=Letter from Home=

Thank you for your last mailing: a pickled weasel in a sandwich bag. How apropos! I wish I had the strength. Sometimes I hear the hair dryer roaring from the next room and I think, "There's no such thing as a Hopi Indian." My life, or something, has fallen by the wayside. What have I to do with sunspots? For that matter, I would like you to return my anvil. There are moths at your earliest possible convenience and no paths out. What they don't tell you is that it's all epicenter. Ice cream is made of cockroaches. Airplanes, too. China is growing smaller by the minute and will soon fit into my pocket. If I only had a pocket, it wouldn't be the kind of thing I'd brag about. Yarn cuts both ways, you know. It seems you have forgotten what buttons are for. If I get rid of the cockroaches, I get rid of the house, too—it consists of them. That's what it means to be homeless. Life is very simple, you see.