Letter: January 23, 1963

Wed. Morn

                                                                                    1/23/63

            Tamara—

            I’m in my English class again. And they’re discussing some poem by Sara Teasdale^[1]—so what? I’d rather write this.

            The main reason I write it is because I wrote two long letters yesterday and mother found/destroyed them both.

            Yesterday was a very unusual day (after school). I won’t discuss the circumstance, or the exact words spoken, but mommy dear made it very clear that—but perhaps I should regress.

            You see, I have the kind of mother who fosters psychotic children. When my father died, i became a momma’s boy. Coming out of that groove a couple of years ago, mother became even stricter. I was really becoming a psycho. It was only recently that I have begun to straighten myself out. Before that I couldn't think straight. The night of the first Saturday I met you in Calvin’s^[2], Ben and I had a long, long talk, and I finally began to solidify my philosophy of life. During Christmas vacation my long conversations with you on the phone and the things I was reading at the time bolstered me to the point that I was [writ-]ing better than ever before and truly becomeing [sic] a creative individual, the person you know me to be. I wasn’t always like I am now.

            But, just as I was finally beginning to reach for the stars intellectually, yesterday mother informed me in so many words that she was dissatisfied with my behavior of late, and wanted me like i was before. God! No thanks.

            And—————she also told me that unless I did this, she wouldn’t let me go anywhere I wanted to go, I wanted to do, go anywhere I wanted to go, or have any friends but Jehovah’s Wittnesses [sic]. 

                        I absolutely refuse!

            But time will tell.

                        Her bark is much worse than her bite.

            But, if she does carry this out, I’m leaving home come summer. With you. Kit invited me and I don’t care whether you want me now or not. If mother makes my life hell, you and I will have no choise [sic]. the police won’t be out after us. Any harder if there’s two of us than if it’s just you.

            But I’m not worried, because I’m intelligent enough to resist mother and not screw myself in the process. And when she does things like taking my writings and destroying them, of course it’s a damn rotten thing, but it doesn’t help me to sit and feel sorry for myself.

            There’s nothing to do but begin again when she destroys my writings. That’s the greatest test of my talent, if I can keep on creating even with my mother opposing.

            If I could not replace my lost creations, then I would not be truly creative. I remember a true story about a very great scientist (I forget his name) who worked for twenty years on a great experiment, all of which was on paper. When he had almost found it, his dog accidentally knocked over a lantern and it burned his house down, papers and all. He had lost 20 years of his life, and had to begin again. Did he lose his temper and destroy himself? No; he stooped outside the smouldering ruins and petted the dog, began again. That shows what a wise man he was. He could have given up in despair and walked off—but then he wouldn’t have been a great man.

            I wish to be that sort of man. A very extraordinary person. (Stop and ponder [th]is, then read on).

Poem To Tamara, No. 2

You walk in joy

or should

know, dear

                        the garbage heap humanity

always sez you’re nuts.

                        I’m nuts

                        Ben’s nuts^[3]

                        Kit’s nuts^[4]

            Guts are nuts

All in folly

            Hate

                        Me

Don’t hate you

                                                We’re both fakers

them                            people

                        Uh,

            Don’t know real you

            I think               I do

                                                Mebbe

                                                nut.

                                                [down arrow]

                                                But—

listen when ah tail yew, chile—

            (I’m a bad poet today

                        jest like cummings^[5]

                                    nuf s’ti [it’s fun]

(next page)

[winding down the page]

Ornette^[6] Jellybread

All fall down but sowhat youknow Iknow fu ckital that swat ise ay don’t yew?????????? And….. Robert Goulet^[7] and Melonius Thunk^[8] (Whut’d he think?)

(over)

sunshine

and

raincame

and ilaughed

and

youlaughed

and

we ran

intherain

and sat

inthesun

andmymother

said

“Ohwhyzithafta rain?”

and yourmothersaid

“Oh, sun’s too hot!”

                        and

            Wow.

            Now.

            Clown.

            Down.

            Wow.

[next page]

I sued to roll in the lilacs

which were soft and pure like her breasts.

I used to shout with innocent joy

and play in ignorant zest.

But now I am a man

my innocence is gone

but still I lie among the lilacs

and sit upon the lawn

for ignorance and youth

synonomous [sic] are not

I know of cold reality

I know it’s alot of rot,

so I sit in the lilacs and look at life

through glasses of rosie [sic] hue

and shout to each passerby

long laugh, loud: “F**kkk you!”

—Lester