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Letters Never Sent #8: Jack Johnson to Rocky Marciano (Patreon)

Published:
2026-05-06 18:38:40
Imported:
2026-05

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Keyana Monet

Nice read! Been painting a lot recently... A thought; Marcel Duchamp to Salvador Dali would be an intriguing letter!

J. Lindbloom

Letters Never Sent: Pete Seeger to Bob Dylan Dear Bob, I’ve been hearing whispers—carried on those digital winds I don’t quite understand—about these new "Patreon" missives of yours. They tell me you’ve taken to using these machines, these artificial intelligences, to craft your thoughts and images for the folks who follow you. I’m writing because I feel a weight on my heart, much like the one I carried that night in Newport back in '65. You remember. I was the old man backstage, frantic and foolish, looking for an axe to cut the cable because the volume of those electric guitars drowned out the words. I thought the machine was killing the message. I’ll admit it now: I was wrong then. I eventually came to see that the electricity was just a new way to shout a truth that needed shouting. It was loud, yes, but it was your thumb on the string, your lungs pushing the air. It was a human heart plugged into a wall. But Bob, this new thing... this is different. When you plugged in that Stratocaster, you were amplifying the human spirit. When you plug into these AI programs, I fear you are bypassing it entirely. There is a "spark" in the folk tradition—a jagged, imperfect, holy thing that happens when one person looks at the world and tries to make sense of it through song. It’s the struggle that makes it music. If a machine does the struggling for you, the "song" is just a hollow shell. And there is the earth to consider. We used to sing about the beauty of the rivers and the mountains, trying to save them from the strip mines and the smokestacks. I’m told these great digital brains require vast amounts of power and water, cooling themselves while the world warms up. It feels a heavy price to pay for a convenience we never asked for. You’ve always been the one to see through the masks of the age. Don't let a mask of silicon speak for you. We need your voice, Bob—the real one, the ragged one, the one that knows what it is to be tired and hopeful and human. The hammer is still in your hands. Don't let the machine hold it for you. In harmony, Pete Seeger p.s.: Toshi sends her love.

Barbara Hill-Mayo

This is pretty heavy but I think it Speaks the truth. I suppose anybody who has reached the top of any field feels this especially in the entertainment industry there are many more eyes on results.

Pamela Stafford

Out of the series on your Patreon, these letters are the ones I am enjoying the most.

Annie Stacie

When I walked in, the testosterone knocked me out cold. Later, I awoke and looked down at my girly arms. I found myself exhausted by the mere thought of fighting. I got up and left as quietly as possible, so as not to be noticed by the giants.

Elizabeth Bowie

Difficult to comment on this letter. As always it's very well written. But the subjects and the prose are so masculine. This is not , of course, a negative. Just that I know nothing whatsoever about boxing. Thanks for posting.

Angela Zamparelli

... in knowing you gave all that could be given. That kind of truth outlasts any title... I can't help but think of your Abilene RARW show, a few days ago... Bob, it was unbeliavable, so magical, pure infinite moment of happiness and beauty. Love Sick was breathtaking and Jimmy Reed has become more and more joyful, powerful like a blessing! Thank you so much Bob. I really hope you'll come to Europe in autumn!

Maria

Life is a struggle. We live fighting day by day for what we believe in. We don't always achieve what we want, but we have to keep going. I feel like this letter is for me, coming from you, whom I love so much. I could say that I'm still fighting for what I have in my heart, I just need an ok.

Jon Baldwin

"And from what I’ve seen..." Johnson died in 1946. Marciano turned pro in 1947. So that don't tally. This is what the old folks must have called a spirit letter. Meaning Jack is looking down. Smiling. Appreciating. Signalling.

Jon Baldwin

Postcard sent from Chelsea, London, 1969: Dear Bob, I don’t think I ever played your songs. That word doesn’t sit right. They were already moving before my fingers found them. You wrote them like they were walking across the street—not asking permission, not waiting for sound. I heard that. Or maybe I heard what was underneath it—something thinner than the words and heavier. There’s a place where a song is not finished where it hasn’t decided what it means yet that’s where I tried to meet you. “Watchtower”— it wasn’t yours by the time it reached me not mine either just strange weather passing through wires. People keep asking who changed it but nothing changes it just keeps happening in different bodies. You had silence in your voice I tried to turn that silence outward— stretch it until it burned. Sometimes it gets too loud and the sound forgets why it started but every now and then it breaks and something slips through not music not meaning just— presence. That’s all I was ever after. If I got close it was because you left enough space for a note to fall through. Jimi

Bonnie Ramba

I wish that this letter could have been sent. The thoughts it conveyed are so meaningful, useful and heartfelt. The messenger is one who knows and understands the world that they live in. It’s guidance are admonitions that all of us could use. I hope they both left this world with peace in their lives. I pray for this and many other things for you, Sir. May you always have peace and fulfillment in your life 🕊️

James O’ Donnell

Bob you are such a good writer.. anybody ever send you a letter telling you that ?

amyJ

(finally sent) rocky back to jack hey there jack, great to hear from you. maybe we can take the air outta’ that pressure by remembering the joy of the beginning: the pure sublimation of a violent nature. finally a good place to put all that aggression, and to get cheered on for it, too! plus the perks for a champ aren’t bad. you have to admit, even with the downside, even with the pressure, even with the people waiting for us to crash and burn, it’s a decent life. It’s true- when I can’t find a place on my body without a bruise, I’m not sure if it’s “worth it.” but I don’t know what else I’d do, honestly. seems I was built for it. speaking of “built,” take it easy with the ladies, my friend (haha) … they seem to be gettin’ you in trouble. you’d probably be undefeated had it not been for them, … plus all that disgusting racism and unjust persecution. we still haven’t come nearly as far as we should have in that regard, by the way. you’d be surprised at the reasons they target a man these days. but that’s a collective pressure, not an individual one- so we can rest easy. why take all that weight on our own shoulders when the people can equally distribute it amongst themselves? your “reflection in a cracked mirror,” rocky

veronika

Here's to masculinity. I hope, for my daughters' sake as well, that there are still enough men who resist feminist attempts to re-educate them and hold fast to their masculinity.