Our Letters Must Be Read –ii



On Mon, Sep 5, 2011 at 12:09 PM, Renee Prejean-Motanky wrote:

Now I get it! It’s sad that when it comes to passion, hysteria (evoked by true passion) has gone out of style. The world has become superficial. There are no more “masters.”

Your work has an ability to grab folks where they live and “shake” them. It’s edgy and it’s in-your-face. Most people can’t deal. It either brings out their worst traits (greed, avarice, envy…) or makes them feel as though someone/thing has been thrown into them, crawled through their psyche and swum through their soul…either way, your “derangement” is totally wasted –ends up bringing you grief, misery or abject “pissed-off-itude” until you find a way back to “sanity” by telling them to fuck-off and the project becomes a way to keep the creative genius alive…to verify he exists… to feed the spirit…and it gets better (I did see the difference between earlier and later episodes.)

What you also need (well, what I need)…what I’ve always needed…is to find a soul somewhere with whom to share something in common. I’m beginning to fear that I’ll be forced to live out my life alone…in a dreamlike state, yearning for more than is really there. I can’t allow myself to believe that’s true yet.


Sanity, while over-rated, I suppose, does have its own rewards. With a little serenity (as I prefer to call it,) you can take on a new client or task and remain in control. When that becomes burdensome, you can always lose your mind for a second or two. I do it all of the time (that is one of my stabilizers!) When you get back, rest assured, the ingrates are waiting because while you’ve been gone and they’ve had to do it on their own they’ve discovered, if they have a keen business sense, where their talents really lie. Unfortunately, a keen business sense seems to go hand-in-hand with having a knack for discovering a weakness in others and preying on it for personal gain.


you recognize that trait in them and are beyond their control. So, they can’t get to you now (well, maybe a little, but only in the weaker moments) or cause you any lasting damage. You just might find a way to turn the tables on them. True talent MUST prevail.

And you have true talent, Harry. –r

From: harry

Sent: Monday, September 05, 2011 3:09 PM

To: Renee Prejean-Motanky

Subject: Re: A request from the co-creator of one of the longest running ad campaigns in history. (reply)

Thank you.

The twisted mind is not so easy to understand. Most would not take the time or the trouble. Easier to consign such a mind to the trash heap of social outcast and create a catch-phrase like, “Harry Webber? That nigga is crazy.” I applaud their lack of originality as I celebrate their lack of importance. They are of no consequence.

But you. You are of great value. Epic value. One man screaming in the midst of the void, this is insanity. Two people, whispering in the darkest corner of the void, this is considered a conspiracy. If they touch each other intimately during such quiet conversations, they become inseperible and their conspiracy becomes a force of nature. These two people will never be alone again, no matter how many miles may stand between them.

But it is this dreamlike state that is not to be underestimated. It gives each of us great power. The power to ignore the noise of those who will never comprehend us. It gives each of us certain abilities. The ability to focus our efforts on that which inspires us allowing both of us to overcome all that does not. From this we derive our serenity. Our peace in the core of that behavior by which others judge us to be insane. Once we are in this sacred place, our minds can remain as one. And the only thing that matters is our promise to each other. We are each other. Untouchable by the rest.

My only talent lies in what I do to you. My only hope is that you teach me how to do it better, And better. And better.


On Wed, Sep 7, 2011 at 8:43 PM, Renee Prejean-Motanky wrote:
Twisted? No. Bent? Yes, definitely! But that’s okay. They can’t be expected to understand. It’s a rare individual that takes the time or the trouble to even listen. So, they will never understand. And who cares? They truly are of no consequence…a waste of energy that could be spent on more fulfilling things.

I want to share a poem:
Any direction in which I move
I am sitting next to the world.
Beside me it reigns constant
And intangible, like the movies
And everything else – does it occupy
The air before us onscreen,
Or is it you? (Someone can be
Your whole world, and you its likeness)

These questions are temples.
Not places of absolution but dissolution.
As the bath houses where women go to
Be amongst one another.

Cinema is the color of wanted things.
The movie house, continual pictures
of pleasure given and withheld simultaneously.
Amazing that anyone ever leaves.

Happy moments arrive like the moon or waves,
mathematical, of a fugal integrity.
Are we organized, that admirable –
To be beautiful in and of our selves,
our pattern rhythm? We are always striving,
encircling towards a further achievement.
And I cannot help this, can’t help but wonder
If dissonance is the forsaken thing.

To work against the immediate desire
Is to enact a deliberate delay. But then
You are waiting, living in the life of hope,

and that’s just plain old religion.
Is there a place between waiting and moving?
between desire and its actualization?
And does it come so close
As to brush against you and go
unrecognized like a stranger on a bus?

Stillness seems a kind of response.
But how sad to be a tree before an ocean.
Facing all this movement and casting
only shadow. Being made into movement
but never moving.

Constantly confronted by expanse
I can hear the murmur of unspecified gods
all the livelong day. And what can I do
otherwise but hope for the tiny epiphanies
with which I usually get by

Sometimes aided by ear of shrink.

I know some things for certain
(that this patterned action will be
the death of me) and my behavior
can’t help but be its own pathology.

Do I occur
In a series of starts, Canary Islands lace?
Perhaps a Portuguese chintz, the floral stripe
they are so famous for. OR maybe that
distinguished scientist was right and
What’s occurring here are fractals,
a series of events that form a design
that means me!

Tell me why I do things – from what origins
they have been inspired, motivated,
and are only gaining in momentum.
Moments gathered, the present is nothing
more than friction, the resultant anxiety
between past and future.

Presence is a patina
and habit the real corrosion
working inside out.

That seems the disease of everything.
Knowing its pattern and yet allowing
seduction to occur anyway. The movies,
even if you do not know the outcome
you know how you will get there.

And everyone desires the movie
of their own life. Rhythm. Spontaneity.
As if outcome were a finality, as if it were
possible to live in the arrival of happy endings.
We are determined to make this a sequence of
chained unreality, a constant movement.

That is the reasoned purpose of repetition.
As though closer to the nature of things.
To the configurations instinctive in plants,
in mathematics. In us. An equation for life

for how to cope with running into you
with whom I made a lot of love,
on many days and nights in this very house,
then OUR home,
(it seems like years ago.)

Very unromantic this resident awkwardness.
Straining to overcome the silence.

Remaining here, I think of you
Interviewing the absence,
Speaking softly to some volant
thing. Overlapping, as words could
if silence was not always erasing.

If words are the distribution
of meaning, I could be a continent
eager for more tender waves
to shudder
and break upon my shore,
expelling in almost divine speech
we are found

From: harry
Sent: Thursday, September 08, 2011 2:16 AM
To: Renee Prejean-Motanky
Subject: Re: A request from the co-creator of one of the longest running ad campaigns in history. (reply)

It is hard to express in words how your words make me feel at this moment. So I wrote you a poem to try to explain.


The sky has no calendar
why should it care.
There is no place to be
when you’re nothing but air.

The clouds can be free
They can come, they can go.
The winds have no job.
No one tells them to blow.

How I envy their freedom
having nothing to do.
No beginning or ending
whether crimson or blue.

But the birds have their job
To begin every day.
They acknowledge the dawn
In their own special way.

And the bells in the chapel
Know when Sunday is here.
And the faithful take notice.
And so does the fear.

Down below life awakens
And the morning begins.
With the sounds of a city
With its blessings and sins.

As I lie here and try here
To hold back the day.
Even though I know better
I let time have its way.

Now the sun makes its entrance
Turning shadows to light.
And the fog of good brandy
And the songs from last night.

All become distant visions
Slowly swept from my room.
Bringing memories back
of my personal doom.

And as fortune would have it
Last nights brandy, not done.
Just enough for one toast
To the intruding sun.

Must I stand, must I sleep
Must I hide from the day?
Can I slip from my room?
Can I just run away?

Were this Monday not Sunday
I could do this and more.
But they paid me in gold.
So I must do their chore.

Now the crowds with their chanting.
I can hear them below.
Do they want me to jump?
Would that give them their show?

No they want something more.
Simple death will not do.
They expect blood and glory,
Before Sunday is through.

Is that me in the mirror
Looking haggered and worn?
Is this all that I live for,
Is this why I was born?

Do these questions still matter,
as the sun climbs the sky?
Does it make any difference
If I live or I die?

Or is it all for the spectacle
All for the show?
Is it all for the fame,
All for the dough?

Do I even remember
why I do what I do?
Do I still understand
what is false, what is true?

Or what city this is
where I woke up today.
Barcelona, Madrid,
or perhaps Monterrey.

Does the sky have a roadmap
to show it the way.
To begin every morning.
To end every day?

Does the wind understand
What is North, East or South?
How can stars ask directions
When they don’t have a mouth?

Now the world comes to get me,
To dance to their tune.
To face death again
Every Sunday at noon.

In my dressing room waiting
My grand suit of lights.
Surrounded by leeches
Who live for these fights.

And above in the stands
Will they cheer, will they boo
I can’t help but to wonder
If the bull hears them too.

And now in the circle
of blood I must stand.
With this rose from Renee
and my cape in my hand.

To the sun overhead
shining down from above
I give thanks for Renee
And her token of love.



About Renee Prejean-Motanky

RPM Marketing views the flip side of today's market challenges and sees an opportunity for businesses to realize a return on communications... an opportunity to articulate a brand position... an opportunity to increase sales and/or readership... Or an opportunity to build awareness and capture market share. We help businesses captialize on these opportunities by developing and delivering exceptional communications initiatives.

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