The Trumsey Epistolary, Edition 1.4

Part I: The Trumsey Epistolary
Need a New World

To Whom It May Concern,

My name is Alexander Trumsey. I have important things to tell you, but I am not one for letter writing, so I am going to try to make this as short and simple as possible. Yesterday, I saw your license plate cover on what might have been the most important day of my life. Yesterday morning I woke up with new ideas. There was a flux of new knowledge pouring into me and swimming around. It was something that is foreign to me. It was a new world, far from the apathy of me that appeared in front of me.

Then there was a fall. I actually had to put forth effort to focus on the road while pushing back oncoming tears. This still was new to me. Any emotion pretty much is.

Yesterday, November 2nd, 1994, I slammed into the rear end of a vehicle. As cold-hearted as it may seem, this victim's misfortune isn't the issue here. Though he or she was being hauled off in a stretcher, the only object that I could pay my attention to was his or her license plate cover, for your association.

"Need a new world? Don't we all? - 201 277 0882"

Reading this felt like a miracle. I felt as if whatever this is relies on a complete understanding of life and time. I feel like you understand my need. Who are you?

Sincerely,
Alexander Trumsey

Part I: The Trumsey Epistolary
A Regret to Inform

Mr. Trumsey,

In response to your letter, I regret to inform you that the license plate cover you saw was for New World Auto. It is a used car place. But these aging, sputtering vehicles are anything but "new." And I've been working here for years and in fact it it's gotten quite old. So I suppose it's ironic that you've written in search of a "new world" because you're not likely to find one here.

However, something has just occurred to me. It's strange that you should write at such a time. I've been quite troubled myself, for a number of reasons, the more personal of which I won't get into just yet. But I've been troubled nonetheless.

I hate my job. This may seem like a trivial problem, but you have no idea… I'd love to find a new world myself; it's funny that here is where I'm stuck. Call it a rut if you will, if you can tolerate the cliché. Really it's much more than that, more than a rut. You could say that I've been searching for something. A purpose perhaps, something other than this mind-numbing, lie-tossing job where I get paid to deceive people. And I don't even get paid that well. Trying to convince people that they're getting a good deal, when I know that in a year or less, their investment will be more trouble than it was ever worth, well, that's not my idea of a good time. In fact, it makes me sick. You see, I think that what I need now is an escape. I would like to dive deep into a world of change and thought. I would like to live my life, rather than watch it slip away, pieces of it packed away in the musty trunk of each car I sell.

But that aside, where I'm really going with this is that I think this is something. You, I mean. Something new. I don't know what this could be, and I know that this isn't what you were expecting when you first wrote to me, but we should meet. I feel that we should. Maybe it would be good for the both of us. I think so.

Sincerely,
Karen

Part I: The Trumsey Epistolary
Japanese Beetles

To Whom It May Concern,

Four years ago, around Autumn, I went on a trip to a city called Matsuyama on the island of Shikoku, Japan. The company I work for sent me to this city to attend a meeting with several big-boss Japanese executives for some new telecommunication technologies that the company was considering adopting. The reason I was there is mildly unimportant. All you need to know was that I was on a paid vacation in exchange for virtually no work.

Matsuyama is a beautiful city on the western coast of Shikoku. Though the city flourishes with capitalist-like business and international marketing, the outskirts is still comprised of small villages where the population maintains a more "traditional" style of living. Though modernly, the people of Japan pay little or no attention to religion, or even the religious history of their culture, the outskirts of Matsuyama contains pockets of deeply religious followings of the ancient faiths of Japan. I don't know much about religion in general, but on my trip, I was slightly educated in Japanese beliefs.

On one of my mornings with no work to be done, I decided to travel out of the city to the coast for some sight-seeing. Around noon, I happened upon a small Shinto temple approximately fifteen miles from the coast. The temple was incredible. It was made entirely of a dark stone, and sat dormant atop a peak among a sea of green hills. Behind it, a natural spring bubbled at the trough of a waterfall. Even though the priesthood is very loose in Shinto, the men coming in and out of the temple seemed very conservative and organized about their practices.

I felt something when observing this temple that I rarely feel… Enjoyment. It put me in a state of mild euphoria to see something so ancient being put into full practice and remaining in such a quiet isolation. I thought at that moment that it would be best to let this feeling coarse through me as long as I could, so I sat on an adjacent hill to the one that the temple sat on and simply watched the Shinto practices.

In the middle of my third cigarette, a man approached me. He was American or European it seemed, tall, with deep brown hair and bright blue eyes. He stood next to me silent for a time, observing as I was, until he finally spoke.

"The Kagura," he said plainly. I glanced inquiringly at him. He raised his hand to point to the eastern side of the temple to a circle of four teenage girls in pink kimonos. A man weaved in between them in some sort of priestly orange robe with brown cords and tassels. On the border of all of them were two men plucking and strumming an instrument that the Japanese call the "Pipa." The dance that these people were performing was very elaborate and rhythmic.

"It's an offer to the gods to bring a lost spirit back to the faith. Someone gave the belief a try… It must have failed the poor guy."

This man, Andrew Mare, sat with me until the evening and described the Shinto religion to me in more detail, pointing out the rituals that happened and the logic and spirituality behind them. He educated me about "The Way of the Gods" in great detail. He left abruptly, after a brief goodbye, and walked into the distance until he was out of sight.

I was reminded of this encounter last night upon working our situation out in my head. What Andrew mentioned about the Kagura seems entirely relevant to my current situation. It may be my powerful pessimism coming out to berate me, but I feel as if I must consider these things before a final decision can be made.

What I'm trying to say is that I am going to give this a try. I am going to commit to believing you. My negative side tells me that you are seeking countless pathetic bids of attention by employing a cheap façade. But at this point, I am taking risks. I refuse to deny anything without first diving deep into it. What this means is that if I lose this… If I fall away, the only thing you will be able to do for me is a Kagura.

When I was in Matsuyama, I noticed how similar the city streets were to New York City, a place that I visit often because of my work. It is incredible to me that even a place that harbors a temple of an ancient, minimalist religious practice can also harbor such a materialism less than thirty miles away. The streets of Matsuyama are filled with businessmen, walking in perfect step with each other to this building, and that building, while the hills of Matsuyama are dotted with the dance of the Ancients. "The end of the human race will be that it will eventually die of civilization."

What do you think? I think there is a reason. I think that, objectively, these differences are small. I think that these insignificant differences will eventually all evolve into one causal whole. One event that will change the face of humanity, across cultures, faiths, or languages. I think that this transition, through its duration, is subtle, but definitely active. And this is why I choose to believe you. These observations that I have made is why I choose to believe you. All of this is why I choose to believe in you. My only fear is that the rest of the world, apart from those in this circle, will eventually have adequate reason to dance the Kagura for me.

I know that right now I will have trouble describing to you my analogy comparing the lesser of two worlds with those ******* Japanese beetles, so we must meet. I suggest we correspond to decide an appropriate place, where thoughts such as these are meant to be thought. A great American writer once said, "As a single footstep will not make a path on the earth, so a single thought will not make a pathway in the mind. To make a deep physical path, we walk again and again. To make a deep mental path, we must think over and over the kind of thoughts we wish to dominate our lives." I'll let you decide what he meant.

Signed,
Timothy Booth

Part I: The Trumsey Epistolary
Condolences

Dearest Timothy,

I am sorry for your loss. I understand that Alexander meant a great deal to you. Although he and I only corresponded once, I felt that we had a connection. Perhaps, it might seem strange and perhaps unlikely, for you who knew him so well, to believe me when I say that I love Alexander, when I myself have never actually met him.

The message he left me, his unfinished letter? Could you send it to me? It would mean a great deal to me. Clearly you figured out how to contact me in the first place, and I'm not quite sure why you would write to tell me about the letter without telling me at least briefly what it said. I believe this letter may hold the key to a mystery that has plagued my mind for years.

Just after I received and responded to Alexander's initial contact, something strange happened on my way into work one morning. I had just parked my truck around the back of the small building where the office is, when a gust of wind blew and a crumpled piece of paper danced across the lot towards me. I picked it up. It read, "Riberalta, Bolivia." And that was all, but it seemed like a sign of sorts.

I believe that Alexander has discovered something very important. And his letter may contain an indication of the knowledge he has gained. Therefore, it is imperative that I receive it.

I wonder what exactly prevented him from completing the letter.

Perhaps we can meet and discuss these issues.

Again, my condolences,
Karen

Part I: The Trumsey Epistolary
Mutual Masturbation is Expensive

Karen,

I am very very distressed. What the hell has happened to Alexander? Perhaps I am confused, or something has become of me that I can't explain, but I have a troubling force festering inside me, personifying itself to a point where it may have taken hold of me. I need you to explain these things to me because I have lost a very vital frame of reference and losing that has begun to interfere with imperative promises I have made to those that I am firmly intimate with.

I will describe the reason I need these explanations, but I'd like to begin by relaying a disclaimer of sorts. I am not Timothy Booth. I do not possess the conversational style or intellect the he possesses. I have understood the whole time that you prefer his thoughts and ideas over mine, and that you wish that I correspond through him. For this, I cannot do that. This is something that is deeply personal to me, not to mention something that may involve him directly based on my actions and your response. Please understand me when I tell you that I cannot display what my points are by oblong analogies or narratives, or by popping a quote at my close. I have a reason I must ask you the things I must ask you. Subsequently, I have a reason that I need to know the things that you know. And finally, there is something I question in the yawning center of myself. I am sorry if I speak to you improperly, but I expect you to understand my sentiments.

My question, in brief, is just the same as above: What exactly has happened to Alexander? I must know, Karen.

The Reason I ask:

Timothy, myself, and another that I'm almost positive you've had no acquaintance with (spare me the omnipotence ****) got together a few nights ago upon the request of Timothy. We had planned on studying some material for a while and executing some of the preparatory activities. In a manner of speaking, we fell off track and began our own transcendental activities, employing the use of heavy narcotic drugs. There was something different about this particular experience, and in midst of the confusion Timothy went a bit too far. And in going too far, we blindly agreed and hoped Alex would show up. I seem to remember him answering, but I may have imagined it. It doesn't seem like him to answer to anything really. It is difficult to explain, Karen, because to be in the craze or euphoria is unique.

The Reason I need to know:

You understand what all of this involves, so pardon the crude jargon, but we were participating in what sexual psychologists and all those other shrinks call "mutual masturbation." What partially made this experience unique was not that it was enjoyable, per se, but all of us understood one another. Alex was not there. And I believed that this connection supplied a physical product when we all ejaculated at the same exact moment in the Deep Sea of Time. Alex was not there. Though we felt like gods all throughout the night, I think that this connection provided a means to a collective realization of how this was not intended to happen, and that realization was that Alex was not there. I feel like even though I'm not corresponding to you through Timothy, that you absolutely understand.

That which I question myself:

I call it a question to myself, but I have been made aware that you can answer for me. What are you doing? If this is your sick pleasure Karen, rest assured that I will ******* kill you. Do you know why? It's because -

This is expensive.

Explain yourself, Karen. To me, not Timothy.

Signed,
Stanley

Part I: The Trumsey Epistolary
Such a Mother-******, I Need You

Hey you ******,

I'll send you the carton of cigarettes if that's what you're after. And I really don't give a **** about the sick sexual stuff you and your buddies get into. As to the discomfort you feel when I'm around, it's probably due to that last ******* letter you sent me. Don't even hand me that. Omnipotence?! I can't believe you. Ever since Alex passed away, you've been such a mother-******.

It doesn't seem like Alex to answer? Well according to everyone else, Alex didn't seem like Alex at all near the time of the accident. I've done my research, Timothy. His phone records say he made three forty minute calls to Bolivia three days before he died.

I think the authorities might be on to something. I don't know how. But it is important that I stress something to you: Never attempt to contact me in anyway other than these letters. And never say my name over the telephone. I don't want to get ******* imprisoned, Timothy. Not that the police would ever have any evidence of anything. And not that I've actually done anything… But the police and I have a history that I'd rather not get into just now.

Anyhow, the lines are probably tapped so I wouldn't risk talking about any of this if I were you. You're not quite in the position to be taking anymore risks, especially after what happened last time. Jesus, Tim.

If you can't tell, I'm a bit angry with you. But more than that, I'm worried. Be careful, Timothy. This is dangerous. And I know you said you love me, but **** is getting old. Once all of this blows over, maybe things will change. But until then, Tim, we'll just have to wait and see.

Again, Be careful. You aren't allowed to die yet, I need you.

Yours truly,
Karen

Part I: The Trumsey Epistolary
Three Sentences

Dear Alexander,

These three sentences are all I've been allowed to give you.

(1) It was incredible to see you again, after all this time.
(2) It's very very hot down there.
(3) I suspect we'll all be joining you soon, no matter how deep a hole you've dug for yourself.

With Love,
Karen

Part I: The Trumsey Epistolary
Love Always

Dear Karen,

I heard about you and Tim. And I'm okay with that. But you'll wake to find one day that Timothy Booth is gone, and I will be the only one left. For you anyway.

I knew you'd find me. I knew you'd piece it together. It just took longer than I had expected.

Please come to Riberalta. It's a New World.

Love Always,
Alexander

Part I: The Trumsey Epistolary
You ******* Bitch

Karen,

**** you. You never return my letters anymore. I know you're there though. You figured something out and you won't tell me, you ******* bitch.

Part I: The Trumsey Epistolary
Target, Delta, Raul's

4230 Burlington Way
Meadows, NJ. 07096




15 December 2001


Bank of Hudson
853 Kinellon Ave.
Meadows, NJ. 07096


To whom it may concern:

This letter is regarding account #49017

It has come to my attention that the following charges have been made to my credit account:

12/09/2001 TARGET------------$15.06
12/10/2001 DELTA AIRLINES----$672.85
12/13/2001 RAUL'S PAWN-------$108.50

I misplaced my card approximately 6 days ago. Please remove these charges from my account. Thank you.




Sincerely,
Charles Ramón

Part I: The Trumsey Epistolary
Male and Female He Created Them

Dear Karen,

In the King James Version of the Holy Bible, it is said in chapter one of Genesis, verses twenty-six and twenty-seven that, "God said, Let us make man in our image, after our likeness: and let them have dominion over the fish of the sea, and over the fowl of the air, and over the cattle, and over all the earth, and over every creeping thing that creepeth upon the earth.

So God created man in his own image, in the image of God created he him; male and female created he them."

And once upon a time, you taught us that there was nothing true about it. At one point, you were affirmed so strongly by what you believe.

It's been brought up to me that you don't want to hear any of my rants, so I'll just get straight to the point, as shallow as that makes me feel.

Stop it Karen. Just ******* stop it. These are the facts: Alexander Trumsey is dead. He died in an unfortunate automobile accident on November 2nd, 1994. Alexander Trumsey is in Hell. We have all seen him there. The only difference between the rest of us and you is that we have come to accept the things that we cannot change, no matter how strongly we believe we can.

Move on, Karen.

In the beginning, God created Karen Trumsey. He created her to destroy him. He created her to witness her bringing to the table a path of clarity for those who are willing to walk it. We are all willing to walk your path, even he who you yearn after so avidly. You have led us to enlightenment, and now the tale is told just as the book says: God creates Karen, Karen leads Man, God destroys Karen, and soon, man will destroy God.

For the sake of those you used to care about, if that even means anything to a ruthless bitch like you, please do not let this become more taxing than it already is. Come back. Drop every volatile plan or idea, and just come back. Whatever it is that you might be thinking about the situation in the States, just know that they can't find us. You have no reason to be where you are.

I am delivering this letter to you with someone I trust, if you even know what that word means.

Sincerely,
Timothy

Part I: The Trumsey Epistolary
It's Over

Timothy,

It's over, goodbye.

Karen

Part I: The Trumsey Epistolary
You Understand

Alex,

It seems as if it was you I was missing from the very start. And then I found you, or rather, you found me. But then you left. To Bolivia. I had no why idea at the time. But now I understand, it all makes so much sense.

You thought your sister was dead. And then I thought you were dead. You, my brother. How did you find out by the way?

I thought I was in love with you, Alexander, but I knew that our distance would make things difficult if not impossible. But now it seems there was another reason that things could never be. Considering my feelings for you, I do not know if it is safe that we meet as we had planned so very long ago. You understand. I know you do.

On that fateful day, you saw the plate cover for New World Auto, and there it began. But really it had started so long before then.

As for the meaning of life, Alex, I've figured it out. I'll tell you in my next letter. The suspense is killing you, I know.

Love,
Karen

Part I: The Trumsey Epistolary
Your Sister is Dead

Alexander,

Your sister is dead.

Anonymous

Part II: Letters to God
Part II: Letters to God

Part II: Letters to God
The Flesh of Your Loved Ones

Dear Edgar,

"Ten years ago, on this very day, marked the beginning of a device designed to murder hundreds of millions of innocent souls," said this man to the eager crowd shuddering in the dark. The air attracts scents of gasoline into the senses of the cold, lifeless figures.

"There will come a day, and soon, that this will be your life. You will leave for work feeling on top of the world, looking just fine in your business suit with your briefcase, and when you leave for work, your wife and children will not see you come home. In fact, they will never see you again." The old black man lets his head hang, staring at his shoes. No one believes the content of his words, but trusts fully in his serene, faultless devotion to his speech.

"Our shells will lose the ability to see without electricity, and that will be the first thing to go, driving back from work. You'll stare intrigued at the telephone wires around you when you feel their impact on your skull. They will begin to drive you into a world where the streets run red with all that can make them run."

"You will almost feel your soul being ripped from your body as your loved one's spawn will be ripped from hers. Your children will stand back, taking caution in a nameless fear as the one who sent them into the corruption bleeds from the means of their descent. And, yes sir, while you are torn away, a vehicle will strike yours…"

The freezing people are now whispering to each other, wondering where this man is going, wondering if his words are safe for their children who tug impatiently at their parents shirts wishing to be home.

"This is when you will die, just a little, but you will turn from your blackness to see that the drivers of the cars around you have been taken away leaving nothing but their blood and their dry skeletal husks. You will find that it is on this day that the beginning will occur. And from now on, you'll communicate in desiccated heaves and hoarse remnants of language in an alphabet that has been lost with your insides."

Several of these people have left this man to believe whatever he wishes, denouncing him harshly on the way out. They would rather be out of his presence than pay for their fuel.

"This is the day that you will find nothing in your bank but fire and nothing in your wallet but the pain of those you have deceived all of your life, and you will do nothing but draw your curtain closed and feed on the flesh of your loved ones. That is all you have to eat."

The attendant at the counter of the gas station steps in valiantly with, "Sir, I think it's time you leave. These people are just waiting to pay for their gas, they don't want your doomsday ****."

The man with beady white eyes looks to him and kindly states, "I haven't paid for my gas."

To which the attendant returns, "It's on me. Out."

As the old man leaves, he smiles saying, "I feel like I need to leave anyway. Something tells me I don't belong here."
And as the old man leaves quietly and people thank the attendant who brags about how he'll have the man arrested for not paying for his fuel, the world focuses on the "doomsday prophet" trotting away as the electricity on the block returns to life and the gas station erupts into flames behind him.

I'm sure you know what I mean Edgar. I'm at the Scottish Rite. I've killed Alexander. I am delivering this message to you through someone I trust.

Respond to me Edgar, we must meet.

Sincerely,
Quentin Trumsey

Part II: Letters to God
I Am Your Gardener

Hello Quentin,

So he is dead? Good. Excellent, rather. As for Karen, I'm glad she "killed herself", less for us to do. Although, I'm sure we will have to reckon with that eventually. But there are other concerns we should attend to first.

We have so much more to do, my friend. Oscar and Charles. They must go as well. Traitors and Fiends have a special place in Hell. And what a delicious satisfaction it will bring when we finally send them there. They will all be staring at us from Hell, Quentin. Ice cold eyes, wreathed in flame.

Although they will suffer indefinitely, torture will come to us as well. I have no doubt that they will try to contact us, and we cannot avoid this. Nor can we ignore it, to do so would be to nurture disaster. Hmm…Sounds good doesn't it?

Two nights ago while I was nursing a rum and coke, I began to think on recent events. Life and death are curious abstractions aren't they, Quentin? Which is more valuable? Life or death? This is difficult, because without life one cannot die, nor can one kill. Yet without death, what point is there in living? And the ability to take lives? Is it a desirable trait? Yes. I would not trade it for any worldly or otherworldly wealth. The ability to take lives is the ultimate power. Is it worth the haunting voices? Yes. I have become so accustomed to them that in their absence I fear I would collapse.

They are burning, Quentin. Flames devour their flesh. Alexander was the first. The martyr. The catalyst. The beginning.

We will be the end of them all.

You are the snake bearer, Quentin. And I, I am your gardener.

Yours Truly,
Edgar

Part II: Letters to God
Eccentric Apocalyptic Ideals

Quentin,

All who were great in history had an exodus. This is my exodus. I never want to come in contact with your eccentric apocalyptic ideals again. I am done. It is irrelevant whether my exodus from you and your insane colleagues is my fault or yours.

Never write to this address again.

Charles

Part II: Letters to God
God

Dear God,

Of course, I'm sure you've never been addressed like this before. God. But I figure if I write to you this way, I will be able to convey what I mean more efficiently. I believe that what I tell you is something of a prayer. A prayer to the only person I believe in. To the only person I'll ever believe in. The others have been trudging through my direction, my path, and because of that, believe in me. They are your followers Mr. Ramon, not mine.

I have done a brutal thing, but I don't care. They can tell me whatever they want to convince me of a reason why I lead them, but the real reason is quite obvious. So, in turn, I have persuaded them that I believe only in Alexander and no other. I am going to tell you the truth, and you are the only person to whom I tell the truth. I hate them for their stupidity. Alexander Trumsey is dead. Timothy said it himself. So, why is it that they still rely on him for their fucked up ideals about the path to righteousness and all the things of that sort? I think it's because they are exactly like Alexander: robots of arrogance. Robotic and lacking tact.

Is this a sin? My twisted game may transform into something expensive to them of course, but their blindness is inconsolable. Their blindness creates a wall separating fantasy and reality that they feel they do not have to cross. They oppose false gods that they don't even understand.

As for you, God, you are a mystery to me. I am beginning to wonder if there are others that play my games to my greatest disfavor. Perhaps you do Charles? My point is, I still don't even know who you are. I am apathetic of my brother's death and the things I have done to others, his friends, and I do these things in exchange for your love and affection. I need to see you. I need to feel you. At first, I was spellbound by the "stranger in the night" façade, and it made love-making outstanding, but now Mr. Ramon, I must know you, inside and out.

Consider my offer. Bring her to me. You are my God.

Love Always,
Karen

P.S. I must borrow your credit card, please send it with your next letter.