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5 June 2017

Texts to a Friend

by Andrew

Some of my best writing never gets wrote. My grandma says, that she can tell a person is intelligent or not by how much they use the word get, or got, in their speech. To be a better English-speaker, I tell foreign friends, avoid got and get if you can think of a better verb, and your English will appear instantly dramatically improved.

Sometimes it can't be avoided, however, to get, got. And that is its correct use. But me, I use get and got purposely now, because I've spent so long avoiding it. My get's and got's got some force behind them because.

Anyway, some of my best writing I do in my head. And by the time I can get the pen and pad,—or the phone—these wonderful sentences I'd strung-together in my head have already evaportated back into the atmosphere, out my ears and hairs. Or, I'll be in some mood just sending messages to a friend on the phone, texting. And these messages will be perfectly typed—of course. And the ideas in them will be sharp, and biting too. But they are all out of context, these messages, random bits here and there, unconnected to bigger bits of writing. And these little bits, these messages, are lost among more messages, texting, the next day and the next day and the next day.

But I made a note to myself, to just copy word for word some messages from last night, some texts. They are about a hotel that's near. I am in Portugal still, texting my Portuguese friend.

"I have no idea what that hotel is called. I looked. There is no sign anywhere. They are remodeling or something it looks like. It's the only thing out there though, that hotel, so probably it's the one you are thinking of."

"Is it really big and nice?"

"There are always French round there, so I assume it's nice."

"French suck."

"Yeah. But they are wealthy generally. Which is why they suck probably. Wealthy people are cheese. Their bodies are ill-formed from a life of comfort. They shit their pants when they walk from all the fine food they eat and because they are not used to walking—which is very good for the stomach, digesting, walking. Their clothes look nice, but they are just plastic, and would fall-apart exposed to the elements for any amount of time.

"They have all this money and that's it. There is no art in their life. They don't read. They aren't polite like good wealthy should be. Nothing. They are cheese."

"But people idolize the wealthy."

"Which is sad. And art is lost. No one knows it, art. They watch shit movies and spend their money on shit clothes and cars."

"But no one can do a thing about it."

"I sat in the middle of Harvard and read a book. And I was dressed as I am, so I looked like a bum. But for hours I sat outside some shop reading a book. And all day people shopping, walking-round from one cafe to another, one shop to another, passed all round me. What is that bum doing, reading? I should be reading, really, to be true, I am a student here, or a professor, or something. But I am not. I am out walking-round on this beautiful day, spending money only really. And that bum is reading. What is he doing?

"I sat in P—— to-day writing on a bench, looking how I do. First, I watched out the corner of my eye the people run. Now, there is a dirty bum. But then I began to write. And what is that dirty bum doing, writing? He can spell? I barely can even really. I couldn't tell you the last I just wrote, besides a text or a comment on Facebook. He's not too drunk, that dirty bum? I'm a bit tipsy myself, to be true, after lunch there. But what is this dirty bum doing, writing? Here, I'd better be careful, now, standing that I don't go and shit my pants again, that duck and beef in gravy with both red and white. There now, there we go. Easy, now.

"When you have nothing, you see that you have everything. When you have everything, you are nothing."

I don't know what it all means. I was in one of my moods. It just comes and then it's gone. And usually it's lost. It's nothing I've not said or wrote before. It's just different, put differently than I've put it in writing yet.


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