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To My Dear Friend Victoria Sélavy

To my dear friend Victoria Sélavy:
Its been one year without you.

August 7th, 2014

My youth ended when you left us.

I am listening to Pearls Before Swine, at home in Northeast DC. Our cat rests in the table, over a book titled “Ghosts” I bought for a lover I haven't seen in two weeks. Cat hair gets stuck to the black cover which I clean with tape, neatly, every night I think I might see him.

I always enjoyed writing about lovers, see, just as much as we seemed to have fun talking about them. It is 'nice' to document romance, as if these were fairy tales for adults filled with lust and disappointment (I have trouble spelling “disappointment” both in paper and in real life).

I haven’t been writing poetry lately, if not writing at all. That is, not counting the songs. I guess I should call that writing too. When there's nothing to write I feel profoundly sad and bored. I sit and wait until the next one hits me. I watch movies and take long walks, go to Lincoln Park in Capitol Hill and walk in circles, and remember a park in Buenos Aires in which I used to do the same thing, and this land and that land come together and, to my surprise, it means nothing.

This land took my marriage, the other took my innocence, and I don’t see myself recovering that anytime soon. But there might be a lesson to the void and in days like these, plagued by routine, dread, fear and records, I sense freedom awaits, like a hand carved catacomb hidden somewhere between Chinatown and Mt. Pleasant.

I voluntarily left my family and friends to come to the US to be spiritually beaten up and robbed of a bunch of things I truly loved; you were one of them. And as of to-day, I wake up almost every morning to think “This, again?”, and a fucked up choir of sorts echoes “again, again, again”, I reach out to grab a book from my bookshelf to not understand any of it, grateful nonetheless that someone took time before me to write (and you have to add some decor to this word in particular, if you're reading this out loud, or to yourself, its WRITE, wwrrittee...)

“I'm going to rat on everybody and split this dead whistle stop planet wide open -I'm clean for once with the nova heat – Like a clean fall out.”

That is William S. Burroughs in The Soft Machine, and I wonder if you had the time to read Naked Lunch. One of the few truly intelligent boyfriends I had made a really good impression of Burroughs reading Naked Lunch out loud. It went something like:

“Nnn-aked.......................................................... Lunch. Chapter 1.”


As of this present day I do know he was truly intelligent, not only because he owned a drum set encrusted with mother of pearl, but because before I left BA we went to the movies, had beer, talked about music and did not go over the terrible things we did to each other except to ask for forgiveness.

And believe me, not everyone will extend you that type of courtesy.

But the time for writing letters comes to an end, and my only advice -my inability to write a goodbye is a clear indicator of how much I miss you- is, rip off the part of the dress you don’t like, don't forget to sing, cut or grow all your hair how you please, pay your debts, and above all, don't ever forget who you are.

Ever.

Still friends,
still heartbroken.

Nenet

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