Dear Mr. You Read Online Free PDF Page B

sophomore, my friend K. would be the non-juggler in his class. I knew we were soul mates when I saw his frozen, near-transcendent look of despair as he stared at those juggling balls on the ground, his suffering so acute that he almost glowed, like one of those laminated holy cards, a crown of beanbags on his head.)
    II . We were in groups of four, and J. was the afterlife guide who took me away after I died while giving birth to E., who gained strength while searching for his father’s love. T. played the father who died from anguish after my body was carried away, but we ended our silent improv with E. and I holding hands to symbolize our reunion after death. It went extremely well, better than our “Act of passion” silent improv, in which I played the statue symbolizing beauty that E. couldn’t tolerate not fully possessing as his own, and subsequently destroyed.
    III . Orgy was so mild. I think a teacher walked in on it and we actually sent a representative to apologize on behalf of the class. No wait, the teacher was driving the car. Van. It was the back of a minivan. There was another incident, at J. and C.’s house, well, never mind.
    IV . We were minions who earned a wage by living under the ball gowns of rich women and holding up the fabric of their skirts so they wouldn’t trip while they danced.

Dear Blue,
    Did you sew it? I’m just trying to imagine where you got it. There was no such thing as Amazon yet and I’d never seen one, except on Tarzan.
    Your loincloth. Did you use fabric from an old couch? You didn’t have a couch. Maybe you liberated a square of fabric from your tepee or stitched together some burlap bags that once held hydroponic fertilizer.
    You wore that cloth on your loins every day so maybe there was even a spare? You were a fruitarian, eating nothing but fruit and nuts (though apparently beer was also a fruit?); a van illegally parked on the beach (not beside it, on it) was your home; and you needed no shirt, shoes, nothing. You and your friend Gary drove to the border at dawn to get avocados and figs for the co-op where I worked also and then you went to the beach if you had no one to rolf. You were a rolfer, too, massaging those lucky people while wearing nothing or your loincloth. Okay, maybe a piece of jewelrywas also on your body. A conch-shell necklace, but that was it. You and Gary both had gorgeous, ocean-soaked hair that was longer than mine. Gary had a mane of chestnut that might have made him rich if he’d opened a Seven Stations of the Cross theme park, but your hair was its own Disneyland. It glowed in the dark from salt water and sun. That hair gave you the vibe of being both switched on and overcooked at the same time. You were the only men I’ve ever seen who could wear your hair in a bun with a flower and not seem sissy. You had soul patches and tans, period. Diving in the surf might happen five times a day, and how could you lie down at the tide and feel sand rushing everywhere if you were wearing clothes? When you took me to that nude beach up the coast, taking off your loincloth seemed brazen. A dog could walk away with your entire wardrobe in its mouth. Ripping it off was a breeze though, and you threw yourself in the water leaving me in awe of how little there was between you and the world. It took hardly anything to be not just happy, but filled with a kind of alien joy.
    You took anyone’s idea of modern life and set it on fire decades before anyone dreamed up Burning Man. You didn’t need to rent an RV with Wi-Fi and stock up at Whole Foods to drive somewhere and let the madman into your third eye. You’d found it and let it all in and out again and had it going on. Even your name, which you said had become you after you’d dropped acid and were sitting on a massive rock by the cliffs. When you opened your eyes, everything including you was blue. Everything except your loincloth, which, for the summer I knew you, was a light brown man wrap that made you