Notes From the Underground — 17

Dearest All, 

I send you this note from the very center of St. Petersburg, ripe city of riveting ideas and transformation. Behind me you'll see the grand Winter Palace, the Alexander Column and an arch with large horses and a chariot upon it, a Russian tradition I have found to be quite exhilarating. I should think a chariot and horses improves just about anything one attaches them to. I have made a note to incorporate this into my professional life. I believe it has the potential to improve my image drastically. 

I have concealed my Manifesto De Nude among the human's things, and plan to slip it into a place of honor amoung the treasures of the Hermitage Museum. Great men do not wait for idle publishers to recognize their work. They thrust it into the world, and let it live in glorious infamy, rippling through the ages. 

Oh, such dreams have I, such grand, grand dreams. 

Under no delusions, 

Naked Man

Notes From the Underground — 16

Dear What's Your Faces, 

I have found new confidence at the outskirts of Moscow's Prospect Mir, where tributes to greatness abound. I feel as if destiny has led me to this place. I can't help but notice that I resemble a certain gentleman widely celebrated by statuary in this grand country. In fact if I donned an overcoat and cap I think these fine tourists may mistake me for the founder of the Bolsheviks himself. 

I should hate to confuse them. I will remain nude.  

In the mean time, as the Georgia Review reconsiders that which they first cast aside, I have begun work on a manifesto. This may surprise you, as it's a break from my usual intellectual humility. But I find that it's time to shed the cloth of my creative uniformity, and share the true depths of my heart. 

Cloistered no more, 

Naked Man

Notes From the Underground — 15

Dear Followers, 

Today I received correspondence from the Georgia Review in the form of electronic mail. It was less than satisfactory. If my epic poetry is "derivitive," if my voice is "pompous" and "confusing," then I'm a G.I. Joe. (To be clear, I look nothing like Joe, and my epic verse is exquisite.)  

I shall retire now to this place of God, nestled at the edge of Moscow, to pray for Stephen Corey and his journal. He needs my support now more than ever. As his name is emblazoned upon my flesh, I fail to understand how he could forsake me now. I fear for him.

With great piety, 

Naked Man

P.S. — I was asked to leave the church shortly after entering. Something about proper attire. But I remain devoted to both my spiritual journey and saving the G. Review from certain peril. 

Notes From the Underground — 14

Dear Far Flung Friends,

I write to you from the top of a sky scraper, overlooking Moscow's famous Arbat Street. The human bid me balance precariously on this edge, seeming to value my safety less than a menial photo opportunity. She vexes me to the highest degree. 

As I await news from the esteemed editors at the Georgia Review, I am looking for love in the busy streets of Moscow. I have already dated several matrioshka dolls, and find them to be incredibly engaging and mystifying creatures. Just when you think you've gotten to know them, you discover an entire other layer, more complex and delicate than the one previous. It is a delight. 

Na zdrovye,

Naked Man

Notes From the Underground — 13

Dear Brothers and Sisters in Turmoil,

My writing has taken a turn for the fantastic. This last day upon the train has catapulted me into a vortex of epic storytelling that both inspires and terrifies me. As I careen across the Russian countryside, I travel even deeper into the grand and caustic territories of my soul. It is glorious. My calisthenics are paying off as well, as many hours grappling with The Pen is taxing to say the least. 

The human has been face down on the bunk for hours now. May she stir no more. Meanwhile, I leave you with this visage of my creative output. I intend to put the finishing touches on it tonight, and ship it express to the Georgia Review. 

With a sense of near accomplishment, 

Naked Man

Notes From the Underground — 12

Dear Ones,

Ere the dawn of day breaks night darkness

And finds me moving swift across the Asian continent

The soul demands of the body constant movement

Within movement. And thus begins a new routine

A round of calesthenics to greet the day by. 

Feet fastened quick to carriage netting

I will lift myself toward the heavens one thousand times.

Heart quickening, abdominals thickening, 

En route to Moscow with a slick sheen of ambition,

The rails and my spirit quest a single hot line. 

With fervent inspiration, 

Naked Man