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An Exchange (November 20, 2009.  Issue 11.)

Tammy Kitchen writes about her friend, the late Harvey Goldner, a man who really and truly came unstuck in time and is lurking on hard drives and in e-mail threads all over the internet. - The Legendary

One day, I received a poem in my email. Just that and nothing more. The subject line read "poem fo miz tammy." I'd never heard of him before. Never read his work. Emailed him back and told him I liked the poem. The next day, I received another, then another and another. Every day but Sunday. I started sending him stories. This was when I was still writing. I sent him stories, he sent me poems, and for a long time, we never spoke.

I'm always struck by the differences between his words and mine. It's not just the focus and style. It's experiential and generational. He would send me these poems and emails that were part true and part not. Which part was true was up to the reader. And I aspired. Most of the time I fell flat on my face, but still I aspired.

He did this. He'd send an email out of the blue to someone he didn't know the way he did with me. Some of them would respond the way I did. I wonder how many people have things like this saved on their hard drives. I wonder how many people he inspired.

It wasn't just his words, but the words of others he shared. "Is it okay if I show this to someone?" he'd ask and he must have asked that often because I read a lot of words by other people I'd never read before. At least I think he asked. It's hard to remember, as dizzying as it was. There are too many emails to dig through. Every day, something new and almost always with a little bit of magic.

In semi-related news, I found this when I was browsing for poets connected to Harvey. It's from 6 Days in West Seattle Psychiatric Hospital by Crysta Casey.

We are lined up, sitting in chairs, or on the floor, about seven of us, near the nursing station... one person talks on the phone. He says, "You gonna die?" "Maybe next month?" Dennis says to Ivan, "Your job is to find me a wife." "There are catalogues for that," replies Ivan.

Juan T: The Truth About Harvey

Dear Tammy:

My name is Juan Tupamara. I am 14 years old. I was born in a village in a Central American jungle. My papa, Juan Grande, was the village shaman. My mother, Juanita, was the village shamanette, or, if you prefer, the village shawoman. They were both murdered by a coalition consisting of the CIA, Texaco, and some corrupt locals who had a bit too much Spanish blood and a bit too much tequila in it: "a coalition of the drilling" as Harvey used to call them (that's right, I did). I was adopted (you were bought, actually) by a couple who appeared to be Christian missionaries from New Mexico, Lester & Lisa Hogg. When I was 12 years old, I saw my "parents" in the basement of our home, hanging upside- down from an exercise bar, and I knew they were vampires, so I ran away from the little town of Carlsbad, and hitchhiked to Seattle, hoping to become a rock&roll star or a Microsoft computer programmer. There, at an all-ages poetry open-mic, I met a gruesome geezer named Harvey Goldner. He seemed to me to be completely insane, and when he told me that he had had a vision which convinced him that he would be killed in a head-on car crash with a garbage truck in the spring of 2005, I was sure of it. He said he needed my help, and in exchange he would give me his poetry, his computer, and some pristine Sun-label Elvis 45's. While his poetry seemed like worthless crap to me (don't say that, you little shit) and his computer was an old piece of junk, I really wanted the Elvis 45's, so I agreed. He sent me to Memphis to pick up an old Mason jar, not just any Mason jar, but one which had belonged to his mother, and in which, in the '40s, she had canned peaches. I found one in a thrift store on Beale St, recognizing it by its aura, a kind of reddish-gold peach aura, just as Harvey had described. When I returned to Seattle, Harvey pickled some peyote buttons in the jar, saying, "My soul will live in this jar after I'm killed by the garbage truck." His death was reported on the evening news (local only-big f ing deal). The jar sits on top of this computer. Harvey is able, from time to time, to convey messages (and don't forget it, kid) by influencing the computer, which is far more sensitive than a ouija board (sure is). He wants to move from the jar into the body of a goldfinch, but is worried about cats (murderous bastards). He has asked me to write you this. I told him: once Tammy finds out you're a dead man, merely a ghost inhabiting a jar full of pickled peyote buttons, she'll drop you .(look here, Juan, Tammy's true blue: she won't care if I'm only a ghost in a jar of pickled peyote buttons; just send the f ing e- mail).

Dear Juan,

I had hoped to respond to you in kind, but that may have to wait until tomorrow. Here's what happened:

I sat down at my desk and opened my notebook (because I often write long hand) so I could write some prose inspired by Harvey's earlier email, but unbeknownst to me, the cat (murderous bastard!) had removed all the screws from my nice office chair. I fell, as the cat had hoped I would (I saw him in the corner. He was grinning at me and flipping his tail). I twisted my toes and sprained the arch of my foot and had to spend the evening begging strangers for painkillers since the tylenol and advil I took did me no good. I can't possibly write if I can't walk, right? So I had to beg strangers for painkillers and finally found someone willing to give me half a four-year-old vicodin.

Now, I can't afford to take illegal drugs and I don't often drink--I forget to buy liquor when I'm at the store--so I have a low tolerance. You can imagine what that stale vicodin did to me. I felt much better, but suddenly became very thirsty. I went to the kitchen to get a gallon of water and while I was there, I became very hungry. I cooked up some macaroni and cheese (Kraft was on sale for 33 cents, so I have a ton of it) and sat in front of the computer to check my email while I ate. It was then that I received your message.

So there I was, loopy on half a four-year-old vicodin and three gallons of water, with my mouth full of Kraft cheesiest mac&cheese. Surely you can see how this was a problem. I apologize for laughing. I really was saddened by your predicament (though happy to see you got the elvis 45s) and by Harvey's--and it wasn't really a laugh at all, but more like a giggle (I really do apologize).

I'm glad you were able to escape your vampiric owners (um, adoptive parents) and that you were able to locate a mason jar that belonged to Harvey's mother so that he may have a familiar place to exist. It was the pills and not your email that caused me to giggle, which in turn caused me to choke on my mac&cheese with hamburger in it and now I don't want it anymore. Rest assured the cat will pay once I find his catnip ball and dispose of it.

Harvey was right (you should have more faith in him. He could teach a lot to a young one such as yourself). If he knew he would be killed by a garbage truck in 2005, then of course he knew I wouldn't care if he were a ghost. I don't mind geezers nor ghosts (as a matter of fact, there was one next to my bed one night--a ghost, that is--but that's a story for another day).

Please give Harvey my regards and tell him I said please don't move into the body of a goldfinch. I would not like for him to be done in by a cat.

Sincerely,

Tammy

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My Dear Miss Tammy:

I can see from your delightful e-mail that my pet crow, Lister Crowley, has been AT IT AGAIN. I can assure you that I am very much alive, and that there is no such person as "Juan Tupamara." Let me explain: About a year ago, as I was walking to the corner store to purchase a few cans of salmon for my beloved kitty, TABS, I saw, in the gutter, the body of a crow. I thought it was dead, and I began to contemplate the pathetic mortality of all God's creatures (mainly myself), and continued on to the store. Returning home, I again saw the crow, and noticed that its beak was moving, as if it was trying to speak, as if it was trying to tell me something. My heart was touched, and I picked up the wounded crow, and put it in the sack along with the cans of salmon, and took it to the neighborhood vet. The vet kept the crow, which I named Lister Crowley, for two days, doing nothing more, I suspect, than cleaning it a bit, and charged me 300 bucks, money I'd been saving, penny by penny, for a mountain bike. Anyway, seemingly unable to fly, Lister Crowley, would perch on my shoulder as I would sit at my computer composing a poem or an e-mail. For some reason, vanity doubtless, this would make me feel quite special & literary. Then one day, with Lister on my shoulder, I was listening to an audio of some ham actor Englishman reciting Poe's "The Raven," and everything changed. Lister began to speak, saying: "I aint no fucking crow, I'm a raven goddamn it, and my name aint Lister, it's Prince Raven, and I'm a poet, a French poet, and a member of the aristocracy, and I'm sick of white trash like you and yellow trash like your stupid ass cat." Anyway, using its beak, Prince Raven, formerly known as Lister Crowley, has learned to operate my computer. Hence the recent e-mail to you from the fictional Juan. I suppose the moral of this true story is: "Kindness, without the perception of the RESULT of that kindness, can be tragic, or at least a real drag." More later. H

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Dearest Harvey,

I was so happy to read that you're still alive--a tangible being--that I could not speak. I don't mind ghosts (and I don't think you're a geezer except in the eyes of a 14-year- old and if I were a man, he'd think I was a geezer too) and, in fact, I would have more ghost friends if I could understand a word they said to me. Communication would certainly be easier if they would learn how to use the computer. But all that doesn't matter now because you are HERE and ALIVE!

I understand how you would feel special and literary with Lister perched on your shoulder. Any other bird and I would have been inclined to feel like a pirate and probably behave like one, but a black bird.... Black birds are special indeed. However, Lister should be more careful. What he perceives as playing may in fact be harmful to someone else (as if he cares). You see, about six years ago (six years, five months, three hours, and twelve minutes, to be exact), my lover was killed in a collision with a garbage truck. It was a head on collision, but probably not the way you are thinking.

Every morning we'd set the alarm very early and after a round of rough and tumble, James and I would go for a jog. So there we were, running down the street one morning when we came upon the garbage truck. It was stopped and the garbage man had jumped out, leaving his door open, to empty a trash can into the back of the truck. James and I moved to the middle of the street in order to go around the truck and while we were alongside it, I tripped over an ice cream cone some careless mother had given a careless child for breakfast. The child must not have wanted it or maybe he had dropped it. Either way, it was in the middle of the street and I was so busy looking at James that I tripped over it and fell into James who fell head first into the garbage truck door that the garbage man had so carelessly left open. The paramedics did everything they could, but James was gone, his spirit turned to vapor right in front of me.

For a while afterward, I dated the garbage man. It turns out he wasn't so bad, but then he began to suspect I was with him only because the smell of his work clothes reminded me of James. Tim, the garbageman, couldn't live with that, so he left me for the dirty blonde down the street. I see them every day with their quadruplets and Tim never leaves a vehicle door open.

As you can see, I'm very bitter about this, which is why Lister Crowley must be more careful. If he wishes to be a raven, then he must not lower himself to the level of a crow. But like I said, none of that is important now. All that matters to me, my dear Harvey, is that you are alive and TANGIBLE and that you write some more of that lovely poetry.

All the best,

Tammy

Emily's permission:

Thank you Tammy for writing about your relationship with my Dad.  It's fine to have the email exchange published, I'm sure he would have loved that.  Yes, great if you could send it to me first though.

I miss him very much and am glad he lives on through his work (and our memories of him...)

Take care and thank you again,

Emily