Letters

But every letter has two times, that of its writing and that of its reading, which may be so separated, even when the post office does its job, that very little of what obtained when the writer wrote will still when the reader reads. And to the units of epistolary fictions yet a third time is added: the actual date of composition, which will not likely correspond to the letterhead date, a function more of plot or form than of history. It is not March 2, 1969: when I began this letter it was October 30, 1973: an inclement Tuesday morning in Baltimore, Maryland. The Viet Nam War was “over”; its peacemakers were honored with the Nobel Prize; the latest Arab-Israeli war, likewise “over,” had preempted our attention, even more so the “energy crisis” it occasioned, and the Watergate scandals and presidential-impeachment moves — from which neither of those other crises perfectly diverted us. The campuses were quiet; the peacetime draft had ended; détente had been declared with Russia and proposed with China — unthinkable in 1969!—but the American defense budget was more enormous than ever. In Northern Ireland the terrorism continued; the generals had taken over in Greece and Chile, and Juan Peron was back in Argentina; Sirhan Sirhan and James Earl Ray were still in jail, joined by Charles Manson and Lieutenant Galley of the My Lai massacre. The Apollo space program was finished; there would not likely be another human being on the moon in this century. We were anticipating the arrival of the newly discovered comet Kohoutek, which promised to be the most spectacular sight in the sky for many decades. Meanwhile the U.S. Supreme Court had struck down all antiabortion laws but retreated from its liberal position on pornography, and the retrials of the Chicago Seven had begun. The prime interest rate was up to 10 %, the Dow-Jones Industrial Average, after a bad year, up to 980, first-class postage up to eight cents an ounce. Airport security measures had virtually eliminated skyjacking except by Palestinian terrorists; the “fuel shortage,” in turn, was occasioning the elimination of many airline flights. Plans for the 1976 U.S. Bicentennial were floundering.

Now it’s not 10/30/73 any longer, either. In the time between my first setting down “March 2, 1969” and now, “now” has become January 1974. Nixon won’t go away; neither will the “energy crisis” or inflation-plus-recession or the dreadfulnesses of nations and their ongoing history. The other astronomical flop, Kohoutek, will, to return in 75,000 years, as may we all. By the time I reach Yours Truly…

The plan of LETTERS calls for a second Letter to the Reader at the end of the manuscript, by when what I’ve “now” recorded will seem already as remote as “March 2, 1969.” By the time LETTERS is in print, ditto for what shall be recorded in that final letter. And — to come at last to the last of a letter’s times — by the time your eyes, Reader, review these epistolary fictive a’s-to-z’s, the “United States of America” may be setting about its Tri- or Quadricentennial, or be still floundering through its Bi-, or be a mere memory (may it have become again, in that case, like the first half of one’s life, at least a pleasant memory). Its citizens and the planet’s, not excepting yourself and me, may all be mainly just a few years older. Or perhaps you’re yet to have been conceived, and by the “now” your eyes read now, every person now alive upon the earth will be no longer, most certainly not excepting

Yours truly,

I: The Author to Whom It May Concern. Three concentric dreams of waking.

3/9/69: I woke half tranced, understanding where I was but not at once who, or why I was there, or for how long I’d slept. By the sun — and my watch, when I thought to check it — it was yet midsummer midafternoon, a few hours into Cancer, hotter and hazier than when I’d dozed off. The slack tide had turned, was just commencing its second flow; but the marsh was still in full siesta, breathless. Two turkey buzzards circled high over a stand of loblolly pines across the creek from those in whose steaming shade I lay. The only other sign of life, besides the silent files of spartina grass, was the hum of millions upon millions of insects — assassin flies, arthropods, bees above all, and beetles, dragonflies, mosquitoes — going about their business, which, in the case of one Aedes sollicitans, involved drawing blood from the back of my right hand until I killed her.