On January 10, 1983 Ken writes,
Today is Mike’s birthday… and all the while the Benedictine monks chant “kyrie eleison” in the background and I can’t get Psalm 51 out of my brain nor the Spanish Civil war…
Ken wrote pages and pages for years and years. In another letter he quotes bits from Ken Kuhl Goes to War, by Rogers and Hammerstein, Gilbert and Sullivan, Simon and Garfunkel. Handa and MacArthur? – in another a play, with us engaged in Dali-esque, semi erotic dialogue with someone vaguely resembling Luther.
Frank writes too: You’ll never guess where I am…. (he was writing letters with my father in France).
Aruna: Signed, Peter Sellers.
Pictures from 1982, of the band, taken outside a speakeasy we played at regularly in Toronto.
Tom, from Europe. Fanny, with a show opening. A note from my parents, sent with a package: ‘Just a little pick-me-up from us. We love you. Andy Crowne – ‘we miss you. Mike & Andy’
A whole stack of letters and cards from J.Z., who stalked me for several years. Those I burned, finally.
…on napkins, on folded rolls of computer paper with perforated hole-punched edges, on drawing paper, onion paper, hotel paper, newsprint; postcards from Japan, the middle east, New York City, Europe, India – an entire box of letters and photographs, saved from 30 years ago when people wrote letters and printed photographs.
What a find.
What a flood of memories.
The last goes to my parents, who I know I treated abominably – months and months of silence in first year university, in some kind of backward effort to find and name my life apart from theirs.
There was a telegram in the box. I opened it for the first time today:
I feel like writing letters.
On paper. With a pen.