A Random Image

Jett Superior laid this on you on || May 31, 2003 || 2:14 am

Dear Fellow Traveller and Snake Oil Salesman Handler,

So I’m sitting here with this laptop careening at a crazy angle and threatening to take a dive off of my lap, trying like hell to get the gist of this PencilEraserMouse thingy or whateverthefuck the guy at the shop called it (whatever the moniker, I hate the motherfucker). It’s late, and I should be in bed early as I’d promised myself not long ago that I would engage in this sort of healthy, proper behavior. In truth, it’s probably just a ruse, and not a very good one. I can use this as an excuse for not being proliferate in my writing, you see. Anyone who knows shit about me knows that I produce things of a delicate, heartfelt nature –beautific agony, if you will– when I am bag-eyed and muddle-headed and just generally angsty and surly and sleep-deprived.

Back to the ‘in truth’ thing; the truth is that I’ve not really been moved to write shit or shinola because a significant hunk of brain matter is taken up with thoughts of you. And you and I both know that nobody but nobody gives two diddly-fucks of anything about two star-crossed buffoons and their little buffoonery dancin’, much less vague references to donuts or purses and reams of crap poetry about too-much-too-soon and too-little-but-never-no-never-too-late.

April Love (how endearing that you’ve given her your own nickname: “Momma Looooove”) gets quite tickled when she hears me say, ‘oh honey, that will never do.’ She likes it so much, in fact, that she has folded it into her own vernacular. What once used to be merely a pithy phrase seems to be my mantra as of late: Here I am looking at this thing and that thing about/within my life and I find myself saying over and over, ‘that will never do.’ with regard to a myriad of things.

I fear that this is somehow making me a negative person, and being a negative person is something I am hesitant to embrace. I’ve never been a gushing optimist, preferring instead to wear the shoes and hat of a realist with a strong sense of faith and hope. Maybe all this ‘never-do’-ing is the manifestation of that faith-having, hopeful realism. I’d like to think so, anyway. I’d like to think that I am one-stepping my way boldly into a bright new tomorrow for myself and everyone along for the ride will benefit enormously from it.

And you know what? I am long past giving a fuck if it’s conventionally ‘right’.

“Break it down all corny for me, wouldja Jett? You know and I know that’s when you say it pretty okay, if not the best…”

Well, okay. Today happens to be a day when I feel more suited to aim to please rather than being pleased to aim. June Carter Cash died recently, ending one of the most ardent and dedicated of love-based partnerships of our time. She and her husband were bound to one another, though their lives were tumultuous at times, and they had it something fierce for each another. Although they shared writing credit on the song ‘Ring Of Fire’ and most people solely credit Johnny for the song, it was for the most part penned by June and dealt with their relationship.

“I never talked much about how I fell in love with John,” June said in an interview. “It was not a convenient time for me to fall in love with him, and it wasn’t a convenient time for him to fall in love with me. One morning, about four o’clock, I was driving my car just about as fast as I could. I thought, ‘Why am I out on the highway this time of night? I was miserable, and it all came to me: ‘I’m falling in love with somebody I have no right to fall in love with.’…I thought, ‘I can’t fall in love with this man, but it’s just like a ring of fire.’”

“We hadn’t said, ‘I love you.’ We were afraid to say it, because we knew what was going to happen: that eventually we were both going to be divorced, and we were going to go through hell. Which we did,” said Johnny.

They married in 1968 and had thirty-five years together. Imagine that: Thirty-five years loving the person that consumes you. Even though they met at ‘the wrong time’. Even though they tried, for over ten years, to do ‘the right thing’ by not forsaking vows to others.

But what of it when the Real-and-Truetm ‘right thing’, we’re told by others, is ‘the wrong thing’? What of it when you subconsciously, and quite without knowing it, seek out that real, true ‘right thing’ in little traits and characteristics of others, though that tongue-on-teeth habit only comes to light and makes sense on the back end of things, when it drops you on your butt with a startled ‘oh.’ at the realization of it? The bloody tongue, the salty-metallic taste, the glistening red on your teeth further proves it, are further evidence that yes, you were holding your tongue…just….so.

You’ll never know the sense of mourning that enveloped me when you said so matter-of-factly, “I feel like, now, this last ten-some years has been filler. It’s just been filler.” You’ll never know the stab of pain I felt when you, dropping your cool-but-not-fooling-me facade, asked plaintively, in an uncharacteristic beggar’s voice, “Why, why did you turn from me and go?”

“We could’ve had ten babies by now.”

“We could’ve been so happy those years.” Yeah, other people scoff, but I know it to be so. The voices in my head and my heart sing in unison on this one, so fuck all else; fuck the naysayers and their opining. Fuck the non-believers and the jaded and the jealous and those simply too afraid to get on their tiptoes atop the wobbling chair and reach, reach like hell for the treasure awaiting on the top shelf.

There is a reason they call it ‘top-shelf’, after all: It’s placed up there because it’s a cut above and well worth the reach, well worth the scrapes you may encounter, well worth the strained tendons sung awake in the grasping and the bumps you may suffer on the way down with it finally –deep, contented sigh– hugged to your bosom.


Ever yours in deed and in song (not to mention some stuttering, clumsy poetry),

Your Travelling Companion and Foil Of Snake Oil Salesmen Everywhere Charmer

::: :: ::: :: :::

so i walk like i’m on a mission / cuz that’s the way i groove / i got more and more to do / i got less and less to prove / it took me too long to realize / that i don’t take good pictures / cuz i have the kind of beauty / that moves

Ani DiFranco, “evolve”

6 worked it out »

  1. RON 5.31.2003

    Honestly, the women needs help. You sound like a horse who just won the Triple Crown, nicked her leg while shaving, and now needs to be shot and put out of misery, because of the bad odds that your rag queen wound won’t heal in this millenia out of shear self-fuckness, in which you excel Phyllis Diller. Find a nice quiet place like a drag strip, when they run top fuel dragster elimination trials, so you might compose your thoughts and lay infront of the christmas tree starting lights until the racing marshall notifies you that the stalls for handicap parking is in the garage of the nearby insane asylum. Mix a drink of perfume and skin lotion, in a big glass, take a swigger of the tranquilizer and save the rest of the chicken soup to gargle with, for the rest of the week. Perform extra push-ups and cheer-ups until you need not walk around naked inside the house because all your clothes no longer fit with your spare tire for a waist curve and your buttocks so enhanced that they sway independently of each other when you walk around the shopping mall. Furthermore…..

  2. John 5.31.2003

    I came across this last night:


  3. RON 5.31.2003


    Spectacular. And I’ll say it, again, John (in case you did’nt get to read my post which I sent to you on a different topic). You are a guilding light and one day, let me chip in, a little, for the batteries.

  4. Jett 5.31.2003

    Ron, what the FUCK are you talking about?

  5. trouble 5.31.2003

    jett, id like to assume that “snake oil salesman” is an homage to emmet otters jugband christmas.

    also, did you get my email? if not, please email me cus i gots a question for you.

  6. RON 6.1.2003

    Ms. Jett Superior,

    I was just trying to cheer your up, sweetee. With a bit of chivalry, I might add.


RSS feed for comments on this post.

(you know you want to)