19.12.2011

Dear Koo

I'm writing you in the event that you fail to turn up tomorrow. 

Or that I've sought Antony Hegarty's advice and become a bird.

Either way, this letter or our meeting is deemed to cause us sorrow.

Well, I can't help that; one can't erase the pain contained in such sad words.

You see, Koo, I'm a doctor, not a banker, I don't do misery well.

For misery, like money, must end itself, not be an end in itself.

Wiser be the fool on the hill than the tool of the fool on the till !

And this fool, my friend, has in the end to address the state of your health.

Is it better to be told by mistake that one has a year to live?

Than to be told unerringly that one has only 6 months to live?

I'm reassured by this thought: Such bleakness won't be so out of the blue.

I mean, you've been trying to kill yourself for as long as I've known you. . . .

We can't say if your condition is mental or physical, tis true.

But it may be lyrically poetic, precisely syllabic too.

Thus as I aim to feel what you feel, so my words will breathe as yours breathe.

(Although, in times of respite, sounds ripe for the damned too easily become sound bites for the dumb, where we have to guard against the oversimplification of Form telling Content to fuck itself, or Content dragging Form along by its jackboot straps, and instead ensure a true and blissful union twixt them Both.)

So my words can breathe as yours do but only whilst we do still draw breath.

And there, my friend, be life ... and death  ..  until tomorrow;  I take my leave.

The Doc