Cameron Platt

Dear Alastair,

What it is ?

I will take the pause since I last asked after your wellbeing (Seattle/July) as a mute manly sign that the levee didn't break this time around and that you and Diane, toughing it out, did not go down in the Flood - for which I am gratified. Now we're getting the dreaded Gilga-wrath over here in the American Heartland, which is to say Nowheresville, Wisconsin. What hath God wrath? Not to mention Where will it all end?

Meanwhile, were you aware that the Ark was built of gopher wood and stood three stories tall dripping wet with a single door and that Noah got the word that the levee was gonna break when he was 480 years old give or take, and 600 if he was a day when he completed the job giving him 120 years to sort out the problem of constructing a vessel aprox 450 feet long or roughly half the size of the QE1 decked out to accomodate an estimated 75,000 animals, and that it weighed, well, golly ... I guess you'd have to begin at the beginning with the specific density of gopher wood per foot. Which would likely involve consulting some think tank on the lunatic fringe of the far Christian Right....
But what disturbs me even more is: whatever became of all those laborers Noah had in his employ? Buried in the rocks ... like Dylan's grandpa?

Flash-forward to early Sept 1980, just about a week , give or take, before the Iran-Iraq War broke out and my girlfriend Karina and I have landed upon the Turko-Russian border on a Black Sea steamer out of Istanbul; women bedded down on one side of the ship, men on the other. Clouds of black cigarette smoke over a roiling sea and Turks blowing lunch all over the damned place.
The general idea was to sling myself with abandon into the Caucasus and fullfill my ancient destiny of wallowing in Russian soul, slugging back rot gut Vodka shot-for-shot with just about any dribbling fool that happened to turn up with crossed eyes and stains on his bib, wrapping my choppers around dirty onion sandwiches on gravelly local bread, and slurping pickled herring with my fingers while quoting from The Idiot.
Destiny is bunk. I think Tolstoy actually said that, more or less, didn't he?
Anyway, Pres Jimbo Carter, head pugnaciously wedged, happened at the time to be leading a hapless boycott of the Moscow Olympics by way of protesting Brezhnev's invasion of Afghanistan the year before, and the Russian border goons took the affront personally.

Turned roughly back, we ended up hitchhiking to Anatolia in a long hot dusty caravan of Turkish truckers headed to Iraq. We relentlessly moved in an exhaust-ridden herd, between ludicrously frequent blowouts, through the marvelously flyblown city of Kars and eventually down through Anatolia, passing Mt Ararat as we went. But we didn't get down. Our trucker friend wouldn't have it. Dacoits! I recall sleeping sitting up in the foetal position in that unbearably hot stuffy cab with the windows rolled up and the doors latched, I in the middle and Karina at my right, for three or four nights. When we parted company, I gave the driver my Buck knife, in gratitude for not mugging and raping us and making us drink raki with him. He was a good bloke and as a parting send-off we split a surreptitious bottle of raki he kept under his seat, beside his pistol and whip and rubbery prosthesis.

That day we headed for Konya, of Whirling Dervish fame. We always hitch hiked in Turkey, because it was so absurdly easy. But sometimes out in the remote areas there were so few passenger cars that we would hail a bus, which is what happened in Diyarbakir. A couple of hours out of town we started noticing disturbing signs of restlessness among the Turkish natives, like burnt-out cars and bullet-ridden buildings. Suddenly we lurched into what looked like an abandoned petrol station, urged hurredly off, and once inside the place were made to lie down on the floor and keep our yaps shut. I can't remember how much later it was that Karina and I learned a military coup had come down. I don't mean to leave this little anecdote here coyly dangling for dramatic effect. Only I have to say that once we hit what we thought was going to be a refuge of sorts within the defunct Dervish complex at Konya matters turned to whirling mayhem fast and I swear were it not for Karina I would definitely have been in for a blue rogering a la Turk.

But enough is simply enough. I don't know why I put this old stuff down on paper to you, Alastair. Oh, yes I do! Could it be that the world has become one big sprawling boring global village in the past twenty-five years just like Hilary Clinton predicted?? Or is it that I have become a bored and boring global villager? I'll bet The Bob knows. Bob's coming near my local village on tour. That man never stops. He just goes on & on from village to village. I could maybe send a note to his dressing room. "Dear Bob ..."

Did you see that Cate Blanchett, among others, is playing Him in some upcoming Hollywood Biopic? It's called The Early Years, or something. They're all the rage now, these Bios. Ever since the success of that Johnny & June movie. I see they're doing Freddy. I can't recall who's scrapping for that one. Jimi ... Forest Whitaker? Don Cheedle? Miles! Everybody's looking for a piece of that action. Don Cheedle was up for it. I know Harry Belofonte wanted it bad. Cate Blanchette. But I think she already signed on to do Janis, didn't she? I ask you again: Where will it all ... ?? Furthermore, where's God when we really need Him?
What I need is an editor. I never needed one before, when I was writing semi-seriously. I do now, though. Can I borrow yours? I seem to write gibberish. I don't spellcheck. I repeat phrases, omit words... I see, scolling back in time that I even sent you two Cormac mails, 12 & 16 July, possibly identical; can't say, can't bear to read 'em this morning. It would be great to turn over a new fig leaf. But it's hard, brother. Yeah. Like workin' on de chain gang.

Words To The Wise, Alastair. Never ride your bicycle at midnight under a crisp northern sky as I did last night, treat yourself to a fistful of Himber Geist Marzipan, and then turn in with Oriana Fallaci's hair-raising interview (Interviews With History) of Mohammed Riza Riza Pahlavi. Does anybody in your household have a birthday coming up?

Dear Alastair,

I ran a peepshow number on your website the other night. Excelente oferta, compadre! Meanwhile, back on Planet Earth, these Thai Internet joints are obscenely fraternal; I can actually smell peoples' parts from a couple of feet away. I can't help it. That's probably because, unaided, I see rather like a topo, and sport a blown rock/roll ear, and have the kind of desensitized fingertips that would have driven Glenn Gould to suicide... thanks to a Guillain-Barre Syndrome I contracted in Pochutla, Mexico (on the western cordillera outside Oaxaca) in the early 1970s, while eating the local (and extremely potent) version of the Psilocybe Cyonescens, aka "el derrumbe" mushroom, out- of-season from old peanut butter jars preserved with honey and crawling with not so little white worms - and if that isn't mangled grammar, I don't know what is. But. . . mierda! There's a Russian gal sitting uneasily to my immediate left and . . . Aye, Chihuahua!

I say "peepshow" because . . . I guess I like the word, with its carnavale undertones. And because I never know quite what in the name of the sweet Baby Jesus is going to leap out at me on your Website. Which is no bad thing. I just have to . . . cover myself, given local mores, the Buddhist thing, not to mention an easily ruffled Royal Family. And could we possibly have some pornographic penwork from you one of these fucking days?!

Yeah, Alastair. Give it up, mutha! Just dig into those old bachelor files, which I know you got. At this point, I would probably even settle for some erotica, pathetic cop-out jive that it generally is. You know, one can't helping wondering where all the eroti

c tunes are? I was always game for writing some overtly sexy lyrics for somebody. I just couldn't find the right musician. I don't mean like "Old man 'Mose, he kicked the bucket. Buck, buck bucket!" Although that, in its day of course, was headsnapper. . . Country Joe McDonald, admittedly a minor talent, attempted it with his own rendering of Quiet Days in Clichy. . . .

Which brings me to your Heroes, which I read (up to Jung so far) with equal parts pleasure and admiration. Those impressionistic thumbnail sketches of yours are first rate. Better yet, they must have been good fun to write. I have done a little of that myself (museum hackwork/artists sketches) and. . . I really dig the space- constraint thing. Mine often have to run almost uniformly in the 90-110 word category. So it's, jump right in. Cough out your spiel. And slam bam thank you, ma'am! I confess that I have been writing my own version of comic Haiku recently, which really paints a guy in. But that's another matter.

Your Heroes is a brilliant idea, and nothing better to while away the odd rainy day. The fact that the next one out here isn't expected till May notwithstanding. . . Very enjoyable to mull over. Gets me out of the Thai sun, and I learn a thing or two in the process. Like. . . can you truly read Karl Jung? Great guy. And I love the way he stuck it to Freud, and all that good shit. But his prose. . . It's like reading an Army Training manual on Angel Dust. So, since you can do it, man, I am impressed!

Kurling up mitt Karl reminds me of wrastling with Gurdjieff (without Ouspensky's timely aid): "The evolution of the Earth, above a certain point, or beyond a certain percentage . . . would be fatal for the moon."

I have often thought about the notion of heroes. You know, looking yourself squarely in the old 3rd Eye and first, admitting you actually have any to begin with. Of course, it is absurdly unflattering psychologically not to have any. . . That would probably never do. It brings to mind Dennis Hopper's (Terry Southern) Easy Rider script. Oh come on! Hear me out. Cast your mind back to the inimitable campfire scene, and a joint being passed around among the principals, plus that hippie guy they've picked up at the New Mexico commune after banging his girlfriend(s).

Peter Fonda ("Capt. America") being in possession of the J, out of the blue , directs his attention to the token Hippie:

[Capt. America] "You ever wanted to be anybody else?"
[Hippie with tie-dyed bandana around his head] "I think I'd like to try Porky Pig."
[Capt. America, head resting on his Capt. America Stars & Stripes crash helmet, musingly drawing upon the Bogarted J] "I never wanted to be anybody else."

Fade out.

It occurs to me that one of the tests of a potential hero is: would I be scared absolutely shitless to confront him/her/it in public or otherwise, even in my Jungian dreams. I think, yes. That's my own first test. Who would totally rattle my bones even as I looked up to it/she/he? Instead of say, squirreling right up to the motherfucker and sticking out the sweaty paw. Anyway, I slipslimed through your alphabeticals, passing G for (no Goya!) and H (hey, where the devil's Hannibal?) It occurred to me that, besides not figuring in your heroic pantheon, these geezers may be too old by now. Too bad, 'cause Hannibal drew some crazy shit. To be honest, roughly 38% of the heroes I didn't even recognize (gulp).

I don't mean to stir the muck but. . . I would be interested in hearing from your Villains. Not that I didn't catch your drift - Heroes influence in a positive way. But is that to say that artists such as yourpre-Eminent Self are in no way shaped, formed, polished and/or waxed by their passionate dislikes, personal revolts, prejudices, etc? I'm afraid I must insist you answer that one, buddy. I could go on. I'm not doing anything this evening, after a lovely day on the Chiang Mai circuit. But I won't. Funny how I can always go on. But I suppose that has to do with my feeling that... we sort of understand each other. And at least for my part, I know I can fairly safely get Out There when writing you. Without being threatened with an admonitory letter to my mum, or castration, or a tax audit, or a Rorschach Test. Because, let's face it: There is no Sanity Clause, right?

Never was. And thanks for running that silly Ark mail of mine. The illustrations are swell. You're welcome to any drivel I have sent you over the years. And I look forward to something from Rab B. And more. . . .

Anon.

cameron