Good afternoon — Note in a Bottle 5

Joe Nasta

Published in

The Operating System & Liminal Lab

6 min readMar 30, 2022

photos of cars and lizard with cigarette

Double J Saloon

Good afternoon,

I’ve been talking to dead people — sometimes out loud! I’m drinking a Bloody Mary at Double J’s on Lake City Way thinking about youthful American masculinity at 3 PM in the afternoon. I’m obsessed with someone who seems to glorify it, calls it pure and innocent. I don’t know if I agree, but I do see the gleam: Earlier this week my coworker was so shocked I am in the Navy that he followed up, wanted to hear more. Multiple times that I’ve dressed more heteromasculine-conforming to work, my manager has pointed out my appearance. I’m not good at being in the Navy but maybe I’m great at dressing like it. I guess considering myself as one type of “American” or another has shaped the ways I perceive myself, and I acknowledge the ways I am expected to present my image to the world. I’m interested in why a specific type of ideal masculinity seems to be glorified and it’s made me want to investigate who and what I worship.

I’ve also been wondering about how I have performed different pieces of myself at different moments in my life, with particular attention paid to the nostalgia I feel for versions of myself I am reluctant to return to without humor or irony. I was fascinated by the joy I felt revisiting my younger self, wore shirts that used to be my favorites, and spent time considering the ways I’ve changed but also been able to discover traces of myself that have always been here.

Reprise performance of “Young American Male”

Red-blooded ode to yr freedom
Do you like my outfit, bro?
I wore red, white, and blue
to pose in the mirror athletically.
My coworker complimented my arms
because I’m always sleeveless
reaching above my head for no reason.
Did you notice I’ve been working out?
I swear I can be your good sport:
It’s possible I owe the government half
a million dollars or my life expectancy.
When you hum National Anthem
the vibrations shake opposite corners
of this gorgeous country, my split molar
and the fleshy gap between my lungs.
The only thing I love about America is you
and your delicious freedom to ignore me.

I found these pieces of wood on the side of the road on a night walk with Al in Lake City. It had rained all day, which was a relief after almost two weeks of unbearable bright. The temperature stayed warm because this is the spring rain when Seattle remembers she can be purple. The wood was soaking wet, cut into planks (now I am wondering if I stole someone’s stuff, but why was it sopping wet on the curb?) I’ve been painting driftwood tombstones for ideas I have tried to worship, labeling them with men’s names. Put it to rest, babe! haha I’m trying to stop thinking about them but from what I’ve seen on TikTok, carving their names into wood is probably more of a love spell than an expulsion.

painting on wood plank — driftwood tombstone 1 — Tony

Dear Kate Ellen:

There is something else you do not know. I have never been to the desert but imagine myself there in the winter, when it is not warm. I am afraid of you but I haven’t been able to escape you. Why are you following me? Why do I see you everywhere and what is the anger we feel together? After three months to finish your book I skipped the last line but I started it! Both days smoldering on rooftops, in water, on the day after and the day before long journeys. Arrival and departure.

I don’t want to leave anymore so I will continue returning. How do you connect with the physical when you’d rather rise smokey into the clouds? I lowered myself into the soaking pool, cold water and the sound of the fountain burning whitesnow into my ears. Or, I only dipped my feet in and realized I had no idea what to search for. Anyway, I cried and texted M. that you feel like mother. I find your work too powerful to hold between my hands so I let it enter the air and practice moving the steam with my mind until it condenses on breath. I feel myself expand inside changing air temps.

Love,

Joseph Rocco

Dear Joe,

There is something you do not know. I am not afraid of you but writing to you now I realized that I should be, which makes me incredibly sad. This letter is eerily similar to stunts I’ve pulled before, back when I first read The Vermont Notebook, forgot your name, and spent time with your friend John. Maybe the non-fear I feel with you, the blue streaks I can see in the wind and the burst of hydration that comes when I swallow them, are good signs. I’ve never had a friend like you before so I’ll try not to ruin. Can I ask you a question please? How do you feel hope inside of fear?

Tanks,

Joey B.

I started writing emails to a living person who may or may not be reading them. I hope he is, but a part of me doesn’t even want a response because however unbearable it feels, it’s still easier to continue not knowing. I also made a series of paintings to him called “subtweets after John Ashbery and some other guy.” What effect do unread messages, expired QR codes, and non-hyperlinked text in Instagram comments have on a viewer or reader? Does the intent behind the message still reach the desired audience and will the energy we embed into non-communication still reach the person it is directed toward or anyone else who engages with the art object?

screenshot of email with QR code — a blue painting

Email sent box to loveandotherpoems@gmail.com — Email performance of “The Reader”

series of multimedia paintings — subtweets after John Ashbery and some other guy

Subtweet (wide windows)
In the morning, the blue turned
to green & the light became yellow.
That’s the answer : No,
neither :: a boat because
I already have the map
& your spring coefficient.
Babe, I’m on my way back now.