The Letter About The Letter, And Then The Letter: Dear John

by Martin Bemberg

Hi. I am writing things about you still. Don't worry, they are not the kinds of things that make you hurt. I don't think. I always enjoyed having you read my writing. You have a good brain. So let me know if you are interested in doing me the honor of taking a look at them. I understand if you are not.

I hope that you are well.

John

***

-D-

When I had finished what one might call the perfect shower (unless you count the couple times I smoked spliffs while bathing at The Blue House, which you might should), it is only natural that I should dry off, which I did, with the one towel that is dry, which I chose, as I should, for its success in this regard, only to find the lingering blades of hair barbered and short upon my shoulders, remnants of a haircut, only then to think of those hairs' origins and the haircut you gave me one month ago, perhaps exactly.

You took your time, which I did not mind but rather admired, you took requests like a club DJ and some you dutifully rejected, for after all you are the barber and I the mere meek agent of your craft. It should not matter how I feel today about it. Such would certainly bring back thoughts of what was lost (besides my hair). Such would do no good.

But before I put it out of mind, I might could say just how nice it was, to have another improve my looks and rid me of what I do not need, a cleansing, like a bath, and just how nice it was to have another to negotiate with and compromise, like adjusting the temperature of water in a getting-to-know-you kind of way. I do not think it happens that way very often. Sorry, but you were special.

But I should not think about it.

It is sometimes better to ignore than swim, for the sea is sometimes cold and dreary. (Try telling that to Mr. Matthew Webb, the first to swim the English channel. Don't worry, I too had to look it up on Wikipedia.) This would not be my first sea/shore metaphor. I have a poem, about a ship on the other side of the sea. The ship embarks on her second voyage ever, a second maiden one. I was captain of the first. The poem is about jealousy.

I wrote a story about a boy named Sea and a girl named Shore. There are tons of puns in that one but none worth telling. It is about religion and having children, which is to say it is about going crazy.

There is that song we both like. "Liked," maybe I should say? "I Never Saw The Point In Trying" it was called, and I suppose still is. I do not see the point in writing this letter, if that's what it is, but I saw and see the point in trying. Trying to do what though I surely do not know.

To share still maybe, if that is okay with you.

Yours but not,
John