Jack of Hearts

My dear _______,

As may be obvious by now, Jack feels he must explain, though an explanation may be entirely gratuitous -- too much, as it were... As may be obvious by now, though perhaps not, as jack-ego may have not allowed this to show through, Jack is something of a hopeless – which is to say beyond belief, beyond therapy or any other form of helpfulness, perhaps just hopeless – romantic – which is to say Jack is, emotionally, mostly in a daydream or a nightmare, or some sort of cinematic play. At least what can be said in all of this is that Jack is aware of ‘this’... And, so hyper-sensitive to it. Writing, waxing as he goes. Improvising, no -- riffing. Nothing of ‘this’ is spontaneous; rather, it is the contrivance of it all that forms the block, the wall, the never-ending interruption of feeling, once felt.

For too long now Jack has been a nomad, a hopeless, hapless wanderer. Job to job, place to place, person to person... And, Jack chalks some of ‘this’ up to that. Jack places the call. ‘This’ is not a problem in itself -- it is a symptom. One could reason this as such, and Jack does – the hopeless nomad has a lack of time. This is where lack becomes jack, becomes Jack. The nomad is the perpetual gleaner – finding what works best, what works most, in the moment... Finding, forging forgetting. Amongst the rubble of the immediate, the temporary, the moment that forms the “Jack is here now”, finding, forging, forgetting what could be construed as simply convenient. To a certain degree this may be true, and Jack is certain you will find Jack mad in this, but at another level there is only sincerity, and longing for a longer time –to know, to be, to rest... pour obtenir... pour savoir... plus de temps... pour Jack à reposer... Jack's French is bad, so Jack apologizes.

Jack stops short.
And become tiresome.
Jack stops short.
And remain mysterious.
Jack stops short.
And continues lost.
Jack stops short while jack continues.
Jack stops short of saying anything.
Jack stops short of risk.
Jack stops.
So, jack continues.

Neutrality is nothingness without being, so Jack is ghost. An apparition, aberration. A mistake. A mirror, broken, funhouse, again ... selfless, elseless, otherless. A mirror, a window, tinted, reflective. Self...ish/less... Jack no longer knows.

Three memories:
1. Her friends were socialites, so Jack was kept a secret.
2. Her life was too complex and she thought Jack simple.
3. There could never have been a “we,” an “us” beyond Jack's mentioning.

When atmospheric pressure is lower than the internal pressure of a tree, sap flows, bleeds from the cut. Which, explains this sorry Jack of Hearts. Predicting short-circuits, the goodbyes and farewells; the lack of will, and concern for what is fair. Time, timeless, less time... Still, Jack wonders who, really, wishes that Jack fare well... So soon forgotten.

Jack daydreams, follows fancy toward uncertain ends ... Imagining a future as if determined ... By want, by will, by way... Jack doesn’t forget, and so imagines a future with the world, gleaned; a future with the fantastic. Imagines... Jack sees the future in a broken crystal ball, at the facets edge, merging ‘this’ with that. Jack sees nothing but what can be, in the mind’s eye – the impossible... The indescribable fabula of the imagination fills his time, here and there.
So, jack continues.

Love?
Jack