The 11th of August 1973 – San Diego, California

(found at the bottom of a wooden crate)

Dear Jeffery,

You pick things up and put them right back down again. Pick up the box, carry it down a ramp, set it down on the ground. Walk back up the ramp and pick up another box.

That’s all there is to it. Not just working on the docks, but working through life.

That’s all there is to it.

Jeffery, it’s all about boxes. Boxes and nothing. Boxes are all we understand. Not just working here on the docks, but in the rest of the world too.

We have boxes for people, boxes for expressions, boxes for types and categories and all things and every thing.

It all needs to go in a box. It all needs to fit a type, and – if it doesn’t – then, well, there simply isn’t much use for it. At least, they’ll tell you that there isn’t much use for it.

They’ll say that it’s not right or that it could have been better. They’ll say this and that and whatever else, and it will all be said because they are struggling mightily, struggling and failing, to fit the damn thing into a box.

But what if it doesn’t have a box?

They’ll toss it right to the side. Jeffery, it all just goes out to the side, and not a single one of them cares about it.

It could be the most beautiful thing. It could be the most worthwhile thing.

But it’s got to have its damn box. It’s got to fit, or else they won’t like it.

How did the world come to be filled with such small people, such insipid and idiotic people, such cowardly and stuck-up and moronic and judgmental people? How did the world come to be filled with such people, who all demand for boxes, who go lengths to even squish themselves into a box, cut off their limbs to fit into a box?

Damn them all to hell.

Best,

Kelsey

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