The Tesseract Letter / 7 June 2001
Everything about you will increase — the good things and the bad things, your overall mass and density, your awareness and lack of awareness, your ideas and laziness, it’ll all keep building. Today I’m just a blown-up photocopy of you, so expanded that the details are blocky and smeared. You’ll learn some basic audio terminology and what’s happening is clipping and what’d be nice is to be able to normalize yourself. Which is kind of funny.
So yeah, you won’t lose the thing for music, I remember you wondering about that. You will buy a U2 album and enjoy it, but that’s just an aberration. Movies, too — most of the things you know will come from movies, and you’ll vacillate between being OK with that and not being OK. You’ll still make movies and you’ll start making music but mostly you’ll be writing. (You’ll stop drawing almost entirely which I know is surprising and a little sad. The only remnants will be a kind of crisp flair to your handwriting.) You’ll go through a let’s call it orgy of violence phase which’ll settle down into an orgy of amazement, which you’ll be much more familiar with.
You’ll write, with absolute seriousness: “I’m trying to embed mythology into the most unmythological places — office buildings, apartment buildings, diners, places with absolutely no history.” You’ll see an empty road stretching out into Indiana, a stop sign, nighttime, and then several beams of light appearing from the sky and skirting along the asphalt for a moment, then disappearing, absolutely silent, a flicker of lightning way off in the distance. You’ve just seen it, but you forgot about it until last week when you’ll see it again, and until earlier today when you tried to capture it but decided it was best not to.
You’ll flee the cities and you’ll read a lot more, though you’ll be longing to read the same crap you’re reading right now. They’ll eventually make more Star Wars movies but they won’t be as good.
You’ll start constructing stories out of words instead of images, which is something you might want to reconsider. You’ll be a little disappointing, frankly. You’ll be burdened by luck which’ll backfire sometimes. You’ll worry too much about what people think even as you keep them at a dangerous distance.
You’ll need to pick up some shoes that are more comfortable. You’ll talk to your mother ten minutes ago, who’ll mention the hurricane that hit your grandmother’s house, then continued on out of town, turned around, and hit it again.
You’ll fall in love. Everything will be OK.
You’ll be able to grow a beard and juggle and get strikes in bowling and do card tricks and play the guitar, so there’s really nothing too serious to worry about.