when I opened your book. It arrived today. I took the metal brads out of the unexpectedly heavy and cold manilla envelope while I was still on the elevator. It sat in the mailbox all day and I hadn’t read the text of the advertisment carefully, I didn’t know Lady Luck had gently kissed my cheek.
It’s a first edition in perfect condition, which is to say already read at least once by a seductive, secret, someone else
Who was she? Or he? The jacket is slightly creased, “shelf wear” they call it. I call it soul. The pages are uncreased, and I can find no markings on the heavy matt pages. Who could read your first sentence: “I repent of my diets, the delicious dishes rejected out of vanity, as much as I lament the opportunities for making love that I let go by because of pressing tasks or puritanical virtue.” without making a baloony, cartoony exclamation point of agreement in the left-hand margin with the first indelible marker in reach?
I, recognize you. I know immediately am not meeting a stranger, I am meeting my own thoughts in another form, another body, flowing beautifully, perfectly from another woman’s pen. Again.
Again I am delighted that the “mine” of it all is not in the least bit true. The breath of the thought is a thousand times more individual than the “I” that inhales it. I am free! Or not? The creative life hinges on execution and yours is enchanting A once in a lifetime masterpiece that without each tickle and tear had not the the same quality achieved. Like the sperm and the egg who met in the moment of their execution…