TOUCHMEDONOTTOUCHMEIAMALIVE

Thursday, September 10, 1970

Fig. 016

As it so seems to be the most frequent thing to appear here, another letter from AA.

My dear,

It does seem that it's been a while. I miss you. I need you. I am still recoiling from your last blow. I think that is what has me so shaken. You know I only get messy when I'm shaken. Not that these fools can stop me anyway. But I feel like they don't have the right to know. These women mean nothing to anyone. They are simply cast molds of you. Appearance, that is. You know I'd only whet my intellectual appetite with the real thing, my love. I just need something for the carnal. You won't provide, so I do it myself. Most of them don't even mind. So what does it matter, the few who do? They aren't exactly productive citizens anyway. I'm doing the world a favor. I'm sorry, dear. I'm babbling. Please, just come home. You're needed now more than ever. For my sanity.

Yours,
Admiral Admiral

Wednesday, September 2, 1970

Fig. 015

From an interview with the Great Admiral Admiral, in response to the question "What do you think of the court's claims against you?":

It was Sunday morning. His voice rang through the building. He was weaving a story. A beautiful story of a man full of love. It was Sunday morning. The man wanted everyone to accept his way of love. This, of course, would not happen. And those who wouldn't accept started to grow angry at this mans public displays of affection. It was Sunday morning. So they hung him. But this man's message of love was carried on. Turns out he had inspired some folks. It was Sunday morning. These folks, though, they liked his message so much that they began to fight for it. A bit counter productive. They carried out wars in his message. They killed for his message. His message of love. It was Sunday mourning.

Fig. 014

The origin of this piece is unknown.

I drag my glass blown heart in the rain. It's jagged edge was causing me pain, and so I ripped it out, all in vein. You are so cold. We call it insane. I want you gone by morning light. I dare you, look around this place. There is nothing here for you. A God loved. I, a man, loved you. You returned to neither. You have allowed yourself to become a pawn in war. A senseless war full of blood. Full of massacres. Full of hate. You, who is so loved. You, who is so beautiful. You allow yourself to become a weapon.

Tuesday, September 1, 1970

Fig. 013

This is what appears to be an excerpt from some journal of sorts. It was found written across several matchbooks.

The wind has chilled me to my bones. I have a jacket on. It does me no good. No good. Ha. Isn't that something? Music blasts all around me. Only I hear it. I've been standing atop this bench for an hour now. I am cold. Where are they? I hate waiting. I am composed. I must wait. They will know it has come when they arrive. I hear footsteps. I see orange. It is time.

Fig. 012

A letter from the Great Admiral Admiral to his love:

My dear,

You're playing with me. Using me. Rather, you're letting someone else use me as an pawn. I suppose it would best be said that I am an marionette, with you stringing me along, whilst you allow someone to tell you how to control me. I must tell you though, I am none to appreciative. You see, we puppets, we get to talking sometimes. An good bit of talk of cutting strings. Don't get me wrong, my love, I could never cut my strings. Unattached is a foreign concept to me, and I'll have none of it. I'm just sick and tired of this game. We're into Act III by now, and the whole thing seems to drag on. He has grown tiresome, your fellow. While I cannot cut my strings, I can certainly stiffen my movements and cause the paying folks to leave their seats. No one will see the final act. Ask him to leave and I will put on the most spectacular show you have ever seen; this I can certainly promise.

Oh, and maybe you should stop airing your dirty laundry around the other puppets. They come back reeking of a foul stench, and I pick it up like an disgusting, cheap liquor and simply drink it down. I accept the burn; the poison. We're old friends. But it does tend to make me wild, yes? Your house and furniture can only stand so much, can it not? I will be the end of it all.

One final thing: I've been charting maps. While I'm no cartographer, I do feel that my experience as an admiral does make me quite proficient at this task. Maps of our figures. You see, I need to know how our bodies work. It seems, though, from what I can see, that you only ever begin where I end. It's a map of we. No map of I exists, nor an map of you. Why is it that this is all I come across in an library of thousands of maps? Is it possible that only this map exists of our characters? Will you honestly not accept this? Think on it a bit, my sweet. Surely it will become clear. We pray it's none too late.

Yours always,
Admiral Admiral