Bruce Wagner - I’m Losing You

Hello, Columbus

TO: SHARKEE@CLS.OHIO-STATE.EDU (STOCKER VIDRA)

FROM: DOLPH@AOL.COM (KATHERINE GROSSECK)

Your Sharkee-ness…

Burning incense in your absence. Long, hot baths, letting the water flow inside. Smiling to myself as I soak — my cunny smiles and when I dry her off, she winks. She declares the day you appeared unannounced at my door to be hereby christened the Day of the Dolphin. (I call it Columbus Day. Oh! Hi! Oh!)

Let me set the scene — again: I’d just gotten a massage and was about to start a fresh crying jag. Thought the sound of your cab was Gina, the masseuse (trailer park material, that one), leaving. Heard the key in the door and my heart along with it: fump- fump fump- bump fump- bump : fell into your arms and you took me, raped me, made me whole again. Fucked me so long and so hard I cried and came and cried for two long days and nights and only now can catch my breath I love you so fucking much, Vidra . I am at your mercy, beaucoup — wham bam, merci ‘dam. I will never do anything to make you question my love again; I won’t be flip about that — about anything else, not that. I love you unconditionally, there is nothing you can do to change that, I will be waiting in supplication, until I die. The bruises on my tits look like giant blue flowers, garlands for my vows. I wear the plug you gave me to meetings and lunches — and at home, thanking the messenger when he drops scripts at my door, thanking the world as I walk around with a dumbass smile, a Manchurian candida, shark fin broken off inside. I empty myself in the toilet only when you say…you have me in line, on-line and every which way: you control the horizontal, you control the vertical. Do not attempt to adjust your RoboCunt/zombie anus, your biggest chocolate flan. I am Sharkee’s machine—

Sight Unseen

Precious Little Beastie Boy…

Holly Hunter and Hassan DeVore visited today and the two would not let you go; I think some of those squeeze marks will be permanent. (They were in the first play I cast, eight years ago.) Holly and I were in tears — took about a thousand pictures. You should see how you look in Hassan’s arms: like the whitest of mushrooms growing on his chest. You are the Fat Sacred Mushroom from the Planet Zelda. Hassan brought a Blue Matrix mobile and pinned it to the playroom ceiling. He knew I’d hate it but it did provoke ten minutes of whooping-cough-like hysteria. Holly brought you the softest, fuzziest cub I ever saw from FAO Schwarz (we’ll make the pilgrimage soon, I swear I swear). We tried to name it and Holly said if you were a Rod, we could call it Rod Steiger (don’t feel bad, I didn’t get it either) — as in Rod’s Tiger. Ho ho ho. She’s funny that way, your g-thing. Instead, we named her Lily.

After Hassan left, I told Holly I was writing these letters and showed her some, and we cried some more. Don’t mind me; Mama’s a big wuss. Hol was telling me about a school for the blind she read about in The New Yorker —some famous Indian writer went there. She thought maybe it was in Alabama. Her assistant’s going to get us all the info. I dunno; it does seem a little TV-movie-ish. Hey, not a bad idea — could be Mama’s premier production! Who could play me? How about Amy Madigan? (I can just see the article in People .) I do like the idea of moving, though. No riots or earthquakes in Alabama, huh. Least not till we get there. Did you know Grandma Willy’s coming out to see you any minute? That’s right. She would’ve come sooner but she was so sick and now she’s all better. Cheese Whizikkers, you’re a popular guy. Holly even wants to show my letters to her friend, a big editor at Grove Press. Everybody wants a piece of my buddhaboy. Have to quit now. Jeremy’s home.

Goodbye, Columbus

TO: SHARKEE@CLS.OHIO-STATE.EDU (STOCKER VIDRA)

FROM: DOLPH@AOL.COM (KATHERINE GROSSECK)

Looking for production offices. Can’t get it straight whether Cat’s for-real on board but Phylliss is milking it for all it’s worth. More power to her, I say. I’m changing the name of my corporation. What do you think of Method to Her Sadness Productions — too pretentious? Pargita’s a hoot: you have to see Janie Wong when you get back (you are coming back, aren’t you?). I’d send you a cassette but I want to see it together. You’ll like Parg — she’s kind of a cross between Nora Ephron and Wim Wenders. Just kidding. Her favorite phrase of the week is “zero-wannasee”…as in “Do you want to go to the Batman screening?” “Nah. I have zero-wannasee.” She’s lobbying PJ Harvey for the Stranger, isn’t that too fantastic? When you’re back we’ll have Boys’ Night Out. With Harvey (no relation to PJ) and Holly practically set, we’re just about green — could start early as June.

How’s Phylliss’s book coming? Does she actually have a deal? Is she sending tons of pages? She’s coy with me about it.

Maps to the Stars

Jabba’s working nights at Planet Hollywood and is determined to marry ANYONE who is involved with it, financially! I’ve heard there are many, many investors, not merely Arnold, Sly and Bruce. I’m concerned she’s drugging again — she always seems to have an “allergy” when we go out SNIFF SNIFF. Life at Sweets is sweet; making MUCHO DINERO {I’d rather be “making DE NIRO”!!}. Flirted tonight with PETER WELLER and HARRY DEAN STANTON {he’s so old! but charming. And he sings at the VIPER ROOM with his own band!!!}. More importantly PAUL SCHRADER has come in. For the uninformed {namely YOU, Dearest D.!!}, PAUL is the famous screenwriter of TAXI DRIVER {CIRCA 1976}, CAT PEOPLE {CIRCA 1982}, RAGING BULL {CIRCA 1980}, etalia. He’s casting an ELMORE LEONARD movie and gave me his card! Interestingly, PAUL is married to the warpy, wonderful actress MARY BETH HURT, who shined in THE WORLD ACCORDING TO GARP {CIRCA 1982} and recently limned JEAN SEBERG.

My life is very full!

STATEMENT OF PURPOSE AND INTENT

To change my professional name from KIM GIRARD to KIV GIRAUX {pronounced Juh-ROE}.

Goodbye, Columbus

TO: SHARKEE@CLS.OHIO-STATE.EDU (STOCKER VIDRA)

FROM: DOLPH@AOL.COM (KATHERINE GROSSECK)

…consolation calls all week for not getting Oscar-nodded. Thank God for the WGA and Spirit awards, they’re the ones that count (so I keep telling myself). Somehow it’s embarrassing to care but less so than pretending I don’t. One day (hopefully), I’ll be in the who-gives-a-shit group, smack-dab where you are — when you get the MacArthur at age twenty-nine, what other group is there? You are the big genius: genus Sharkay .

Those rumors I heard about Donny were true: he’s fucking (and getting fucked by) boys, Phylliss Wolfe’s assistant, for one. You heard it here. Zowie yikes & jeepers. Gonna wind up with a rollicking case of AIDS, that kid is. So sad — not the gay thing, always had intimations of that, I liked that fearless, adventuresome thing about him — but how lost he is. Like this sad day player out of Sade (or Bret Ellis): the walking dead, just like his dad’s old movies. Fuck. Now there’s a frightening legacy.

Trying to read Proust again — still can’t get beyond the hundred-page mark and that’s so frustrating, Veed, because I really do love it. There’s definitely some weird glass ceiling thing going on (or is it the floor?). Now, listen up, says Jayne Wayne (I’m sure you know it — reminds me of the way you write)…

When we have gone to sleep with a raging toothache and are conscious of it only as of a little girl whom we attempt, time to time, to pull out of the water, or a line of Molière which we repeat incessantly to ourselves, it is a great relief to wake up—