David Markson - Fare Forward - Letters from David Markson

44 In a letter dated August 24, I’d told him, “When (I won’t say if) my manuscript is published in honest-to-goodness book form, I will dedicate ‘Bank Four’ to you outright. Unless you don’t want it!” The poem appeared in Bank Book, the chapbook I’d sent him, first, so he had seen it.

45 Marco Antonio Montes de Oca, Mexican poet, 1932–2009.

46 “David Markson Has Gone Out to Buy a Bottle.”

47 I did check in with RCF. At the time, they said that as far as they knew, the essay was still in progress — though it never did appear.

Dear Simsy—

I am getting so antiquated I cannot remember whether or not I answered your last. Not long ago I spent at least 10 minutes looking for the shirt I’d taken off an hour before — how many hangers and hooks and closets can there be in a one-bedroom apartment? — and then finally discovered I was wearing it!

Who are you again? Who am I writing to?

Lissen, that’s lovely news about a NY reading, and I will, will, will try to see you — lunch or something — will, will, will, will, will. Both of you. Will, will, will, will, will.

Rodya, don’t do it!

Will, will, will, will, will, will, will.

Thine—

David

Dear Simsy—

Lissen. Re my postcards. See RCF , Barth/Markson issue, Volume X No. 2, Summer 1990, Page 158—sixteen lines up from the bottom, the four-word sentence in the middle of the line. 48

Otherwise, I hope neither of you slashed your wrists after the election. 49I was gonna jump off the roof here, but my sciatica hurt too much for me to get over the railing.

Thine—

D.

48 “He writes only postcards.” Beside which I had written in the margin: “Not entirely true!” From the essay, “Markson’s New Way,” by Burton Feldman, in RCF, Summer 1990, Vol. 10 No. 2.

49 George W. Bush was the victor, again.

Dear Simso—

What cozy holiday plans? Reclusive David? Don’tcha read my books?

Betcha didn’t know Garrison Keillor mentioned my birthday on the 20 thneither! My editor expects an extra sale of at least two copies because of same. Biggest event since my bar mitzvah.

Meantime I hope all your 2005 dreams come true. And I will will will see you when you’re here. Will will will will will will will will will will will will.

Hey, be well, both of you.

Thine—

David

Simsy, you’re a pisser—

You tell me you’ll be in town about 45 minutes, you’ve got sixteen readings, nine maybe-readings, eleven tentative dinner plans — and I should pick any time that’s fine with me!

OK, OK, here’s the deal. Sunday, March 6. Noon. Sharp. Place called Rafaella. On Seventh Avenue (maybe it’s called Seventh Av. South), just two doors above 10 thStreet, west side of the street. Name Rafaella on a blue awning (maybe some stripes). Noon gives us comfortable time in which without rush you can leave for that later reading, no? Big, campy joint, two rooms — if you’re ahead of me pick whatever location you want — lots with armchairs, even.

But, but, but — do call and confirm when you’re here, eh? Sat., or even an hour or two beforehand on Sun. There’s one remote (I hope) possible difficulty — and who knows what else, when you’re dealing with a 103-year-old wreck?

Done? Done.

Until—

David

P.S. I just may, may still be the guy with the three-month experimental beard — when we are peering around to spot each other.

Simsy, Simsy—

Re “difficulties”—don’t forget that I’m probably older than your grandparents! Not to add that I’m beset by 3,724 sundry maladies, likewise. But here, now, two weeks and five days off, looks OK. Fret not. 50

Meantime, what are all these first-person singulars? Corey is coming, no? (Anyhow, I’ve got to see how he manages to tolerate you!)

Hey — until—

David

P.S. Yes, dingbat, I know who Jorie Graham 51is. But I’ve only known for about 25 years.

50 I continued to fret; sure enough, David eventually cancelled.

51 I had a reading with Graham scheduled for the day David and I were supposed to meet.

Simso—

Your card, dated March 12, and postmarked March 14, arrived today — March 21! I’d thought, ah, me, one more lost love!

Hey, thank you for asking about the damnable medical stuff. I’ve now learned that there is a special seminar in third-year med school, entitled, “How to Scare the Shit Out of Patients,” in which my most recent referral MD got an A-plus. But, biopsy or no, I am again given a reprieve. To galumph onward toward senility. Next week: Drooling into my custard.

Meantime I hope I expressed enough delight in the acceptance of your book. 53It’s really spectacular news, and I’m pleased as hell for you. Also glad NY went well, even without grumpy DM.

End space. Too rainy to mail. Hello Corey.

Thine—

David

52 On a card announcing the reissue of Going Down by Counterpoint in March 2005.

53 I’d recently learned that my first book, Practice, Restraint, would come out in October.

Simso, Simso, Simso—

Lissen, kid, I truly dislike “lunch,” part of the total reclusiveness I’ve fallen into in my later years. 54I remember Willie Gaddis telling me the same thing, one of the last times I saw him (though I probably didn’t understand it yet). So whadaya say to this instead? Why don’t you guys stop here at my apartment for an hour or so, in the late morning — say 11 a.m.? That way, you get the whole stretch before your later gig in which to do something far more interesting than watching a grumpy old man dribble egg yolk into his beard (I still have the beard). Eleven o’clock, Sat., May 21.

Done? Done.

But lissen, do, do, do call me earlier — say 9:30 or so, to double-check, just in case. And keep in mind the major sacrifice I’m making — I’ll actually have to make a pass at cleaning this place!

Until—

David

54 I was going to be in New York again, for another reading, and had asked him to meet for lunch. Again.

Dear Simso—

I’m glad I finally saw you. I am.

Next time I will try to be civilized enough to have lunch, too. And not to spend half our time bitching about all of my penny-ante maladies.

Were I a dozen or fifteen years younger — yeah, say fifteen, so I’d only be 62—I never would have let you go wandering off alone that way either. I did think to check out that restaurant a while later, to make sure you weren’t sort of semi-stranded there — after also having paused to discover that that Bowery poetry place 55was listed in the phone book as well.

I hope the reading was what you wanted.

Meanwhile I keep crossing over to smell the lilacs. I have a vague feeling my woman brings in some in Wittgenstein’s Mistress, but can’t be sure 56—and haven’t opened it in forever. They are now on that small table next to where you were sitting, far more attractive there.

Stay well, both of you.

With love—

David

55 The Bowery Poetry Club, where I was reading later that afternoon.

56 “I have brought in lilacs, also.” (77)

Dear Simso—

As you know, I read no fiction at all any longer. But a book I sort of semi-seriously skimmed, because my editor asked me for a blurb, just now out, is The Method Actors, by Carl Shuker (Counterpoint, paper) — all about people like you in Japan. 57Remembered it only after you were gone. Should carry you back, I’d think.