Buried Letter Press
Cons Umer ism November December 2014
CBo n s uried ULm e r etter iP rs m e$$ Š
NOV/20 DEC14 Layout and design Matthew c. mackey
Akron, OH
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Specials
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The Fragility of Consumption by Lucy Armstrong
Strolling Downtown at Tea Time & Tomato Farm by William Doreski
The Act of Stuffing; or, a Binge-eater’s Take on Consuming Television by Ron Fields “I Have No Expectations” by Danielle French
Ms. Lovett’s Hangry Food Blog SOUFFLESH REVIEW by Robin Clark
Be Always Drunk
by Matthew C. Mackey
Acrylic on cardboard, 2014
J vandegrift
We no longer have to be patient with anything. In fact, society tells us that “novelty“ and “convenience” are synonyms for “better.” Society tells us that our very lives are better for having people, places, and things on demand. But, what we forget is that beauty is difficult. It takes patience. Instead, we sacrifice all the beauty of our lives for the immediacy of pleasure ad infintum.
Saul duluth
All over the place, from the popular culture to the propaganda system, there is constant pressure to make people feel that they are helpless, that the only role they can have is to ratify decisions and to consume. noam chomsky
J vandegrift
The Fragility of Consumption LUCY ARMSTRONG Like kindergarteners, we could look up the meaning of “consumption” and get some pithy explanation to suffice mere curiosity, but that’s not really what consumption is all about. And, it has two distinct definitions that, coincidentally, gel. Consumption first means: Tuberculosis, the consumption of the body from inside out, starting usually in the lungs and/or stomach. Consumption second means: Consumerism, buying, using, and tossing things. How then do these two quietly cohabitate in our world? I recently visited the Massillon Museum—affectionately referred to as MassMu—in Massillon, Ohio and took in the exhibit Fragile Waters that ended September 14th. It was a compilation of photographs taken by three distinct artists across the 19th, 20th, and 21st centuries: Ansel Adams, Ernest H Brooks II, and Dorothy Kerper Monnelly. Arranged in a rather water-flow-like walk through the gallery, the walls were an appropriate gray scale with clear placards, black letters explaining and labeling each featured photograph. Next to some were long quotes from either the artists themselves or from poets and philosophers. My personal favorites came from Lao Tzu appearing below. How we consume water is pretty straightforward: we drink it, we bathe in it, we play in it, and we cook with it; we find endless uses for water. But does water also consume us? The answer, of course, is yes. In the stereotypical circle of life, water does consume us. Consider the debris washed up on the shore of any given beach. Wave after wave carves, cuts, caresses the debris until it is smooth, small, and precious, suitable for display on a bookshelf. At the MassMu exhibit, the viewer finds delicacy, rage, calm, surprise, and many forms of interaction with water. Ansel Adams, inspired by Monet’s paintings of the varying shadows of the Rouen Cathedral throughout a given day, shows us his vision of Old Faithful in Yellowstone National Park in Wyoming, seen once at sunrise and then after the sun sets. What is our consumption? Being there. And Old Faithful’s? With every explosive gush into the air it consumes us and our imaginations, as well as the rocks and rock beds beneath it, like driftwood on the beach. Standing before the two
photographs, one light, one dark, we see the geyser in gray at night, in white during the day. We see. And it sees us, as Kant reasoned that beauty exists in the exchange of observations. What we see and what sees us are consumed by each other. Observation is powerful. It is also fragile, ephemeral, transitional. Why would the title of a photographic exhibit of water include in the word “Fragile”? Because anything fragile is also vulnerable, it is easily consumed. The exhibit at MassMu revealed striking photographs taken at times when the capture by the camera seems impossible to have been reached, the hallmark of great art. More of Adams’ photographs show El Capitan’s waterfall at Yosemite National Park in California from a variety of views. But each and every one of them is forceful, water conquering fragile mountain, consuming, a breath-taking moment to really be seen, not just looked at. When Monnelly shows the layers of canyon walls carved by water, I am struck by the consumption of the water to create such art so powerfully and yet with such fragility. From various western United States locations, small and large canyons possess a steady stream of fragile water that consumes stone, rock, mountain, and mesa. Again, we are consumed by the very existence of such a fragile power. Near one of Monnelly’s photographs hangs this quote from Lao Tzu: “Nothing in the world is as soft and yielding as water. Yet for dissolving the hard and inflexible, nothing can surpass it. The soft overcomes the hard; The gentle overcomes the rigid. Everyone knows this is true, but few can put it into practice.” -from the Tao Te Ching Is it any wonder that the fragile can be seen and consumed by our misuse, misinterpretation, and misunderstanding of this power of water? El capitan
Ansel adams
constellations of water
Brooks’ photographs push organics into water with gentility, force, mystery, and imagination. In his photograph titled The Year of El Niño, 2/5, Brooks gives us a subliminal; there is most certainly a face peering at us from the swirls of the ocean off the western coast of South America. Personification stands in as consumption, right there in the middle of what many scientists consider to be one of the great mysteries in weather patterns and its effect on major global events. So El Niño consumes us; we consume El Niño in the form of typhoons, monsoons, earthquakes, tornadoes, hurricanes, heavy snow, and so on down the weather list. Brooks shows us that there is most certainly a give and take of consumption between water and we two-leggeds by simply finding that small face in the waves. Nearby Brooks’ photograph titled Constellations of Water, the dichotomy is elucidated with a quote from Marie De Santis, Director of the Women’s Justice Center in San Francisco, who observes: “unlike land plants that have to get their nourishment from roots, some water plants just soak it from the sea.” In Brooks’ photograph, there is a capture between sea and sky, stars literally twinkle on the surface of the paper next to immersed images of sea plants below, known widely as types of “sea pearls.” It is an arresting view that only Brooks could capture with his artistic point of view, and then he shares it with us; we consume. As each of these visionaries gives us the grand and the glorious, the small, timid, gentle, unassuming aspects of the power and
fragility of water, I am reminded of an adage I heard long ago: “Water is such a feminine element.” Adams’ gives us grandiose and humble; Brooks gives us sea creatures and plants; Monnelly gives us what we might have never seen were it not for her lens in the canyons. The fragile water consumes. We consume the fragile water. We are the water. Henry David Thoreau once wrote: “You cannot perceive beauty but with a serene mind.” Just when we think the waterfalls, the ocean, the streams, the storms are expansive, intimidating, we find that, in fact, they are as vulnerable as we are, and we can only understand this if we calm ourselves into the same fragile state as these all-consuming elements. As I continued moving through the gallery, like a stream of water myself, I could not help but sense that beauty, that fragility, that power, that consumption. I have feared water all my life. But there it was, the serenity. I consumed it. Not by drinking, cooking, nor swimming, nor fearful imaginings, but by simple invitation, through peaceful observation, with a serene mind. I leave you with this thought, according to Lao Tzu, posted at the extraordinary Massillon Museum exhibit of Fragile Waters: “. . . when you are content to be simply yourself and don’t compare or compete, everybody will respect you.” Respect the fragile water we consume as it consumes us.
To live fully, we must learn to use things and love people, and not love things and use people. -John powell
Are these things really better than the things I already have? Or am I just trained to be dissatisfied with what I have now? Chuck Palahniuk
Strolling Downtown at Tea-Time William Doreski Light waves lavish upon you a universal notion of form. Snowmelt dapples the sidewalk. Strolling downtown at tea-time we anchor ourselves to the world with book bags, our marching step tuned to late winter robin-song. You perfect yourself with a look that stops traffic and allows us the full safety of the crosswalk. The light molds you to critique ordinary shapeless citizens
browsing the shops for objects that won’t completely shame them. I’m relieved when we relax at a small round table covered with a cheap plastic sheeting. The usual tea served in cups of plain white china absorbs some of your refractive glory— enough to render you plain as a text, readable enough for ordinary shapeless people like me to read. The snow melted so quickly today none remains heaped along the streets or mounded in the hotel parking lot. The tea,
hot and dark, expresses itself through us, as everything does, by applying its spectrum to us and receiving in return a flash of white light shocked from the mind. The shop windows shimmer. Sirens rave up and down the avenue. You look into your cup, then up
at me, and the formal distance between us gives me vertigo as I clutch the table and smile.
Tomato Farm
William Doreski At the tomato farm long shivers of irrigation ditch draw the eye to vanishing-point perspective. The bushes gloat tall and fungus-free
in ranks at least a mile long. I envy the tomato brothers’ work ethic and savory results. Would you like to tour the farm? Note the footbridges linking rows and the plank walkways to prevent footfall from compacting soil. Here’s a tool shed painted black so it won’t reflect glare and scorch nearby plants. A pump house also in matte black hulks where a ditch cuts perpendicular to feed the long parallels. You note, while stifling a little scream, the occasional human hand or foot thrust from the water. No crime scene here, only slack human carcasses donated last winter when the shelters closed
for lack of funding. Police collected the dead from the streets, and the tomato brothers offered to bury them free of charge. Look how big and rich the tomatoes have grown only eighty days after planting. You needn’t worry. They’ll taste as good as they look, and even with your overbite you’re unlikely to draw blood.
The Act of Stuffing; or, a Binge-eater’s Take on Consuming Television Ron Fields Part I: June 18, 2014 After watching last Sunday’s Game of Thrones season finale, I found myself hungry. I hadn’t been this hungry since last March, after watching the season finale of The Walking Dead. Before that, after tasting an episode of Breaking Bad, I found myself binge eating season after season of the show, falling quickly in love with Walter and Jesse and learning, like millions of viewers, to hate Skylar for some reason. After the series ending – not just the last Twinkie, but the last Twinkie that will ever be—I found myself ravenous for a sixth helping that is not going to be offered. We live in an on-demand culture, more so than we did back in the day when we wanted a hamburger, right frakking now, from the drive-up at our local chain burger joint. Back then, our cravings were quickly curtailed with food in our belly and a grin on our face; we were satisfied. But with technology, and more specifically on-demand media, our ability to be satisfied is truly tested. When the Simpsons finally leave television and dwell in re-run Hell, what will our withdrawal symptoms be like? Will the four million viewers rise up in one voice and demand a spinoff, a new season, or…. Gasp! another feature film? Will those seats-in-theaters or disgruntled TV watchers rise up and cry in one voice, Please Sir, Can I have some more? Or will it sound more like a hungry mob demanding to be served? Has Matt Groening doomed himself to lifelong servitude, cooking up new plots for his ravenous audience until he is finally called away by death or a deliberate sautant le requin? I feel even sorrier for George R.R. Martin. Already people are foaming at the mouth for another book, having just digested about 900 pages. Although I haven’t read any of his books yet, thanks to the HBO series I am now inspired to pick up a novel and read more about those dastardly Lannisters. Lannisters, who, --it just dawned on me—are far more interesting than my own family.
In fact, I think I care more about Tyrion Lannister’s fate than I do some of my cousins whose names escape me right now. Actually, I miss Tyrion. I know I won’t get to see him again until next April, when HBO once again warns us that Winter is Coming. Will The Hound die? I wait anxiously to find out. Is my cousin Amanda (haha! I remembered her name!) happy in Florida? I hope so, but I don’t derive a lot of pleasure or sadness one way or the other. What have I become? I think I’m a junkie. But instead of heroin or sex, I am addicted to stories. The instant gratification I feel from seeing Joffrey Baratheon get poisoned, the shock at the beheading of Ned Stark, the hope that Jamie Lannister and Brienne of Tarth will find love and build a family of warriors together – all of these stories fill me up but leave me hungry soon after. I want more. I want it all, and I want it now. It’s possible that our on-demand society, where I can instantly watch entire seasons of television shows online right now, is making us lose the virtue of patience. Delaying instant gratification, as preachers and psychologists remind us, helps us to savor the moment when it arrives. Think about how we should eat our food: slowly, tasting the complexity of black-eyed peas and the new flavor that emerges when a bit of your mashed potatoes and gravy mingles with the black-eyed pea juice, creating an entirely new sensation. We should slow down, give thanks to the pig who met his end so that we could have pork chops and truly appreciate what we are consuming. But that’s not how most of us eat anymore. Several studies warn us that faster speeds of eating increase our Body Mass Index; also, our children are eating food too quickly and thus are not actually getting energy from it. Maybe I need to take a pa g e from Dr. Meenah Shah’s 2014 study which found that eating more slowly diminishes our hunger: like my food, if I
consume television a little less rapidly – truly savoring the expression on Joffrey’s dead little face, taking time to relish in Varys’ duplicity—I will appreciate the story more and feel less hungry for the next episode. In the meantime, like the 7.1 million paying viewers and 1.5 million who pirated that episode, I have to wait. And that, like Tom Petty sings, is the hardest part.
Part II: October 7, 2014 The Walking Dead comes back to life next week, and to really get our appetite raging, AMC will be airing a 30 hour-long buffet of all the wonderful courses we may have missed over the past few years. I don’t have to sit in front of the television, feeling the blood clot in my legs building to a dangerous crescendo. I don’t have to put off doing the dishes or the laundry just so I can watch the show. No, as a member of the middle class, I can set my DVR to record the entire series, and I can watch episodes at my leisure. How will I watch? A season at a time, of course. A ten course meal on a Saturday – that is when I will put off doing the dishes, much to the consternation of my wife—followed by a ten course meal on Sunday. Then I will gorge on a new episode, only to have to wait another frakking week for the next episode. With a book, I can devour the story at my leisure. But even then, I have to wait for a good author to create something else. Fans of Invisible Man reading the book in 1952 lived a long time hoping that Ralph Ellison would create another groundbreaking novel. He died without ever publishing that other novel in his lifetime. Maybe technology will solve this problem for us. If scientists and Sheldon Cooper of The Big Bang Theory are right, the Singularity is approaching. At that moment, man and machine will converge, allowing us to digitize our minds and exist forever as a ghost in the machine. That could be great for George R.R. Martin, who just turned 66 last month and is still working on follow-ups to his series. The singularity arrives, Martin’s mind is encoded in a little
black box, and he continues existing and creating stories for us long after his death. But he will be our slave, existing not to smell a rose or taste a strawberry, but to provide you and me with more stories which we will consume. It will be heaven for us, I’m sure, and a blind Hell for Martin. But this is our nature! We want what we want, and don’t really appreciate it until it’s gone. And if we can keep it from going, we will do that to the ends of the earth. So how did I comfort myself over the summer? I discovered Boardwalk Empire through summer-long reruns, whetting my thirst for a sip of the new series coming in September. I fell platonically in love with Nucky Thompson – a ne’er-do-well bootlegger and gangster who, gosh darnit, we all hope succeeds in life. He won’t, though, because if modern television teaches us anything it’s that winter is always coming, life is not fair for everyone, and everybody dies. Yet we still watch, and are sad when we can’t watch any longer. From 1915 through 1920, Freud argued that there are two impulses which compel us: the pleasure principle and the death drive. We cherish the scent of a plucked rose, knowing that eventually it will die and leave us. We grow close to families, knowing that eventually they will be dead and buried. Perhaps we grow close to television shows and characters because we know they will come to an end. If anything is eternal, how can we really appreciate it? But so far, on my DVR I have embalmed the last season of Game of Thrones and I—like a necromancer hiding in a dark mancave—will push the magic buttons and bring it back to life. But technology will change and my equipment will wear out. Just ask anyone who had their 1956 8MM family vacation transferred for posterity onto Betamax, and they will sing a familiar tune of despair. Be not afraid, dear reader: a working Betamax player is currently listed on eBay for the low price of $199.00. Thus, preservation and eternity comes to those who can afford it, assuming that 30 year old magnetic tape still works. My DVR is no different. Eventually it will be replaced with something else (most likely,
another DVR from Direct TV) and everything I’ve saved will disappear. So, like a squirrel hoarding nuts for the coming winter, maybe I should prepare for the coming shortages. But today, there is no shortage. Dozens of new television shows—some unbearably bad, some incredibly new and good—have been prepared for me to feast upon. Those shows are much more interesting than my ordinary life—we all need escapes, after all. But in 1944 Frankfurt School theorists Max Horkheimer and Theodor Adorno postulated that “real life is becoming indistinguishable from the movies. The sound film, far surpassing the theater of illusion, leaves no room for imagination or reflection on the part of the audience, who is unable to respond within the structure of the film… the film forces its victims to equate it directly with reality.” Adorno, a thoroughly disagreeable exiled German who seemed to take little pleasure in anything except Beethoven, would see his head explode upon watching Keeping up with the Kardashians. Here we have real life being filmed and edited, reproduced and delivered to consumers who want to watch someone else living a life more interesting than their own. Adorno would scowl and call Reality Television the Diet Coke of media: zero calories, no nutrition within, and something that can kill you if you drink too much. Aside from being a philosopher, Adorno was also a fortuneteller of sorts. When television was in its infancy, he noted the inherent problems of the medium: Television aims at a synthesis of radio and film, and is held up only because the interested parties have not yet reached agreement, but its consequences will be quite enormous and promise to intensify the impoverishment of aesthetic matter so drastically, that by tomorrow the thinly veiled identity of all industrial culture products can come triumphantly out into the open… the fusion of all the arts in one work. And here we have it: products, services, ideas are meshed together in music videos which seem to advertise smart phones and sexy bodies – talent is no longer needed, thanks to autotune. Commercialism—present in the 1950s when we were reminded that Dragnet was brought to us by the good folks at Chesterfield Cigarettes— continues to invade our movies through product placement. Why
do the Autobots not turn into Ford Mustangs? Because General Motors came up with the cash. As we consume movies and music, we consume the image and the products that sponsor the artist who creates the images that we consume. Our American style of consumption—marvelous and world-changing as it is—will forever be one of quantity. However, thanks to smart shows like The Walking Dead and its rhetorical follow-up Talking Dead, viewers can engage in thought-provoking texts that allow us to actively create content. With events like Comic-Con, an academic and fantasy-fueled hedonism is brought into our lives. The status of Nerd is no longer a stigma, but a badge of pride, given that nerds create the new digital possibilities that sustain our lives. Great nerds like Edison, Franklin, and George R.R. Martin will inspire future generations to create modes of pleasure that surpass the original. As difficult as it is, we must learn patience in order to be more-deeply gratified. Our mode of accessing media is counterproductive to learning patience, of course, but that’s the struggle. Some struggle against oppression, some struggle for survival; but we all struggle against those deep-seeded and reinforced desires for the easy way and the simple life. Without that struggle, that constant inward battle, we become the walking dead.
“I Have No Expectations” Danielle F. French
It’s time to cash in my chips. But, wait, I bought you. Stunned, I swivel back toward him to check— to see if he’d actually had the gall to fucking say that to my face, or my back, rather. Expectant eyes reproach me for missing my cue, not playing the game correctly. I paid for the pleasure of dating you. The site says you’re mine, now that you’ve shown interest. I want my money’s worth. I spent time memorizing details to show you I’m not like the others. Of course, he’s not like the others. He leans forward so I can see the unveiled desire to consume, to claim, to own. In this economy of cheap love, every prospect becomes desperate to rent or own for fear of missing out on a deal. He is worse. He greedily guzzles his sad draft Woodchuck with a cinnamon sugar rim. Sickly sweet and full of artificial bullshit, just like this coolly-forced civility. This was supposed to be a Happy Ending. Don’t leave—you can’t leave yet. I bought you with a five dollar latte and chit chat about trifles
that might boost your self-worth. I paid you with compliments, Make good on your trade. Standing up to leave, I face him, fashioning my purse into a makeshift, turquoise shield for my torso, attempting to fence in that unmanned, foreclosed property, hoping to discourage any squatters, looters, and ne’er-do-wells. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand— Cinnamon sugar shards catch in his beard, glinting remnants of the cancelled transaction, the wire that never made it across the table. He doesn’t say a word, and he doesn’t have to.
Nowadays, people know the price of everything and the value of nothing.
MS. LOVETT'S HANGRY BLOG ! SOUFFLÉSH REVIEW Robin Clark
My fellow grotesque loving foodies, I have the restaurant to end all restaurants to share with you this week: Soufflésh. This delightful play on words serves to hint at the truth behind the lighthearted facade, a theme the restaurant plays up in spades. Their menu items vary from the whimsical (the Donner dinner is described as "enough for your whole party") to the elegant (the fricassée de dernier-né is simply delicious, but more on that later). While you may expect a themed restaurant like this to cater exclusively to the macabre, this partic- ular establishment cannily subverts that expectation with classy and historical decor. Imagine the offspring of Applebees and the Cheesecake Factory's interiors for an idea of the gorgeous ambiance of Soufflésh. However, a closer inspection reveals vintage ads for mummy powder, articles on the supposed benefits of the king's drops, and dressed up screenshots from Soylent Green. As my long time readers know, I like to visit new restaurants with a group of friends so I can sample from their plates without breaking the bank. This trip was no different. Though I'd rank Soufflésh $$$ out of $$$$$, my bill was only $$. The hostess who booked my reservation warned me to prepare for my meal by eating vegan for at
least 3 days prior to eating at this protein packed place. She explained that this advance booking practice helps diners dodge protein poisoning as well as avoiding an overbooked guest list every night. One notable point about the food are the potential health benefits. SoufflĂŠsh uses organic and locally raised ingredients to cut consumer costs as well as aid the local economy, not to mention the clarity a meal like this can afford the human body. Each dish has a listing of symptoms that can be cured by consuming the food, something of interest to you pre-dinner conversation. And should an especially picky diner be unable to stray from an otherwise vegetarian option, a shaker of mummy powder sits atop every table. A classic cure-all, the flakes add nothing little flavor to an already flavorful dish, but they are billed as the ultimate medicine.
I ordered the 3 course special: a hearty New Guinean to start, followed by the fricassĂŠe de dernier-nĂŠ, and finishing with a slice of melli jelli. My friends split a Donner dinner, which really was enough for our whole party; the doggy bags from
the smorgasbord would be enough to feed 45 for 4 months. I'm exaggerating, but you get the message. Finally, my date - ever the purist - ordered the baby back ribs. My hearty New Guinean was a great appetizer. Described as "the perfect brain food" in its benefit list, the soup was thick with a nutty and vaguely meaty flavor. I did actually feel smarter after just a few spoonfuls! I was just finishing my last Guinean slurp when our entrees were delivered to the table. The fricassée de dernier-né is far from impressive to look at but WOW did it taste amazing. The grayish white stew had a strong meaty taste intermingling with a highly complementary garlicy sauce. The julienned celery and carrot and cubed mushroom added an interesting texture to the tender chunks of white meat. Though Soufflésh is of course known for its succulent baby back ribs, I'd recommend the fricassée de dernier-né above it any day. The meats may have a similar flavor, but the barbecued ribs overpower the delicate young flesh too much for my taste. My dining companions loved their Donner dinner and baby back ribs. I nearly got my hand cut off every time I reached over for a bite, though we'd all agreed to share. Luckily for my extremities, all our meals finished with Soufflésh's signature dessert: melli jelli. The golden confection is a thick mellified slice of plump honey goodness. Each plate contained a different cut. I got what is widely thought to be the best melli jelli section: a bone-in cross cut shank. The meat itself still maintains its structural integrity, while the bone has turned gelatinous after the yearlong ageing process. This was by far the oddest thing I had at Soufflésh, but also the most delectable. Though Soufflésh is scorned by many, I recommend this establishment wholeheartedly! Great food, great atmosphere, and it won't cost you an arm and a leg for... well, you know.
Be Always Drunk Matthew c mackey Elise liked the sweeter wines, the Moscatos, reds, pinks, whites. I didn’t so much care for them, but I would pick her up a bottle from time to time when she was out. She loved wine, usually with pizza. These were great nights. Elise and I liked drinking together. We tasted each other’s drinks, made surprise beverages, experimented. Once she tried to make a rum milkshake, which was not a success. I drank it anyway. We laughed a lot then. The first night I met her, she bought me an Irish car bomb. It was Cinco de Mayo. I don't remember everything about that night. Sometimes, the details are lost on me. I should pay more attention. I shouldn't over romanticize things. We were meeting mutual friends, and I spent the last of my paycheck trying to impress her. I kept getting another round, as many rounds as I could for me, for her, for all of us, Mark, Sophina, Elise, sitting with flashing smiles in a corner booth. I don’t remember all the details, but I do remember feeling like I had found something misplaced and forgotten about for some time, surprised when I pulled it out of an old jacket pocket. I’ve told Elise this before, but she does not think I’m romantic. I laugh when she says it because who knows what that means. I don't know why Elise fell in love with me. I don't know what falling in love really means anyway. The first time we made love, we were drinking terrible margaritas from a gas station. We were clumsy, but we loved like gluttons. I wanted every part of her. She was greedy with my body, and we consumed one another. We drank until we couldn't drink anymore. I had no thirst for anything else. I was impressed with her taste in beer among other things. She had exquisite tastes. Often we would go to bars and try the darkest, most decadent, craft beers we could find. Talking long
hours and picking up something completely new on the way home. I reveled in the pleasure of taste and finding together what we liked or didn’t. We would drink one another until morning, and when the hangover came, we would resist as long as possible, still drunk with each other. I blurted out, "I love you" for the first time in a vodka slur. She cried because she thought I only said it because I was drunk, and that I didn't mean it. I meant it, but I was terrified to say it out loud, completely knowing what it meant to say something like that out loud. I knew that saying it meant, for me, the irreducible fact that I was going to die, that she was my ending, and she was perfect. But, it wasn’t true. I was romanticizing everything again. Eventually, the bottles were emptied. She wasn’t thirsty anymore. I missed something. Some detail I misplaced. I had been mixing my alcohols, and I wasn’t thinking straight. It turns out, she wasn’t my last call, but it did take me a long time to get her alcohol out of my blood. Standing in the liquor store, several months later, I was glad to find a few whiskeys I had never tried. My phone buzzed. It was Maria, asking for some moonshine. “GET THE BLACKBERRY!” she texted in all caps. I picked up a jar of 100 proof Ole Smoky, swirling the blackberries slowly in the clear liquid. I walked over to the wine aisle in search of Merlot. I was feeling a little romantic again. I stopped and looked at the long shelf of Moscatos, reds, pinks, whites, the labels reminding me of Elise. I held up the jar of moonshine, remembering the evening we let her dog eat the liquor infused fruit. The thought of staying up all night to make sure the dog was okay made me smile. As I walked out of the store with a jar of blackberry moonshine and a bottle of Merlot, I knew that I was ready for a new intemperance, and I hoped that what I had heard about life was also true of intoxication, that it is all beautiful and endless.
“The work of J Vandegrift in this series is taken from movies and at once forces me to consider both my ravenous consumption of film and the exquisite flavors I find when I view attentively. “ Matthew C. Mackey
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