Dale Shaw - Letters of Not Lite

CONTENTS

April 2014

My friends.

I cant quite remember why I decided to write a note purportedly from cult German film director Werner Herzog to his fictional cleaning lady. I know where I was: in the kitchen of my flat in Walthamstow, which I was eventually driven out of by an upstairs neighbour with an insatiable love of Speed Garage and lengthy Call of Duty sessions but thats another introduction entirely.

Being able to correctly identify the inspiration and mechanics involved in the moment of that letters construction would have come in handy when I had to write a book full of similar material (spoiler alert: Its this book). But anyway, I couldnt. Though the moment definitely happened, because I wrote the letter, had it rejected by someone, felt a bit sad, then wisely sent it to Sabotage Times, where it quickly went viral, as I believe the young people say. I had no idea people are as enamoured of Herzog as I am, but it seems the masses cant get enough of that crazy Bavarian and his delightful antics.

What baffled me most was the volume of readers who thought it was actually written by next to it.

It seemed sensible to try again, so I went on to write ludicrous missives from other figures I have a healthy obsession with, including Mark E. Smith, Brian Eno, George Orwell, Neil Young and more Brian Eno (I love Brian Eno). Soon, I had unwittingly developed into, as writer Joel Morris put it, the BBC4 version of Mike Yarwood.

However, though a number of these collected letters have been seen before, circulating around the darker reaches of the internet, most are shiny and new. A few didnt make the cut due to legal issues or for reasons of baffling obscurity. You can find some of these at lettersofnot.com, where you can also send your complaints and gift baskets.

A hearty thanks to everyone included in the book who decided not to sue me. You are good eggs. To the others see you in court.

Dale Shaw

P.S. Full disclosure I was listening to Ram by Paul McCartney as I wrote this.

Howard,

Ive had a great new idea for another manoeuvre. This one can be used to pick up women. Pop by the office and Ill show you how it works.

Henry

Rosalina. Woman.

You constantly revile me with your singular lack of vision. Be aware, there is an essential truth and beauty in all things. From the death throes of a speared gazelle to the damaged smile of a freeway homeless. But that does not mean that the invisibility of something implies its lack of being. Though simpleton babies foolishly believe the person before them vanishes when they cover their eyes during a hateful game of peek-a-boo, this is a fallacy. And so it is that the unseen dusty build up that accumulates behind the DVD shelves in the rumpus room exists also. This is unacceptable.

I will tell you this, Rosalina, not as a taunt or a threat but as an evocation of joy. The joy of nothingness, the joy of the real. I want you to be real in everything you do. If you cannot be real, then a semblance of reality must be maintained. A real semblance of the fake real, or real. I have conquered volcanoes and visited the bitter depths of the earths oceans. Nothing I have witnessed, from lava to crustacean, assailed me liked the caked debris haunting that small plastic soap hammock in the smaller of the bathrooms. Nausea is not a sufficient word. In this regard, you are not being real.

Now we must turn to the horrors of nature. I am afraid this is inevitable. Nature is not something to be coddled and accepted and held to your bosom like a wounded snake. Tell me, what was there before you were born? What do you remember? That is nature. Nature is a void. An emptiness. A vacuum. And speaking of vacuum, I am not sure youre using the retractable nozzle correctly or applying the full weft setting when attending to the lush carpets of the den. I found some dander there.

I have only listened to two songs in my entire life. One was an aria by Wagner that I played compulsively from the ages of 19 to 27 at least 60 times a day until the local townsfolk drove me from my dwelling using rudimentary pitchforks and blazing torches. The other was Dido. Both appalled me to the point of paralysis. Every quaver was like a brickbat against my soul. Music is futile and malicious. So please, if you require entertainment while organizing the recycling, refrain from the pop radio I was affronted by recently. May I recommend the recitation of some sharp verse. Perhaps by Goethe. Or Schiller. Or Shel Silverstein at a push.

The situation regarding spoons remains unchanged. If I see one, I will kill it. That is all. Do not fail to think that you are not the finest woman I have ever met. You are. And I am including on this list my mother and the wife of Brad Dourif (the second wife, not the one with the lip thing). Thank you for listening and sorry if parts of this note were smudged. I have been weeping.

Your money is under the guillotine.

Herzog.

25th July 1999

Dear CINDY,

WOW, I mean THANKS SO MUCH for your letter. It just got me so JAZZED!!!!! I mean, just, God it was AWESOME, so so AWESOME and YES! I do get tired sometimes after a race, but then it makes me feel so ALIVE you know? Do you? YOU KNOW? I just feel GREAT! Ive never felt so GREAT!!

But thank you for asking me that and THANK YOU SO MUCH for the gift. I LOVED the texture of it so much and the way it felt against my skin that I may HAVE slightly DESTROYED it by stroking it so hard and SO MUCH. I stroked it to pieces. But I still LOVE IT! Even in PIECES!! PIECES!!

Cindy, I mean, like YES!!! You are the BEST!!! I could just cycle from here in Colorado over to you in New Jersey RIGHT NOW! Because I am so JAZZED that you wrote to me.

Oh man, you hear that? Oh man, I feel a bit weird. OK, I better go outside CINDY!!

You RULES!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Lance (JAZZED)

To his Divine Holiness the Bishop of Rome, Vicar of Jesus Christ, Successor of the Prince of the Apostles, Supreme Pontiff of the Universal Church, Primate of Italy, Archbishop and Metropolitan of the Roman Province, Sovereign of the Vatican City State, Servant of the servants of God.

Francis,

Buddy, I hope you like shitstorms because your life just became one.

OK, the vans about to come and pick up my stuff, so Im jotting this down quickly

Get your order in now for some new vestments. Not tomorrow, NOW. Id expected some fresh ones to be waiting for me when I started, but all I found was an empty closet. And that stuff takes ages to get made up. Ive left you a couple of spares in the closet by the vestibule. Youre way skinnier than me (you know you are!) but theyll do in a pinch. The cleaner comes on Thursday mornings and you do not want to be there when she comes. She always wants something blessed. There seems to be a never-ending amount of paraphernalia. She tried to get me to bless one of those mini Pac-Man games; you know, the hand-held ones, for her grandson. I was like, I can bless that thing all day, but its still lame. Unless hes been in a coma since 1989. I didnt actually say it, but yknow. Youll get stuck with her all morning if you dont run off and hide somewhere.

The window you have to wave out of is in the little study bit. You might know that already but no one told me. First Sunday I was wandering around like Our Saviour in the Wilderness trying to find it. And the Cardinals arent a bit of use. Great at ring kissing, lousy at directions.

Nuns. Get used to them. They are everywhere, all the time. If you need some alone time lock the door. They have special powers or something and just appear when you least expect it. And they dont say anything, they just stare at you. Its creepy.