Tuesday, June 1, 2010

Barry Hannah | Ray | 1980

Dear Doctor Ray,

I’d been living in the hell of my own head for so long that what I did was went to the nearby pharmacist and asked her to anesthetize the pain but all she did was order the security guard to subtract me suddenly from the store, which he did. If you were around, Ray, I know you would’ve stuck me with some suitable something and driven me home. More likely, Ray, you would’ve flown me to a tennis court in collegiate Alabama and we’d be belting a ball around and probably be well into that hash and Jack and you’d be telling me about the time you got audited by the feds, about the false humiliation of loss, about big guns and the pageantry of sky pilotry, and you'd be saying to me: “Get off of it, boy. Cheer up. Sober up. Sabers up. You could be getting audited. Your wife could be queer. Sabers up, son! Sabers up! Nothing's fucked. Go get yourself some nice nooky and forget about it. Find one that'll stick by you, too.”

And that’s exactly what I did, Ray, and now everything is nearly okay. Everything is almost all right. I’m back alive and not drinking either, Ray, nothing. About married. Smoking less, too. The only thing I need to find now is a boat and some water. Direct me, Doctor Ray. Show me the way. Point your saber to the sea.

Ryan Ridge