———- Forwarded message ———- From: Jon Sarkin <jonsarkin@gmail.com> Date: Wed, Sep 10, 2014 at 8:38 PM Subject: To: michael digregorio <m.digregorio@att.net> It really didn’t add up. No, it came to nothing, a bad deal gone down. I was thick in the gravelly gruel of my circumstance. Man, I was down-in-the-mouth about my happenstance. After perusing my options and nursing my broken-toothed luck, I still felt snaggled and fractured. I had this nimbulus, cold-cocked, landlocked feeling. I had no semblance of firmity. I felt small-changed into this bleak and bleary existence of malapropisms and poorly-seeded puns. Friend, I must recount my luck-lost and haggard, muffled exhaustion, the stupid idiotic after-shards of nonsensical soliquies echoing in my mid-brain – my clotted agonies, my unresurrected, unredeemable, passionless, guttural, speechless, ineffectual prayers. Would they ever be answered? I guess Faulkner thought they would not. “I,” he once said, “give you the mausoleum of all hope and desire. I give it to you not that you may remember time, but that you might forget it now and then for a moment and not spend all your breath trying to conquer it. Because no battle is ever won. They are not even fought. The field only reveals to a man his own folly and despair, and victory is an illusion of philosophers and fools.” I thought about this and then I didn’t any more. Faulkner wasn’t anybody but just some drunk who got published. It seems to get published you must be a drunk. I know there are exceptions to this theory. It’s not even a theory, no, not really, just some crack-head idea. But aren’t all ideas like this? My friend Bruce Newton is really a crack-head, so all his ideas are crack-head ideas. Admittedly, Bruce isn’t a great example of my thesis. He lives in a shotgun apartment on Main Street, above Virgilio’s. His apartment reeks of cigarettes and bacon grease. There are burn marks all over his sofa. His cheeks are grooved, and his eyes have the burned-out look of burnt-out light bulbs. But Bruce is my friend. Yeah, I trust him as far as I can throw a toilet bowl, and he stole my television, but I make friends with dead-end losers like this. I’ll bet Faulkner met some characters too. This is the devil’s bargain in Edge City, friend. You pays your money and you takes your chances. You belly up to the bar and roll them laughing bones. You bet the farm and put your bottom dollar on a long-shot. And when it comes in last, bubba, you roll up your shirt sleeves, dust your trousers off, and get back on the horse, and ride into another town and start the damned scam all over again. — Jon Sarkin jonsarkin.com