LETTERS 

M---came by to visit him. M----, who was a window into another world. The world that gave him a livelihood but ruined his imagination. All told, M--- had a good, intelligent grasp of how things work. He distrusted theory and anything not related to how things work. He accepted reality as it is, as his father had. They both had a natural mind attached to a natural hierarchy that put them in the middle somewhere. So, their role was to defend those who ran the show and keep down those who struggled from below. They had no pretense about who had power or that wealth creates opportunity. Their satisfactory answer to the world's complexity was always stated as, 'don't inhibit wealth- making, keep taxes at a minimum, cut welfare, and do what the middle-managers do so there is more pocket money. Because if there is no pocket money the people felt lousy and then the world steamrolls the people.' M---defense of corporations was always admirable and precise. It became predictable through the years and he, himself, had fallen into a terrible state of believing in every type of conspiracy available to the common mind. Through his swaggering and loud-mouthed egotism, the writer could see a good mind under it all. The writer thought M had been wounded by the world at a time before he knew him. The writer had traveled with M--- and had been taught valuable lessons about the enjoyment of life as an end itself. 'You think too much and don't risk anything,' M always told him. 'You want to write but first you must live. And many times you are afraid of your own writings. Isn't this true? Am I on target?' The writer became paranoid during these times and it was fueled by alcohol and the terrible feeling that maybe the lout was right. And the lout was still visiting him, still fascinated by conspiracy and at-edge characters from the rock world.

When M---left the writer had a long, spontaneous train of thought about the character of society. It wants to become spirit but has no substance. A formula of this type produced the feeling of weight and oppression rather than freedom. And the writer further noted in his mind that going down this road would result in the putrefaction of society and eventual collapse. For the society to rescue itself it would need to develop a completely dispassionate thought and imagination to assess itself and its relations. Then new dreams and ideals could be built on the foundation of the dispassionate view. The writer wanted to continue with the thought but felt himself pulled into ideology and history turned the television on.

Even during hapless moments like watching television the writer could not avoid certain questions. He began to understand that criticizing society from the point of view of those who have criticized it is not enough. The citizen was required to develop a transcendent view and let criticism become the dying flame on an old black stove he had cooked on in the mountains.

The writer believed that society alienated the citizens at the moment when it compelled behavior. But the great antidote to it was to transform natural energy into active forms and live them out in the light of day. He had even entertained the idea that, perhaps, society did not exist. He knew families existed and work places existed and complex assemblies of people, things, and thoughts existed. He knew the freeway existed and the city with its looming facts. And he knew his actions were judged one way or the other. So, what was society? Perhaps it was the potential of the citizens abstracted out of them and put into the environment and given motion. And the citizen then was in a race to recover what was lost in the process. And as the citizen made a mad dash to recover it he fused with the possessor of it. Ah writer, he thought, you must make a great list of types of alienation and their connection to the way the society regulates itself.

The writer finally bolted from the chair. Now I must publish, find work, get on the active side. I don't understand everything that occurs in the world. I want to be delighted by the variety in personalities. I don't want to throw my country over in a manner of speaking. I don't want to sink down into the provincial. I want nothing that is stagnant and requires me to relinquish my imagination.

Following the visit from M--- and the rush of thoughts that followed the writer had a day of total dissatisfaction. He couldn't read. He lounged in front of a writers market and imagined how his own paltry work would insinuate through the maze of publications. He felt that, all in all, he was merely an entertainer competing with much more compelling types of entertainment. All that thought and feeling for nothing!

Even William Morris and Paul Goodman were no longer sufficient to keep him buoyed.