Dear Zeda, 10:58

With all of the bell-crickets + grasshoppers singing in through my window tonight, + all of the bullfrogs blowing out their jowls like Dizzy on a crying jag, this is how I remember my days as a girl: Being told to shut up by our father for something I didn’t understand that had to do with marbles + condoms. And you taking me out to ride my first time at the Aquabarn Ranch along the haunted trail with Spectre, the jet black horse I had that day. And after seeing you ride with your boyfriend for so long, I finally knew what it was like to have something warm between your legs.

Dad has seen far worse than us, you tried to explain to me that day, as if, I thought, I was trying to compete with him, when I simply wanted to see a world he wouldn’t show me, couldn’t show me. Hell, he already had some guy picked out for me; the one who attacked me who didn’t even know what he was doing. Dad had told him that I wanted him (+ Dad told me the same thing, too). And the day he took me into the woods it ruined the woods forever for me. Ruined Spokane, too. Having Expo there in ‘74 was the most surreal thing that ever happened back then, in sixth grade. And only 2 years to enjoy it, before the rape, + I took Dad’s car + fled to the ocean. And then, Seattle. But, never again Spokane.

And when I finally got to the sea, all I could think about was the goldfish I had when I was six years old, finding it at the bottom of the bowl, so I gave it a little rub, a little CPR, + suddenly she was swimming again. And I decided there + then that I’d be a massage therapist. Which I guess I have been, indirectly, shall we say, what with all of the bodies I’ve rubbed + a soul or two I got close to, like that one Christmas when I stuck a candle in the window for the Solidarity movement over in Poland, + went to sleep thinking about so many Polish people I’d never meet, speaking a language I’ll never know, living in a place I’ll never see, but feeling exactly like I did. That was the best December I’ve ever had, when I shared it with the Poles. Lech Walesa I adored then. The one who knows enough not to be a hero, they’ll canonize. And martyr him for what he never wanted to do. And, as always, here’s hoping they have a love to go back + hide next to.

I still think there may be a man or two out there for me with sins better than mine, probably working to keep the gorillas away from each other at the city zoo.

"Who is that on the steps?" I guess I first think.

"Where have they been?" usually comes next.

The teething days of Hitler, the littered youth of Manson, + the aches + pains of Jack The Ripper who probably never thought that he was handsome.

Yeah, act out your dreams, not your fantasies, you always said to me, but the wake after the battleground is still real. And love needs me, I know. But, more than I need. And what needs to be done, they call it a crime; + what’s done is done, + please, someone give me the keys + I’ll dismantle what I can + leave it to rust far away from the trees.

The time, I’ve done. And the waiting ended when I found Vic. And J. Dove is somewhere in Columbia, I think, or at least somewhere near the Shining Path in Peru.

My neighborhood is now New Orleans. I work at a shelter for the homeless + at night I tend bar at Mad Mick’s & The Big Mamoo, turning tourists away. Threw myself out once.

And I suppose you’ve heard that Dad is dying. Who’s going to be with him, or will he come live with one of us? I’d have him, but my swapmeet lifestyle might kill him off quicker than he’d like. Life without Mom has been hard enough. Life without Dad would be strange. Still, it’s no wonder I help house whoever needs it after all the times I’ve been turned away. Especially form him, + now it’s my turn to take care of him.

Deidre, my friend who got raped a few months ago, is suffering + might come to live with me soon. Cancer of her emotions, I think. Manhattan Man-hater Extremis.

The best thing about where I work is that you find that everyone’s the same, but some do need a lot of luck + care. The worst thing about my job is that I’m the manager who decides who gets the last bed, + the last of the food. I mean, my body needs to stretch right now, not my heart, + all I really want to do is try + paint the photographs I used to take, like the demonstrations for the pro-choice rallies, + the portraits of Mary praying for her boychild as he goes on his rosy way.

How long in New Orleans? We’ll see. And drink + eat + meet + see + think. I just hope I can hold onto my heart one more time as I reach for someone who needs me. I’m still laughing, I guess, + I’m still getting letters from Glasgow, London + Spain.

I just thought I’d get in touch like I am with everyone else I haven’t been in touch with for way too long. Have a stout for me, Zeda. Write + tell me how your little man is. Here’s to the photograph shoot next year. May again? Here’s mud in your eye + the wind on your shoes.

-Deference with a difference, Estrelica