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Saturday, February 6th, 2010
...the sentence itself is a man-made object, not the one we wanted of course, but still a construction of man, a structure to be treasured for its weakness, as opposed to the strength of stones
— From “The Sentence,” Donald Barthelme
In regard to my appeal of the sentence: yes, I am well aware of our “relationship” being, in plain language, nonexistent, and yes, I can admit to the accusations of infatuation and obsession, although in all honesty such allegations have been framed in a provocative and erroneous manner, laden with dangerous, predatorial [sic] connotations, suggesting that I possess some sort of skewed psycho-sexual mania; and yes, I admit to such accusations in full awareness and acknowledgment of the grave fact that we are indeed unacquainted, despite my numerous letters and telephone calls and e-mails to her agency, Cunningham Escott Slevin & Doherty (CESD), and her publicist, Meghan Prophet, and her music label Hollywood Records, and to the Disney Corporation (to wit I have not received any written or oral response but soldier on in the hope of expressing my deepest gratitude and my sincerest congratulations on her innumerable successes and innovations), even though thinking rationally I knew these efforts might be futile due to her immense responsibilities and extremely busy schedule, regarding which I could testify at length if only brevity were not a factor, if only you weren’t already so weary with listening …
… so for the sake of such direly required and oft-requested succinctness I shall plead with the court on this day that my interest in Ms.
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Cyrus is purely scholarly, and in good will, and that I have been cruelly maligned by certain lawyers and Cyrus family representatives as a “delinquent,” “stalker,” “predator,” or, though the literal words were not spoken, as some sort of “sexual deviant” — for I insist that my sexual preferences abide by the straight American medium, that my study of Ms. Cyrus’ life has been both consuming and enflaming but only in the strictest intellectual sense, for surely I would not bother to know the petty details of her birth and education, her conceptual circumstances, if not for intellectual fulfillment, because surely if these were merely masturbatory phantasms I could have simply downloaded some leaked cellular photograph, had my way with myself, so to speak, and forgotten the details of Miley Cyrus’ birth, that she was born on November 23, 1992: the same day that the last deadly tornado was seen in northeastern North Carolina, part of a late season outbreak that affected much of the southeastern part of the United States, ranging from Houston, Texas to portions of the Gulf Coast states, from the Ohio Valley to the Carolinas — a deadly maelstrom that narrowly skirted the edges of southern Tennessee in late November as if fated, destined, preternaturally aware of Miley Cyrus’ imminent arrival into the world, allowing Leticia “Tish” Cyrus (née Finley) to deliver through the harrowing pains of labour in peace, not having to worry or fret over cyclones or flying cows or cold-cellar emergency deliveries, but unfortunately due to the sequential workings of the world this miracle occurred in a place and time different from my own, leading to my recorded confessions of anguish and pained sobbing over my missed opportunity at cradling Leticia’s hand, kissing her wrist, or wiping the beads of sweat from her forehead, missing my chance to watch the wailing, mewling Miley emerge from the womb and into the light;
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