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re: Email

Babe,

You’re still running?

We with back yards or apartments may be happy to pay the price that the wild extracts. Maybe like how we might be willing to pay 6 USD for a coffee in Brooklyn. The same coffee could cost a dollar in Mississippi or cost a season’s work in Ethiopia.

Do you think you will finish your book? Bookstores are exactly what you describe. I guess you have to write for your own evolution and not for the store. I don’t know. There’s a reason no one’s asked me what they should write for.

Since I last heard from you I’ve done very little other than spend or earn money. I paid someone 200 USD to clean my car today. It was nice. I wonder what else people will clean for money. I asked a priest but didn’t get a straight answer

Send me the manuscript before you destroy it or bury it, if you do. Otherwise send a link.

-G

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email to Gordon 03/01/21

Flanders,

I was going to tell you I bought ribbon for my Olympia, but I couldn’t remember the word “ribbon”. A typewriter is such an incongruous concept.

I began a writing project in late December. Perhaps you will come across it one day and say, the author is a friend of mine. Or it will be a book someone will leave behind in a hotel room. Or a public toilet. Do you feel depressed and exhilarated in bookstores like I do? What arrogance it is to write and expect to be published.

I am back up north. There are trails behind my house that lead straight into the woods and up the hills. It has not rained in months. The ground is dry and loose. Dust has settled on the trees. When I step out for a run, I wonder if I’ll see ash instead of green. If the farmers torched their plantations in the night— and consumed the surrounding woods in the process. They used to clear the fields in February, but now they begin as early as December.

Yesterday I ran fast. My feet intimate with the rocky terrain. I was a wolf scampering up and down the hills. When I got home, I noticed the cuts on my feet. The trail has all things that bite. But what gets me most often are thorns and roots.

The wild exacts a price. And we’re happy to pay, aren’t we?

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