STEFANO MORELLO | wearing a flannel shirt hanging out, carrying a briefcase by one finger

March 5, 2017. Whitney and Mike’s apartment. 11325 Morrison Street, Los Angeles, CA.

As it frequently occurs, I find myself talking to Jack. Only, this time he is not the madly-looking-for-it figure I have come to know over the years. He is not a young life enthusiast sketching plans on his journal or plotting the Great American Novel. Nor is he the Dharma bum, future Bodhisativa, wanna-be Zen Lunatic from The Dharma Bums or Desolation Angels. Jack is middle-aged and worn out. Jack is grayed and livid, sitting on a rusty swing in his maman’s backyard in North Carolina. His eyes follow, uninterested, the coarse pollen in the air. He is not talking, but the pathetic haikus coalescing in his head come down pouring over me. His woeful attempts to become emptiness are mine too. His moments of fame are exposed for what they are – surrogate happiness.

"It's been here all along, for the taking, all along" - he mutters, bitterly. The expression on his face seems to question the worthiness of a life spent on the brink of nirvana and samsara. Is being close to reaching the top of Mount Matterhorn (without ever making it) better than never attempting the climb? But what about all that we give up
by just being
there?

Are we victims of self-denial, or eternal deferral? If what we do isn’t much different from what they do, if all has been done before, then what are we doing, Jack? What does it mean to be transient? What do we make of these moments, Jack? Are we victims of their ephemerality, or is it our own?

---

March 7, 2017. My room – Via Monte Corno 29, Torino, Italy.

Dear Jack,

forgive me for I have resorted to a needless comma. One line into this letter and I have managed to disappoint you, already. What do you expect from a wanna-be beat poet who does not know the first thing about keeping a beat? From a nearly-thirty-year-old aiming to fill his existential void with words whose meaning he barely knows, with a repertoire he can hardly grasp?

I let you down by means of a comma and I betrayed you by boarding planes, applying for credit cards, and abandoning paper in favor of media that allow me to second-guess my thoughts without leaving any trace. I alienated you, hiding behind an institutional affiliation and the entitlement it entails. I craved feeling by means of craving.

Port of Spain for Carnival, Paris for le quatorze juillet, Rome for capodanno – empty desire has led me to disaster, it has taken me years to realize [1] . Happiness is feeling home and home is feeling little. Le Caravelle, camping in front of a bungalow and seeing myself through the eyes that zealous bunch with whom I share a mutual appreciation of life – know what I mean, Jack?

[1]Yet, I persist. In the past seventy-two hours I got sunburnt at Malakua Beach, washed sand, salt, and sunscreen off my skin in North Hollywood, and did not get a chance to sleep until I laid on the floor by the Harrods stand at London Gatwick. It is now 3:30 am, I am sitting at my desk in my brother’s apartment in Torino. I have a cold. I am playing with ideas for a syllabus for the fall semester. I am excited and jetlagged. I am jetlagged.