". . . I am only familiar with my dreams, I can see only that part most immediately infront of me, and I have no idea how that relates to the rest. When I open a book I know where I am, which is restful." (Jackson, broken accents -- you)
Shelly (or Mary or "Herself" -- whichever of you receives this letter first),
Everything here is just fine. The weather is finally clearing up and it looks like we are in for a beautiful, and long-overdue spring. I hope all is well by you, and that you are experiencing the same.
But on to the more abstract. The last time we were in contact you made specific mention of dreams. You have no idea how excited I was upon learning of your interest in the employment of the imagery of the unconscious as a means through which you can tell Your (in the collective sense) story/ies. I often find myself comparing the unfolding of events to be somewhat detached and uneexplainable. It pleases me to no end to hear that I am not alone. You open your book and find comfort there. This is true with mine as well. There is a safety in being able to pinpoint my exact location on a physical page. But I must admitt that there is a certain feeling that I can not fully describeat overwhelms me when diving into a book of a different nature. It is a sense of awe, I suppose -- a sheltered bewilderment. It is like that feeling of being completely lost, and yet be entirely okay with that fact. I am anxious to wander through your narrative with nothing to guide me, but all the while knowing that I can always find my way out. Like you say, I can only see what is right in front of me, and I can only remember what I just came from. "I am a discontinuous trace" that has run through your maze, and I have mad it out. I have not come even close to turning all of your corners, but I have made it nonetheless taking one story with me. Now I am going to try and extract another. I'll speak to you soon.
"I am like you in many ways. My introductory paragraph comes at the beginning and I have a good head on my shoulders."
I'll give you the good head on your shoulders bit, Shelly/Mary/Herself, but I can not whole heartedly agree on the placement of "our" intro paragraphs. Whereas I am sure we would all like to believe that our preparative statements can be found at the forefront of our work and our selves, the whole idea seems very unlikely when considering the extremely fluid discourse in which we both now operate. How can I start at your beginning if I am unable to even discern where exactly that is? Are you trying to tell me that everything is introductory-- that every time I uncover a new morsel of information it can serve as a mere component of your primary construction? I thought I knew you better than that. Perhaps I don't.
I would not concern myseld with your wholeness, if I were you. I would advise the same to your monster. If we were all complete, we would all be dull. It is a matter of finding your specific parts and putting it all together. And if you don't want to do it, let us do it. And besides, Jennifer's leg lying next to Bronwyn's foot on the flagstone of Frankenstein's workshop very well may be able to kick anyone's butt. You just have to make them do it.
More on this later. It was a busy day at work today.