from Dead Letter Game

Nearing play time. The pressure’s on to produce (I blame only myself for that) but in a different, perhaps reformed, way.

But why different? What reform? I’ve been close to it for a while now, this hesitation to name the game for what it is: the issue, I mean, is hesitation, deferring the inevitable, equipment assessment as convenient distraction.

But all is not lost: imagine vital alliances between the given record (these entries, as proceedings) and future endeavors perceived as fresh and unmarked, untainted. Maybe equipment has been there (available, ready) all along, and I have simply failed to pick it up and use it. More hesitation, distraction.

The eyes of the dead stare out while closed lids shield us from that eventuality. These letters, a kind of shielding disguised as whimsy, preclude their own outcome. That’s the best I can do, I’m afraid, to describe how the very act of playing can be its own equipment, its own arsenal against all forms of invasion, corruption, and competition (those life strategies requiring tactical responses).

Let’s put it this way, in italics: the letter-writer revisits his own letters with a healthier attitude. I have “come out in the wash,” so to speak, and am therefore equipped, i.e. ready, for anything.