Letters of Not Lite

Copyright

The Friday Project

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

77–85 Fulham Palace Road

Hammersmith, London W6 8JB

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published by The Friday Project in 2014

Copyright © Dale Shaw

Dale Shaw asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780007533107

Ebook Edition © 2014 ISBN: 9780008117214

Version: 2014-09-24

CONTENTS

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Introduction

Dr Heimlich writes to a colleague

Werner Herzog’s note to his cleaning lady

Lance Armstrong writes to a fan

Pope Benedict XVI’s handover notes

William Burroughs rewrites the swimming pool rules

A model writes to Auguste Rodin

Lou Reed writes to a television producer

James Joyce’s out of office

Orson Welles’ suggestions for The Transformers: The Movie

A letter from a wise man

A doctor writes to Lou Gehrig

Tweets from the 1965 Newport Folk Festival

A note from Alexander Graham Bell’s business manager

A publisher writes to Geoffrey Chaucer

Brian Eno’s discarded oblique strategies

A Christmas round-robin from the Freud family

Tim Berners-Lee’s World Wide Web development diary

The head of the American Lizard Lovers Association writes to Jim Morrison

Albert Einstein contacts a photographer

Brian Jones’ hopes for the Rolling Stones

A potential competition winner writes to Alfred Hitchcock

Neil Armstrong’s letter home

Letter from the table next to the Algonquin Round Table

Information to all Pizza Archipelago employees on the arrival of Van Morrison

Cormac McCarthy gives directions

Wilbur Wright writes to his brother

David Simon writes to HBO Enterprises

Charles Darwin writes to his American publisher

Anti Caligula Campaign ad

The Mark E. Smith audio guide to Ripon Cathedral

Jane Austen writes to a love rival

Captain Scott’s other last letter to his wife

An eviction notice from St Francis of Assisi’s landlord

Patti Smith’s gym application

Salvador Dali’s to do list

A benefactor contacts Baden Powell

Art Garfunkel writes to Vampire Weekend

Joan of Arc’s note to her captors

Notes for Bill Gates’ first High School reunion

Edgar Allen Poe vs. The Baltimore Sanitation Department

A lover replies to Vincent Van Gogh

Biddy Baxter writes to a viewer

Neil Young’s shopping list

Agatha Christie’s jury duty notes

Galileo gets a reply

Gandhi writes to his dry cleaner

Bo Diddley writes to his publicist

Ivan Pavlov contacts his local pet store

A letter from George Orwell’s publishers

Harold Pinter moves into greeting cards

Beatrix Potter tries to get an overdraft extension

Marie Antoinette’s prison letter

Correspondence between Warhol Superstars

Björk writes to Goldie’s parents

Andrew Lloyd Webber’s notes after the first rehearsal of Jesus Christ Superstar

A sick note from Ernest Hemingway’s mother

Björn writes to Benny

Acknowledgements

About the Publisher

Introduction

April 2014

My friends.

I can’t quite remember why I decided to write a note purportedly from cult German film director Werner Herzog to his fictional cleaning lady. I know where I was: in the kitchen of my flat in Walthamstow, which I was eventually driven out of by an upstairs neighbour with an insatiable love of Speed Garage and lengthy Call of Duty sessions … but that’s another introduction entirely.

Being able to correctly identify the inspiration and mechanics involved in the moment of that letter’s construction would have come in handy when I had to write a book full of similar material (spoiler alert: It’s this book). But anyway, I couldn’t. Though the moment definitely happened, because I wrote the letter, had it rejected by someone, felt a bit sad, then wisely sent it to Sabotage Times, where it quickly ‘went viral’, as I believe the young people say. I had no idea people are as enamoured of Herzog as I am, but it seems the masses can’t get enough of that crazy Bavarian and his delightful antics.

What baffled me most was the volume of readers who thought it was actually written by next to it.

It seemed sensible to try again, so I went on to write ludicrous missives from other figures I have a healthy obsession with, including Mark E. Smith, Brian Eno, George Orwell, Neil Young and more Brian Eno (I love Brian Eno). Soon, I had unwittingly developed into, as writer Joel Morris put it, ‘the BBC4 version of Mike Yarwood’.

However, though a number of these collected letters have been seen before, circulating around the darker reaches of the internet, most are shiny and new. A few didn’t make the cut due to legal issues or for reasons of baffling obscurity. You can find some of these at lettersofnot.com, where you can also send your complaints and gift baskets.

A hearty thanks to everyone included in the book who decided not to sue me. You are good eggs. To the others – see you in court.

Dale Shaw

P.S. Full disclosure – I was listening to Ram by Paul McCartney as I wrote this.

Dr Heimlich’s note to a colleague

Howard,

I’ve had a great new idea for another manoeuvre. This one can be used to pick up women. Pop by the office and I’ll show you how it works.

Henry

Werner Herzog’s note to his cleaning lady

Rosalina. Woman.

You constantly revile me with your singular lack of vision. Be aware, there is an essential truth and beauty in all things. From the death throes of a speared gazelle to the damaged smile of a freeway homeless. But that does not mean that the invisibility of something implies its lack of being. Though simpleton babies foolishly believe the person before them vanishes when they cover their eyes during a hateful game of peek-a-boo, this is a fallacy. And so it is that the unseen dusty build up that accumulates behind the DVD shelves in the rumpus room exists also. This is unacceptable.

I will tell you this, Rosalina, not as a taunt or a threat but as an evocation of joy. The joy of nothingness, the joy of the real. I want you to be real in everything you do. If you cannot be real, then a semblance of reality must be maintained. A real semblance of the fake real, or ‘real’. I have conquered volcanoes and visited the bitter depths of the earth’s oceans. Nothing I have witnessed, from lava to crustacean, assailed me liked the caked debris haunting that small plastic soap hammock in the smaller of the bathrooms. Nausea is not a sufficient word. In this regard, you are not being real.

Now we must turn to the horrors of nature. I am afraid this is inevitable. Nature is not something to be coddled and accepted and held to your bosom like a wounded snake. Tell me, what was there before you were born? What do you remember? That is nature. Nature is a void. An emptiness. A vacuum. And speaking of vacuum, I am not sure you’re using the retractable nozzle correctly or applying the ‘full weft’ setting when attending to the lush carpets of the den. I found some dander there.

I have only listened to two songs in my entire life. One was an aria by Wagner that I played compulsively from the ages of 19 to 27 at least 60 times a day until the local townsfolk drove me from my dwelling using rudimentary pitchforks and blazing torches. The other was Dido. Both appalled me to the point of paralysis. Every quaver was like a brickbat against my soul. Music is futile and malicious. So please, if you require entertainment while organizing the recycling, refrain from the ‘pop radio’ I was affronted by recently. May I recommend the recitation of some sharp verse. Perhaps by Goethe. Or Schiller. Or Shel Silverstein at a push.

The situation regarding spoons remains unchanged. If I see one, I will kill it. That is all. Do not fail to think that you are not the finest woman I have ever met. You are. And I am including on this list my mother and the wife of Brad Dourif (the second wife, not the one with the lip thing). Thank you for listening and sorry if parts of this note were smudged. I have been weeping.

Your money is under the guillotine.

Herzog.

Lance Armstrong writes to a fan

25th July 1999

Dear CINDY,

WOW, I mean THANKS SO MUCH for your letter. It just got me so JAZZED!!!!! I mean, just, God it was AWESOME, so so AWESOME and YES! I do get tired sometimes after a race, but then it makes me feel so ALIVE you know? Do you? YOU KNOW? I just feel GREAT! I’ve never felt so GREAT!!

But thank you for asking me that and THANK YOU SO MUCH for the gift. I LOVED the texture of it so much and the way it felt against my skin that I may HAVE slightly DESTROYED it by stroking it so hard and SO MUCH. I stroked it to pieces. But I still LOVE IT! Even in PIECES!! PIECES!!

Cindy, I mean, like YES!!! You are the BEST!!! I could just cycle from here in Colorado over to you in New Jersey RIGHT NOW! Because I am so JAZZED that you wrote to me.

Oh man, you hear that? Oh man, I feel a bit weird. OK, I better go outside CINDY!!

You RULES!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Lance (JAZZED)

Pope Benedict XVI’s handover notes

To his Divine Holiness the Bishop of Rome, Vicar of Jesus Christ, Successor of the Prince of the Apostles, Supreme Pontiff of the Universal Church, Primate of Italy, Archbishop and Metropolitan of the Roman Province, Sovereign of the Vatican City State, Servant of the servants of God.

Francis,

Buddy, I hope you like shitstorms – because your life just became one.

OK, the van’s about to come and pick up my stuff, so I’m jotting this down quickly …

Get your order in now for some new vestments. Not tomorrow, NOW. I’d expected some fresh ones to be waiting for me when I started, but all I found was an empty closet. And that stuff takes ages to get made up. I’ve left you a couple of spares in the closet by the vestibule. You’re way skinnier than me (you know you are!) but they’ll do in a pinch. The cleaner comes on Thursday mornings and you do not want to be there when she comes. She always wants something blessed. There seems to be a never-ending amount of paraphernalia. She tried to get me to bless one of those mini Pac-Man games; you know, the hand-held ones, for her grandson. I was like, ‘I can bless that thing all day, but it’s still lame. Unless he’s been in a coma since 1989.’ I didn’t actually say it, but y’know. You’ll get stuck with her all morning if you don’t run off and hide somewhere.

The window you have to wave out of is in the little study bit. You might know that already but no one told me. First Sunday I was wandering around like Our Saviour in the Wilderness trying to find it. And the Cardinals aren’t a bit of use. Great at ring kissing, lousy at directions.

Nuns. Get used to them. They are everywhere, all the time. If you need some ‘alone time’ lock the door. They have special powers or something and just appear when you least expect it. And they don’t say anything, they just stare at you. It’s creepy.

You’re going to be asked a lot of questions about Dan Brown. Do yourself a favour, read The Da Vinci Code. I know, I know, you thought your trials were over and now you’d be on easy street. But honestly, every state function, visit overseas and post-Mass warm down there will be endless theories about it. People think they’re being cute asking you about it. They are not. And you’ll have to watch the movie too I’m afraid. It’s different. You can probably skip Angels and Demons. You can thank me later. The password for the PC in the office is BONO_101. Don’t ask me why, it was that when I arrived. The IT department might have changed it, in which case good luck. It’s easier changing water into wine than getting an answer from those guys. You need vouchers to use the canteen; I left a few in the desk drawer. God knows why they still use that system. I tried to get it changed – you’d think I was converting to Judaism! The uproar! So anyway, it sucks, but there you are. Think that’s it. No idea where the keys to the Popemobile are. I never knew and no one would tell me. HR should be in touch about your pass. Though they’ve probably sent you an email about it, which you can’t access without your pass, as I found out to my cost. And they tell you that you can’t take your picture again if the first one is terrible, but you can, I promise you. OK, have a blast! Drop me a line when you’re settled.

Benedict P.S. A few people will probably ask if you shit in the woods as well. Just ignore them.

William Burroughs rewrites the swimming pool rules

No Running – Unless it’s shit running down good wholesome American legs, forming oily pools of thunder down amongst dark gray tunnels of hopeless, stubborn rectitude.

No Pushing – Because no one likes the pusherman, firing beautiful dreams into dead undersea veins, charred inside like the mind of his degraded and decadent client. His gray, invisible specter that infects his pleasure on the dullest and the damned.

No Acrobatics or Gymnastics – Or the stacking of young malleable flesh on flesh, building a queer ladder to the stars, leading to my waking life, where I sit totally alone.

No Shouting – You never want to attract the attention of the Controller, lest he lets the drip-drip of technological assassination, decontrolling him or herself from some unspecified central point that haunts the horizon like some blood blister left too long to rot.

No Ducking – Certainly not ducking the empty smell of many years, tied into the deviance that can only come through boredom and the parasitic craving that must be fed though a paranoiac insanity of hopelessness.

No Petting – No vetting, no fretting, no bedwetting. Cut off all biological necessity, it will only make you hard and unsound. Sadistic faces beaten with spiritual famine, hell bouncing off the walls, sickness welcomed like a damaged organism.

No Bombing – We need to suffer to show that we are alive and feel that needless, dead-eyed pollution that atrophies and seals off the seductions of the skull.

No Swimming in the Diving Area – Hanging off the board with our ghost fingers, the pink blood filters releasing the odor below you, waiting for you to drop. Above you your enemies circle, waiting to control, like a stuffed animal with glazed eyes bearing down from the wall of a gentleman’s club. Below a pool of savage, distended insects all with the face of a burnt nun.

No Smoking – You enter the Smoke Shop and then you see them. Princes of the spirit, arbiters of pang, bureaucrats who equivocate the past, judges who pass sentence on your future, Gods of Zogoth with fiery temples and split, bitter eyes, doctors turning disease into customary abuse, sick children playing with the larvae at their feet, scientists infecting that larvae, the shrill crone beating you for the rent, the bland, majestic soothsayers tearing up your dreams of death and the stiff, sharp seductress squatting over you with their jutting bones and insect ecstasy. Trunk rental available at the snack bar.

A model writes to Auguste Rodin

Dear Monsieur Rodin,

This is the lady who recently posed at your studio for your sculpture ‘The Kiss’. Do you happen to have the name of the other model that posed with me? I have some sort of blister that has appeared on my upper lip and I think I may need to get in touch with him.

Warmest regards,

Sophia

Lou Reed writes to a television producer

8th March 1975

Hey Barry, Barry.

Great meeting you at Andy’s the other week. You said if I had any ideas for the TV I should drop you a line. Well, I was just sitting here at Max’s Kansas City with some friends and we came up with a dynamite idea for a show. Sorry for writing this on bar napkins, wanted to get this down while it was still fresh in my head.

So, here’s the idea – BLADIAC!

I play a hard-bitten New York Cop in a leather jacket called Lou Bladiac who investigates New Wave crimes in the music industry. Bladiac don’t take no shit and plays by his own rules, while also playing some sweet guitar licks.

You know I did ‘Walk on the Wild Side’? So I know quite a bit about the noir stuff and the dark side of life. Well, imagine that song in a TV cop show format. And get this, at the end of each show Bladiac can sing a song about the investigation (which I’ll write and perform). Something like ‘It was the drummer who did it / he just went ahead and did it …’ You see, I just came up with that off the cuff. Imagine how great it would be if I’d put some thought into it. Wait … what … what? Hold on Barry, someone’s shouting at me … what? Yeah, I said about the song …

Sorry Barry, so yeah. And Bladiac is handy with a blade, hence his name. That’s his main weapon in fighting crime, he uses a switchblade. He don’t kill people, just stabs them up a bit before arresting them.

What? Hold on, Rachel’s yelling something. No, we said we weren’t having the Indian Spirit Guide. No! That’s dumb. Oh great, now he/she’s crying …

Forget all that Barry, so yeah Bladiac goes undercover and gets in with all these New Wave groups who are doing crimes or are having crimes done against them. He uses disguises and he’s a real one for the ladies. And the dudes. He has a female alter ego called Shofanna who’s completely convincing. And he has a real great car. And I mentioned the knife thing, right?

God, sure there was more to this than that. Lemme think. Bladiac. Cop. New Wave. Blade. Shofanna. Car. Song at the end. Yeah, guess that’s it.

Oh wait, guest stars! Yeah, we can get tons of guest stars and people to be in it. I can ask Andy, he loves TV. Maybe he can be the police chief or something. That would be pretty funny. Bowie can be like a snitch. No wait, Iggy can be like a snitch, maybe Bowie can be like a jewel thief or something. Then I, like, stab him up and arrest him.

What did you say? I’ll just have a gimlet. Yeah a gin one, they’re always gin. Shit, stop distracting me, I keep writing this shit down. Sorry Barry. People keep distracting me. I look really good as a cop. I’ve got shades and leather jackets, so we can save money on that. And I’m good at playing the tough guy (and the opposite in Shofanna’s case). Think this will be a total blast. Put a record out at the end of every season with all the songs I’ve sung about investigations. Bladiac! I came up with the name first.

Lou Reed

P.S. Wait, what? What was that? Oh sorry Barry, that wasn’t about you.

James Joyce’s out of office

Now, for the weekending and the weekening of the daze and the dillydallying concerning the abstagnation and the never nearlyness, the chump who chunders the pagination of the month and the moth, hovers and heaves into views notwithstanding. Oh yes it does! Trussed up in clingarounds, sandy stones scarring the soles. Banished I have ole Greggster from desked-neighbourly, suffering with his sulphurous excursions and exertions, my nasal hole burnt aron it, ironic and a tonic. Nevermore the tea totalling prowess of old Annie the pro-ess, her Queen of the Prawns and never a round brought in, but always of excepting like a bergamont and a lackspittle. A throat cut! Her sister there, is it hairyditty? A showdow not cross the kettle nor neither. Let the big forms of their bodices be hexspelled from the witchery of my headspace. Oh releaf, under a bough and bow as the branches blanche old Blanche the Blough. But the worms flashed back returned into your binbox? Contrusion puddles the poodle in your noodle, yawcrazy and wisha, wisha, wisha, clamber an ants were. Pitee thee! Petee thoo! Potty too! Mister Typhus! Him clother the dor! In his mitt and ants wer! Cry not yet! A can-on-diced man! Not just a stoutfellow but with that a nascent nearsaint, stars arc when ham-mused but in cups then inn sane. Forward go thee, to the whole inside papyr for reptilecation. His throne will hillruminate my drams, as I squander on the rox, a ail, ailing my day’s tail, ma happydermus toasting a tan, tan, tan. On retrieving, lo a casket, a basket a brisket of bonbons, desecrated with seens of palmed treens and a salty sombrero, nevermore. Bynoon, a dessert in there, hand to mouth and vice and verses, blood boils and black bowls and abasing the baldyqueen. Tails tolled of clemency and awfulas belie from Delie, with knitbrows on the counterstaff when fixings are fist repoached. Efter seems thousand yaws, in reversal my forms, but yat still the gripes limply passus. Bitter ayes on anvil, no you hold the fort, lick the Army Man, a Left Tenant or a Bomb Dadear or a Primate. Met a sternum senorita with the tickle of Madman Rosy Litre. Tack me Rosy Litre! To you shock or hunt or lacked garage. I am hell-lopped alongwith my olive skimmed sad duchess. To an isle land of Kronthos of Polmopus of Gnaccus. Netter agin to the folded card bored of greeting

What now for yew? A nude job of learning?

Hold your applause! Wake until the envy lopes at youe scythe. The digdeep into the pocketfold and resurrect the lint laden current see of Kween and co. No, no, no. Strip those from your lobes, the boy is bound to trav well. Be symbthos for this deviated friend. A weigh Iago. Axe Linda no mention be four, be fine, be leave and takes your sweetgum in baresocked supernauts. When tireds reassemble forty times from now then I shall satagin. Be bound and bald to paint aunts or dream and more from commune cayun lines cut. A bottled massage sea perhaps? Never.