Friday, September 17, 2004

Divine Epistle of Light for Joe Propinka

Dear Joe,

Always a pleasure reading your prose!!! It sprints and pulsates, beams across the page like a nuclear locomotive that's just run out of its last strip of rail. Your paragraphs are refulgent, radiant, electric, peppering the page with erudite metnonymic bliss.With ease and facile, you lure the unsuspecting reader into an amphetamine sugar-coated paradise of unparellel imagery that is a delight to swallow. You weave incediary sentences and shaded storylines together, coalescing like neon DNA strands that ferally claws up the back of this readers neck when it reaches that apical moment of human connection, yelling out the name of the faceless elusive author, cosigned to chronicle such splendiferous prose.

It's been fun Joe! You are an author of tremendous talent and I wish you all the best and feel honored to call you a contemporary. I love writing. I try to write books for a living and I've sacrifieced a lot to make ends meet. Your prose is a wish-for song in a jukebox that was previously humming vacant hymns and swan-song soliloquies. Thank you very much for sprinkling the frosting of my bloggs with such unbidden joy!

On a one-to-one basis though, Joe, candidly this shit of you fucking with my mind just doesn't cut it. I use blogging as a writing activity and on-line I'm a confessional welt, blisteringly open with my identity; blisteringly open with who I am as a human being and more importantly, who I'm trying to become as an individual. As an adult. I admit though that I do hide behind the lavender skyline dusk of labored sentences from time to time, but that's what writers do; words are nothing more or less than gauze for battered emotional wounds.

For someone who has not constituted a blogg of your own, you feel compelled to comment on my bloggs. I have no problem with that, and thank you for reading, only I wish you'd be open with your identity. Be more open with exactly "how we have met." This isn't a writer's workshop, this is a blog, and myself, daniela and arya daily shovel out our poetic innards on-line. People who take the time to actually read our bloggs find that we don't have our shit together, that we are bumbling wayfareres, that our thoughts and hearts are often jangled and in dire need of resucitation through each other's comments and support. That said, all this blogg is at times is a poetic-crutch, a feeble wooden spine that gives us assistance, that helps us walk up right when the only way the sprial staircase stumbles is down.

By concealing your true identity, Joe, your simply being unfair to people I love. Guilty, the mysterious aura you cast is alluring, however at this time in my life I've simply sacrifieced too much shit to play petty games. This isn't literary poker, this is life, fucking life and it's simply unfair and arrogant of you to take the time to compose dazzingly prose, flapping your full-house of literati talents in our visages while being elusive with your identity.

I do have my postualtions about who you are, Joe. Kris Weberg is brilliant, writes like you, but would have no reason to hide. Neither would Patrick Mullowney, who lives in New York and is also a brilliant writer. I've always been open with how brilliant and talented I feel Kris and Patrick are.

My ex-girlfriend's Elisa and Vanessa both write like you too. Elisa plays games so you could easily be her, but we left with a common strand of romantic mutality sewn between us. Vanessa, on the other hand, writes like you. She's amazing, Joe and when we dated five years ago I was always envious of all the attention she got. I was sadly Saleri to her Mozart and for a the last four months of our rapport every time I stuck my tongue in her mouth it was green with envy. I'm not proud of how I behaved with Vanessa, Joe. I said some things, did some things that still weight pretty heavily on me today. I fucked up. I mitigated her importance as a human being. She was so brilliant, though! She made my creativity look like pre-cum and she's simply, Joe, the most talented individual I've ever met. Ever held. Ever connected with.

We were purely ego, Joe. Both of us were always trying to one-up the other, and my greatest sin with Vanessa, Joe, was that I never did fully realize just how beautiful the music could have been had we composed our tunes in the same key signature. I didn't have the maturity, didn't have the hurt, didn't have the experience, didn't have the joy realize that we could have been a tour de force with two hands and two gentaila and two streams of gushing wild, long hair, and yet, somehow become a dual unit with only with one smile, one forehead, one deeply pulsating heart burrowed beneath the same pit of flesh.

I never realized this Joe. Like you, I felt almost compelled to cast a cloak over my true desire for union. I feel like I had to thrive under the umbra's of excessive religious residue stung into from my own parents.

I don't know if she still writes, Joe, but I hope she does. The two of you have a lot to offer the world. There's writers who are innately talented and gifted for greatness from utero and there's writers like myself who have to work on it a little bit to make there sentences shine. Joe, you're easily on the Vanessa-Elisa-Patrick-Kris caliber. And I wish you all the best as a writer. If you're trying to red-flag my attention you've had it from the first poetic college town slant you chiseled into the comment section of my blogg earlier this week. I'm a fan of your work, Joe. To bad your elusive identity prevents me from being a fan of you.

If you do see her, if you do see Vanessa, Joe, you need to tell her that I'm sorry for alotta of old shit. Sorry how I treated her. Sorry how I was always envious of her. Sorry for a lot of things. I'm thankful for what she gave me and from time to time I still find myself guzzling down the barren strips of the Manito Black, my right hand listless like a dead cabbage in the seat next to me, in the seat where she used to sit, our hands forming one human bouquet the size of an overly-taxed human heart.

You should really get to know Vanessa, Joe. As an angel she plucks her own quills out from her body and tabs her own blood for inky sentences that are completely capable of capturing the human condition as we know it ('member Tess and Honor?) using my body (or my blogg) as parchment for her immortal sonnets.

Take care Joe. I simply ask that you contact me and avail yourself soon. Tell me how I know you. I'm a full time student and a full time worker and a writer and I don't have time to sop up beautiful drool from the creative chin of an on-line stalker. You seem to be connected to my work (or at least alarmed in a fashion that you feel compelled to comment)...All I ask is that you award me the same pleasure....

All the best, beauty you love be what you do,

David A. Von Behren


daku said...

hey Mistuh D, this is your karma for teasing me with anonymous comments... remember ((-;?

David Von Behren said...

Don't rub it in. Actually, I think it's MARA herself, and in that case, sugah, get ready for Mt. Vesuvius cuz emotions are gonna errupt in a steaming rivulet of nostalgia...

daku said...

D, maybe it's Khidr.
But let's not feed him too much: i suspect s/he enjoys the attention. (-;