, Pakistani International Airlines, hit turbulance caused by hurricane Hortense. So I gripped my seat (some uncontrollable instinct believing that would save me) and breathed like an expectantant mother. In. Out. If I had grown up in another era, I might of prayed. Instead, I remember to breath.

It’s not that I am afraid of flying. People always say in wonder “You’re afraid to fly?!” I’m not. Flying is actually quite nice. What I am afraid of is the sound of shredding metal as Saudi surface to air missles tear into the helpless belly of a commercial airliner. What I am afraid of is a suspicious package of chocolates exploding beneath my seat and sending me screaming into the stratosphere. What I am afraid of is that the complicated machinery beneath me will choke on some misplaced metal fragment like a chicken bone, convulsing in the air as it tailspins into the frozen artic waters. That’s what I am afraid of. Flying? No, the flying part is nice.

I am making lentil soup now. The aroma fills my apartment and drifts up the stair well. It is full of fresh herbs from my garden. Fresh Oregano, Thyme, and Rosemary. I have enough Basil to make a couple of gallons of Pesto. The summer was wet here in New York and when I returned home my garden was approching rain forest status. When I go out back to weed or water people yell from nearby windows. “You have a beautiful garden”. It’s really a good feeling to plant stuff and see it grow. Even if my little Rosemary is a tiny being compared with the huge hedges we saw in the south of France. This is New York, where anything that suvives is considered a miracle.

I have been working for a phamacutical advertising company. It is in a big sky scraper in mid town. There are no windows where I work and the air is processed by huge machines that think humans require refrigeration, like meat. On the sunniest day you have to wear a sweater. The people there have yellow skin from working long hours under florescent lights. But the cash is good and soon I will escape.

There are a two different galleries here in New York with shows of the art work of people who claim to have been abducted by aliens. I visited them in the pouring rain today. What can I say? Cool.

I turn on the TV and am amazed. There is absolutely nothing on. This is supposed to be a form of entertainment? Education!? The good thing is that it inspires me to work on my indie-sitcom! Yes it’s unheard of, it’s new, it’s completely insane. My show is to be called, Pefectly Frank. It features a completely unredeemable working class lout, Frank O’Brien. He will be played in drag by my good friend Rita Ashdale. The show will also feature a demented laugh track. I want to take the genre of sit-com (situation comedy) and smash it into a thousand pieces.

I hope all is well with you and that school is O.K.. Take care.