In this note to a friend in Jordan, the idea of traveling to the Congo to gove a guitar to a msuician in the jungle comes up, suddenly, out of nowhere:
Sue was here last night until 4 a.m. cracking the whip over me while I designed her polo society DVD. My own projects whined like orphaned dogs, and she kept assuring me she would do whatever I needed as payback, and at one point when she made another offer I told her, Get me the schoolgirl arsonist, and she laughed but she didn't say no problem but she did say Shit it's her birthday and I offered to call but neither could find your number in the desert or in the city. We are cooking, slowly, the God Died in Hiroshima movie idea, because the idea has latched onto me and refuses to go away like other ideas. This movie needs a certain matchstick moxie, if you understand my drift.
I am supposed to be in Addis and Kampala (and in November in Bwindi Forest to deliver a guitar to a genius among the gorillas who has never heard the radio or had a proper instrument but who could still sue Paul Simon for lousy imitations), and then Iceland for the Borealis this winter, and maybe Easter Island with my photo pal Helmuth. No Galapagos, otherwise I'd trek over to bring you along!