(Erika wrote:)

Amazing!! To be read again & again!!

* * * * *

ah, shucks!

In Freedom,
Frank Moore

Sorry, I had to cut it short and scant and run to read the last few chapters at the Temescal. It is called life, outside of this novel and this extraordinary supernatural modality of a maze. But I am back with Little Fellah and my left hand Mike [the calm, level headed, smooth dude] and my right hand Ike [the high-strung, nervous, shy worrywart]… And other night-birds and other indigenous productions of this inner sandy pleasure building subversion of arousing desire and stretched out floating. Did you miss me? This novel is making the rounds at the stand-up joints, crack jokes that promise that you may come with little bells chiming.

Well, Mike always has had a special relationship with Little Fellah. Yep, I am left handed. Mike always has rubbed Little Fellah the right way… Well, rubbing raw, the salt of the loneliness sweat streamed down into red sores, mixed with sulphur pleasure. Paul Anka, Ricky Nelson, and Fabian stared down from the TEEN BEAT posters on my walls as I first discovered beating the meat after they pulled down my balls. I was thirteen in Germany. I was listening to better music on Radio Luxemburg. But those lame posters were all I could get Mom to put up. I was sneaking peaks at PLAYMATES OF PLAYBOY. But teen-age idols watched Mike rub blisters on Little Fellah for the first-nighter! After a time I learned the trick of one knee push ups when I was lying on my side, rubbing Little fellah on the cool Sheets of the bed. Much more accommodating and warm juicy. But that only worked when I was lying on my side. When I was lying on my back, it was Mike’s job! Mom Connie never commented about Little Fellah’s red blisters or the dry wrinkled stains on my pajamas and on my Sheets… Or about my wailing with the radio Luxemburg! But I wonder how I got the German maid to show me her tits in my bedroom. I couldn’t even speak German… In fact, I couldn’t even talk. Oh, those damn mysteries of art! She went on to rip us off! These symptoms now can invade the bed much more zippy and warm and moist farts and feeling rather intense.

I never understood the fad of jacking off. To me it was always filling hunger with Spam. I have not jerk off in over thirty, forty years. That doesn’t mean Mike and Little Fellah don’t have a special relationship together. Mike always is rubbing aroused smiling ah yes warm pleasure… However it is everywhere everyday activities deep magic signified nothing sexual, just playing feeling goodly dimensions of calmly happy, going nowhere, just in a state of elation. Feeling goodly happy. But Mike is rubbing aroused within me. It is not going within you, being curious about your ideas. It is not melting away with another soft dreaminess into actual Songs on whims exploring journey together, both electric spark from you and kinky live on communes. So it is a cool beer on a hot cooking-range. I have expectations without pictures and churches and the symptoms of human desires. I enjoy a beer, enjoy Mike rubbing Little Fellah, like enjoying purely primitive watching television. But there’s much more zippy and warm and tender conscience in my bedroom, lumber-room and valuable young lady endowed with great relish. Why settle for being so alone for several centuries? I can’t give up! I always think what if the next time would be the time everything would have open up for me if I had just tried again. So I kept trying, kept erasing my comfort zones of dullish death-bed of canned life. I just couldn’t live with that unknowing about the next step not taken into uncomfortable eddies of possibilities. That always motivated me. I never was ambitious. But I always was self-moving and motivated. When things got too comfortable, fragile I always was ready to go into adventures which allowed free movement of the elements. I always tried to include other people in the unknown freedom, intimacy and other indigenous productions of possibilities. Fragile comfy zones are prisons of isolation… Not really comfortable at all. I’m looking for going outside and inside pleasure of deep contact with you, stretching, risking, expanding, twisting into flexibility, melting into cozy little bed-n-breakfast of delights with you. I am not talking about macho risking to prove something, for power Tools ego acting in to dangers with no context. That is just as fragile as comfort zones of dullish death-bed existence. I don’t try to digest whether I feel comfortable, lucky. I assume I’m eager abundance and motivated to communicate through language of willingness to go into anything with you, stretching both of us into cozy little green Caves of Lila, working anything with you, stretching into flexibility, melting into one another. Sometimes lying hidden under ordinary conditions shipwrecks, sometimes standing up straight, almost unconscious unexpected dexterity of deep meaning… Physically this is mind-blowing mind-expanding strange sexual emotion with you during my childhood experience. This is a live comfort, knowing humor
and no particular answers because we are together. This comfort is a jamming state of deep magic signified the velvet ledge of rock solemn injunction of you and me, babe! Who would be surprise that we are still going higher? I assume things will work out. I have always gone out to meet people with hearts or whatever, to meet life with opened arms and smile or screaming or whatever… But legs wide apart! Getting hurt is a part of life… But avoiding life is death without living! And that is hell! I never have gone to hell personally! Getting hurt, failing, getting lost all build your immune system, your ability to cope and adapt… To play with life, knit a quilt of warm diversity. All of this is outside of comfort zones. This molten clay of fleshy flexibility is much more zippy dependable and inclusive cozy than rigid perpendicular fragile gated comfort zones in which you have to be always checking if you are still inside and no particular exertion of boxes of eroticism, whatever between pieces of coral has come to threaten to commit suicide.

I have always been playing with outside life, communicated I wanted and needed to be with people on the outside, deep inside. I was always basically a happy person, even when I was isolated and looking intently into the neighborhood of the everyday activities which I was outside of. I always tried to include myself, projected joy of living. Even when I was five, when the doctors were still saying I had no intelligence and should be put in to a institution and be forgotten, my being happy, engaged with people at the day-school, even when I couldn’t talk, made it obvious to the teachers, etc, that the doctors were wrong. This happiness, playing with life, reaching outside of myself to land people in to relating with me directly always has saved me. Wonder who were /are lost in the human warehouses of all kinds if someone like me escaped!

There is no modest humble unassuming bone in my body! Physically this happiness appeared to have always been playing in me, doing something right! Also there is no modest shy bone in my body either! Perhaps you have not notice! Maybe this is why I rub some surprises into some people the vulgar way. I never understood modesty of any kind. I understand real humbleness of being always amazed and awe-struck by everything in life. But when somebody writes IN MY HUMBLE OPINION, humble ain’t the reality that’s going on. As you can tell, my opinions are never humble pie. Taste them up deeply with opened arms and smile as I write this down on you, expanding twisting into intimacy. I always put myself outside waiting actively for people to play with me directly sitting behind the chess board at the teen club waiting for someone who would play, Jerry my eight year Younger brother sitting beside me ready to move my men as I directed him. I don’t know how I directed him. After all, Jerry didn’t know how each piece moved… And I communicated with him by head nods, grunts, smiles to get whatever across. When there was nobody to play chess with, I just people watched, listening, overhearing. This was my acting training. This was my period of time for preparing, Reading everything, a wide range of useless information and shit, from Mike Hammer, history, biography, how to put people in to trances, philosophies, Mark Twain, sci-fi, acting and directing theories, white magic [creativity], film editing, political manifestos, and everything else for no obvious reason. Keep in mind, growing up I had THE GIANT GOLDEN BOOK OF NATURAL HISTORY that I could turn Pages by myself. So I did for hours. Then THE SEARS CATALOG. Then the dictionary. Then the encyclopedia. Yes, I was always preparing for when I could get out into the world and be with people, not just watching nude legs under swirling dresses undulating feverish wakeful to trances dancing at the teen club sock hop to the house band BILL HAILEY AND HIS COMETS. I erase the comfort zones of dullish death-bed existence and getting money on running aground, bringing maximum breadth of breast of natural curiosities not boxed in by holding on to pictures or expectations, without checking and getting so frightened to play in low paying gigs. I just love you dearly to the core of my duet with life! Reaching finally the screaming end of this chapter, I just couldn’t live with those horrid bits of hay and oats every night and often bands play better hopefully we will be proud to carry the homeless and everything else for no obvious reason!

In Freedom,
Frank Moore