The Selected Letters of Robert Creeley

PART FIVE. Echoes, 1973– 1989 Buffalo, Maine, Helsinki

Part five Echoes, 1973–1989 Buffalo, Maine, Helsinki This page intentionally left blank 317 Letter to Bobbie Creeley (Bobbie Louise Hawkins) 226 Linwood Ave. Buffalo, n.y. 14209 January 17, 1973 Dear love, Finally down enough to write so-called proper letter. I get very speedy with such movement as getting here, all the anticipation of what’s to happen, etc, etc. Again, it really feels simple, barring some ridiculous nose-dive into gluggy glooms etc which I don’t particularly feel like doing. A cat was charmingly at the window here a few minutes ago, a big fluffy grey–with that miaow of righteous insistence to be let in, but I held firm. Incredibly warm for the season, near or into fifties today—even sun for an hour or so, breaking through that wild grey yellow Buffalo haze. Ah well. I’ve been up to the U/ like they say, and all that’s simple enough. Saw numbers of my colleagues, even Arthur Axlerod (now a student there) same as ever—though old enough now to say ‘I’ve got to go’ to without wiping him out. Helpful young couple prove David Matlin and his wife Gail, I’d helped him get in here two years ago, met at SF State though wasn’t enrolled there—anyhow they are practical people, good friends of Danny and Holly Zimmerman—so they’ll know where I’m at, without my having to spell it out, and also won’t be leaning on me as desirable object etc. My neighbors upstairs, kind of charming young nyC Jewish mother-about-to-be and local boy PR husband, fed me also last night, along with the Matlins, and I sense we came to an unspoken agreement as to how our interlocking lives might be discreetly placed. I wind up on energy and I am not working five days a week, which the husband is—no matter he can ‘come and go’—so it’s really not a fair game. So I think I’ll have more time to myself, thankfully, without seeming to turn them off or down. Ah well. I dig there’s a whole protocol number I’ll have to acquire, which life with you, my dear, has fucking well spared me. I wish Don were here to give me the basic ritual. Elsewise a copy of an article from PLAyBOy John Clellon Holmes wrote on Jack Kerouac’s death and funeral—strange sense of ‘myself’: “Suddenly, there was Robert Creeley, too—wiry as a guitar string, and graceful, with the meticulous small beard of a bravo or a cavalier, in a proper suit and short overcoat, his one busy eye saying, “yes. At last. Funny. Well. We all do exist, after all,” as we were introduced.” Really funny the way people experience one—odd playback. Curious article to come at this moment, being back here—thinking of going there then—come from San Francisco—senses of time, and what came of it. As 318 Echoes, 1973–1989 being in the Albright-Knox, really strong echo of ourselves having been there, it seemed, only minutes before—or driving past Cole’s, or seeing The Sample— Sammy’s on Hertel, Bennet High—and again, Arthur Axlerod. Wow. I’ve got the pictures up, took loads of John’s junk down—like Al Cook’s in that desperate attempt to make things add up to desired effect of ‘I really am here’—and the place feels sparer, but simpler to move in. your drawing is in cluster with Joe’s piece, and postcards of Marisol and Jasper J/s—it’s lovely! The print I have on the piano (I have a piano . . . ) and your ^ [photo] incredibly lovely and erotically fascinating face dominates at least two rooms, viz livingroom and kitchen—where the action is, you dig. Also found among stuff picked up in shed at last moment, lovely small photo of you in Eden house, sitting barefoot in front of fireplace on that bench, playing your guitar with crazy alert look to body and hands and head. I figure the most evident problem with this separation, or what to call it, will be boredom, and restlessness that comes of it—which is where drinking gets in. nights with people I have drunk since coming I’ve been able to ‘get off’ of, also—and go to bed and sleep sans some...