They find flaws and they “Kraaaw! Kraaaaaw! KraaaAAW!” with each other and at me.
Dear June, the flying people with the big ideas have come back to my home again. They’re not inside yet. They’re at the windows and doors, the chimneys and the gaps in the slates. They’re too weak to get in right now. Nevertheless it remains unpleasant to watch them, it’s doubly unpleasant to hear them.
They shit on the windowsill, and then they eat their own shit. Then they grin because their own shit is also their own, their best idea, of what ideas are. They express their hateful ideas with louder voices than I, in my current state of flux, am able to express mine. Their constant, underlying threat of violence is apparent to me. I spend most of my time trying to be inconspicuous.
They are winter creatures. They flap their huge, in relation to their body size, grey speckled wings. They land on the roof, into the wall ivy, onto the lawns – front and back – and onto the windowsills. Then they wait until I take a telephone call or I speak one of my emails out loud into the computer.
They find flaws and they “Kraaaw! Kraaaaaw! KraaaAAW!” with each other and at me. I can hear them through the triple glazing that you had installed last year at your own expense (thanking you as always).
They take it in turns to peck at the tawdry, mundane details of my life and work. In so doing they miss the long view, the divine. They only want what they want. There’s no reasoning with them. I’ve tried to learn their filthy language but I’m just too weak (you know me).
They only ever ask the questions that they think they have the answers to. They have no curiosity. They are shouting and screaming and they are violence machines, physical and otherwise. They want to exsanguinate me, I know it. They are terrified of death because the afterlife is waiting to judge them. I know this. I say my prayers and get answers, that’s how. The priest agrees with me in the confessional, that’s how I know it. He gives me acts of contrition, so it must be true.
Holy Mary, Mother of God,
pray for us sinners,
now and at the hour of our death.
Amen.
There is no peace for them, so there must be no peace for anybody. That’s their reasoning. I just know it and the priests agree. It seems as if there’s a new priest every week nowadays don’t you think? So, they are back at the windowsill, my windowsill and they are trying to get it and scream at me. Not the priests, you understand. Just the flying people.
Those glorious headphones you bought me last season (thanking you) because I knew that I couldn’t take another god-knows how long of their interminable shrieking are not working. Please can you seek out more, you are so good with that kind of thing and I am awful. I get confused, you know that.
I yearn for the good times, the better times at least. The summer months when they’re gone. Well, those times are for higher, more exhilarating activities. I would love a holiday. A winter holiday in the warm. Maybe they won’t follow. Could you, would you look into this, dear June. Dear sister-wife?
You, I know, have counselled me against what you call my whimsies, using parables and fairy tales, that I have to admit were too wearing for me to have paid attention to. I love you so for trying. I love you with what is left to me of my heart and soul. Please come and visit me soon.
Our ancestors built this house to expand our family and its interests in every way possible not to hoist shutters or hang extramural doors (Darling June, is ‘extramural’ the correct word? I no longer understand these things). My ancestors did this because of the decades of the bureaucracies and citizens and locals
By the way, the irony of raising barriers and engineering locks of more and more intricate constructions to ensure or at least prolong our freedoms is not lost on me. I detest having to do it and, had I any remaining strength, I would. However, that is the case. Can you please talk to your handyman for me. As you know I am too shy. I will arrange for a week away at the coast while they work. I’m sure the flying people will not bother a simple, working man.
I just wish more of our group, our clan, family, click, clique, our sort of people would do more to help. I really do.
I must close now because they’re back again. The flying people. They’ve come to mock me and stab at my words and feelings and my memories are ragged. Aside from you, dearest June, my family is of no practical use. As you are aware we do not talk to each other because it causes us or has the potential to cause us unnecessary pain and suffering.
They’re on my windowsill now, upstairs. Tapping and crashing at the fragile glass. My bedroom is no good any more. I am sure that they have got into the house downstairs. Cook has left the door open. Deliberately. I know it. The filthy woman!
Oh, my dearest June, please, please as you promised you would, please come and rescue me from their Kaaaaw Kaaaaw Kaaaaawing! Their incessant criticisms.
Your loving brother-husband, your servant and worshipper,
Jean Paul
