Guys, look what was mailed to me.
Stampede Trail near Denali National Park
February 20, 2018
To Jane Stanislavki,
Jane. It’s been some time hasn’t it? I’d wager roughly 12 years. Back when I threw myself in the Red River outside my parents’ house.
I want you to know something: I’m not dead. What I mean by this is that I did die, but have come back to life.
I saw Hell and it consumed me. It ate up my soul. But on the other side was not God. No, never anything like that. I saw force—FORCE(S)—and the ever-increasing flow of life spill like water before me.
God retreated into us as we retreated into it. We’ve all become GODS in the doughnut of American Happiness. I opened the box, Jane. And you need to open it up too. There are only two slots in the box: one with a doughnut; the other, 100 M&Ms and, like, 22 Skittles.
How many Skittles have you eaten anticipating M&Ms? Hopefully none. And please don’t tell me you’ve eaten the doughnut…I know too many people who have. Please don’t tell me you’ve eaten any of it—the chocolate box of AMERICAN HAPPINESS.
Don’t open the box or you’ll be in the Red River with me.
Open the box.
The M&Ms are some many little pleasures—what with their evil consequences—the doughnut, the biggest pleasure—what with its perpetual core of emptiness.
Don’t open the Red River. But, open the Red River.
I want to be like everybody else. But, you don’t. No dogs, no kids, no fashionable jackets, no fancy computers, no diplomas, no cherry-red cars, no Momma’s-Little-Helper, no invented sickness, no feigned weakness, no desk, no paper, no pens, no water-coolers, no pappamummy.
Open the box and the Red River comes.
Don’t open the box, the Red River comes. It comes. It will come. Red River. RED.
God is in the redriverbox. God is the redriverboxdichotomy.
I opened the redriverboxdichotomybox and greedily ate the doughnut and the M&Ms and Skittles. All partitions went into my gullet and came out as shit. Food doesn’t become shit—people become shit. We leave behind the worst parts of ourselves—the most poisonous parts—to make more poison.
But life is sacred. Life in the Red River is sacred. I didn’t want to become shit. So I stopped eating.
The shit came out anyway. Sacredliferedriverboxdichotomybox.
No, I am not dead. I’m more alive than ever. But, only after death. You found my poems. I want you to crusade for them. I want them to live since I am dead and have no part in them any longer. They are my children and patricide was necessary. They needed my death to live. Not the other way around. I cannot handle this world any longer—for the false forces, the gods in our pockets have made the GODSOFUS irrelevant. We are all gods in chains—gods in the Red River. Whoever spoke of duty and died for that cause? Houses cannot take charge on a battle field—no they need the poems, the little pieces of paper to do that. They need scratchpads to do the work—to say what they could not bear to say, to throw up barriers to make sure the words spoken have their own lives to justify existence—to say, look here, the truth exists outside of us—and therefore, we are necessary to existence—if even we fabricated this lie, with enough people to believe, the lie is as good as a truth. Truth is a fiction.
I am a house and do not wish to die for my cause. But I did. I am not metaphysical.
I am a fiction. And this is a good thing, mind you. We are all fictions. Fictions need editing. Fictions need to be respun, again and again. If not, we become boring pieces of legislation and bear the burden of ensuring others follow those laws—and we are simply not big enough as individuals to do that.
The bigger they are, the more people must believe! They do not fall! They are the legislators! The clergy! The unthinking multitudes! The young parents! The MIDDLEFUCKINGCLASS!
Oh, how sorry I am for being the callous individual to write upon myself.
Damn it all. To the Red River!
I ate all in the box, but regretted it . Now I have no box. No box of AMERICAN HAPPINESS.
I didn’t want this. Too many people within me wanted to suffocate me. I am not schizophrenic—I was made to be this way. Made to employ a guardian, the trumpeter of external values internally. I could not know of myself without this trumpeter trumpeting.
I could not know you, nor love you without this trumpeter trumpeting.
We all created this body we live on. We must for survival sake—so far removed from our natural selves. It is necessary now. But, do not run away from this body, nor the body upon which you are written. Do not run away. They are organs necessary for you, just as you are for them. Do not allow them to break the floor. Do not allow yourself to break the floor.
But, since the womb commands us back after eating from the BOX we feel as though we must follow, lest the hand of the commanding pappymummy bears down on us. I do not want to run, but I was taught to fear debt and to run from it after clasping it to my ankle.
Have my parents killed themselves yet under the gravity of goodness? Nobility? Status? Society? Have they? Do their own Red Rivers flow outward? Do the shittiest parts about them nourish the earth?
We are given two options toward happiness—and then, can either let it kill us or run. There is no restanddigest, there is only fight or flight. Fighting is irresponsible and dangerous. For the bullet will always fly faster than any human legs can. The body will crush us. It will end us for good. We cannot kill it, we can only misdirect it—let the autoimmune disorder of legislation self-destruct, autocannibalize, feed until the stomach-to-flesh ration has achieved an optimum balance. Only then will the body listen to itself.
Sam O. Rolhds