Father,
 
There is no time for pleasantries, so I will be blunt. There are dark clouds on the horizon for the next 120 years. It is no surprise that I have been dwelling on Von lately, unwilling to listen to the bright, energetic tracks found on Með suð í eyrum við spilum endalaust. But I digress! It pains me to think of all the once-strong allegiances that I imagine are now in tatters…
 
Like these allegiances, my sleep last night was hardly peaceful and whole. I could hardly rest for a whole half of an hour (or a half of a whole hour; as I have notified you in writing before, these two sayings are equivalent). I woke up repeatedly in a foul mood, as my dreams put me in mind of a man I imagined who is named Qasim Rosenblatt. Qasim is a dangerous man, though his hands are unsullied by callouses. The power of Qasim Rosenblatt lies in his bilious sneer. The blind, powerless rage he causes me sends me into a Fit.
 
Nothing exists except for as a result of the past; such is the chain of life. There Is no morality to it, nor is there allowance for intention. Just as a meteor striking a planet can cause an extinction in a matter of seconds, which can lay the bed for distinct future life to flourish and thrive, my bad sleep and foul mood have caused me not to wish to see a Parade today. If a parade is on the docket for today, I ask you simply not to inform me. If you are planning to watch it on television, I ask only that you watch it in the parlour, which is the farthest room from my chambers, and to subtly suggest I turn my music on without suggesting it in such a way that I know intuitively that it is because you are going to watch the parade. My second request is related to the first. I am aware you are not familiar with the music of Sigur Ros, so I will state this simply for you: if the music I choose pairs well with a crisp Pilsner, that means my mood has improved, although certainly not enough to watch a parade. If it pairs with a rich Barleywine, I will not be taking dinner this evening, and would you please moderate your water consumption as I will be drawing a Bath within the hour.
 
From your son,

Dennis Algiers

Letter To My Father 1

Father, the blossoming of the pussywillows is imminent; it's ocurrence will alert me to the fact that spring will have had sprung. Spring is a time of new beginnings, but new beginnings that tend to follow a cycle. With that in mind, I will let you know, as I let you know every year, that I will not be listening to Takk, Hvarf, or Heim, and will instead listen to Kveikur, Með suð, and the perennial Agaetis Byrjun. 

Not all is flowery in the early days of spring. I regret to inform you that I have imagined a repulsive man named Hector Moakes. Oh father, if his name didn't, the oily fingerprints on his blue camisole should tell you he is a Mechanic, with hands made rough from work. I dread him asking me "What's the matter with [me]" as he observes me sitting on the floor to put both of my shoes on. 

But enough about Hector. I do have a small request. It is my desire that, over the next few weeks, Shepherd's Pie (or Cottage Pie, as aunt Beatrice calls it) a) be known as Denton's Pie within the house, and b) not be served, as it is simply too rich and heavy for the upcoming season. 

Your son,
Dennis

Letter To My Father 2

ather, 

Though I oft appear stoic, I must confess that the changing of seasons has a strong effect on my mood. Spring is near to having had sprung, which breaks me free from Winter's depression.  I try to make all my decisions rationally and ethically, putting human life first, but my emotions do get in the way. With that in mind, let me tell you what the changing of seasons has given me cause to reconsider. 

1. Danarfregnir og jarðarfarir 
2. Rafmagnið búið 
3. A play I imagined called "The Royal Prince"
4. óveður

There is a simple rule to divine my current opinion on these matters. Simply take my expected opinion, judged based on two opinions I have on similar topics, possibly correcting for any contaminations of the topics at hand by factoring out my opinion on that. Then, simply revert my previous opinion around my expected opinion. For example, if I found Óveður unfavourable, simply consider that I found Hraftinna ethereal and Was fond of Isjaki. Then subtract the unfavourable percussion, which you know I find tiring based on my opinion of Olsen Olsen, to determine I like Ovedur less than expected. Flipping that about it's expected value, you will see that I find it revelatory and brisk. I shan't waste my time telling you my thoughts. 

Now that a man I have imagined named Abraham Quain could no longer possibly be reading, I must tell you that I have grown quite weary of his boorish manners. However, I am not so sure that the previous paragraph has bored him enough that he could not continue that I will utter mortal threats about him. Salut, Abraham!

Father, i may be the next millionaire of the house! I have come up with an idea called "Dynamic Factor Returns". Please implement "Dynamic factor returns" at your fund and pay me a reasonable portion for my idea. 

March's blessings,
Dennis

Letter To My Father 3

Letter To My Father 4

Father, 

Rejoice, for the scent of the lilacs permeates the air, alerting all who live in this world that spring, previously near to having had sprung, has done so. This is a season of new beginnings to be sure, but also one of reflection—no new beginning can exist without the end of something else, yes?

This time has caused me to reflect on a foul man of my own imagination known as Edgar Peng. Awaiting the scent of the lilac in the dead of winter is much like awaiting the end of his stuttering, accusatory, and nonsensical sentences: it appears to be perpetual until the exact second it ends. Your only hope in the meantime is for a break: a vacation to some tropical locale, or for Edgar Peng to become famished and wish to lunch on sandwiches smeared high with mustards and relishes, both of which serve only to make the return to the previous unpleasant state that much less bearable. 

But I digress! The purpose of this letter was to tell you that it’s now Donkey Kong again.

My finest blessings, 

Dennis Algiers,
Chamber 238.

Letter To My Father 5

Father,

The summer solstice has come and gone, meaning that the next springing of spring will be next spring. I have spent a great deal of time and effort preparing my beach body for this spring—I have been performing one jumping jack at midnight every single night, and with a steady hand I have avoided Mother's icebox cakes and simple treats.

I fear It is not simply a desire for an athletic build that fuels my exercise and diet regimima. Father, I hope it shan't distress you that I have imagined a Beach Bully by the name of Luigi Apertino. The hated Luigi Apertino is sure to kick sand in whatever drinks or snacks I have on hand, and will generally be a negative presence on my Fun in the Sun. I could imagine him and his horrid brother Iago, hair combed but teeth unbrushed, slapping on my babyfat belly and shrieking "Strawberries and Cream" as it began to take on marbling of pink. While my belly would be ruined only for a few hours, I fear that dessert would be ruined for me forever. 

O Father! I am sure if you asked them from where they came, their answer would resemble less a majestic highland or an undulating plain, and more a foul cross street such as Chalmers and Quain. 

You may help me improve my physique if you feel up to it. Father, if you hear the primitive percussion that characterizes Óveður, you can be sure that either my previous nights exercise was a success and I am feeling my muscles with an animalistic aggression, or that it was a failure and I am trying to motivate myself further for the next night's. Offer me protein or carbohydrates accordingly. Should I be playing Blapraður, context is important in determining what flavour of multivitamin I wish for this evening. I shall leave this to your judgement. If I am playing hjartað hamast (bamm bamm bamm), you must ring the emergency bell unless it is in the context of the entire album.

I am growing as a person, father. No longer am I interested in parlour games and tricks. They are now foolish to me. I have gained an interest in Market Research and Professional Writing, for I wish to become the director of investor relations at a large Bank.

With Summer's Regards,

Dennis

Letter To My Father 6

Father,

It is September’s last hurrah, meaning that we are nearly at the point where we are furthest from both Spring springing and spring having last sprung. There is Wist in the air, to be sure. Wist due to the very nature of the upcoming Season—autumn is one in which much of the world dies in anticipation of being reborn. 

The regret inherent in autumn gives me cause to regale You with the tale of a man I imagined. Oh, I hardly wish to utter his name! However, I shall be brave. Victor Encino. O Father! Victor Encino is an inelegant brute of a man. I can imagine him selling hot dogs and cooled beer at the ball park, working his way up to owning the snack stand, and then two, and more and more until concessionaires dressed in his signature garish orange and green pockmark the town like gum on the sidewalk (VE is also a gun chewer and the sidewalk outside his home is pockmarked with gum like the city streets are with his concessionaires). Oh father! How it pains me to imagine him uttering the phrase “run what ya brung”

I shan’t waste any more time dwelling on Mr. Encino. Father, no longer am I inspired by tales of gumption. I am now inspired by tales of can do attitudes. It is my wish for you to dispense a car to take me to the grocery store, where I will push carts, unpaid, until I am hired. “One step at a time” will be both my motto in how I progress thenceforth in my career and a mnemonic by which I will ensure that my labours are process driven. 

Father, make me promises three. If I am listening to Von, the first promise is you must identify whether it is Von from the album Von or Von from Hvarf/Heim. Should it be the former Von, please turn off all lights adjacent to my chambers so that no light that is not directly chosen by me may flow through. Should it be the latter Von, please provide me with a stout and a boiled egg as I am clearly in need of nourishment. 


A son’s farewell heralds the return of a man, 

Dennis

Letter To My Father 7

This may end up being a Pod cast where I write one letter to my father, open it (listen for the distinct sound of an envelope opening; that is how you will differentiate Letters To My Father from imitators!) and read it aloud. I am a reasonable son and I will make only reasonable requests. No guests will be featured and I will not acknowledge the audience in any way.

Letters To My Father

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