Write well

Ms. Pattchet. Sonríe desde sus ojitos cansados y dice How are you? No sé exactamente qué decirle mientras sostiene la copia de Truth and Beauty que va a firmarme. Una hora antes, cuando empezó la lectura advirtió a la concurrencia algo along the lines of: There is a reason why this is the only time I'm going to read from this book. My best friend died. También dijo Please, when you come forward to have your book signed, do not tell me that someone you loved also died from an overdose, or something. It's just emotionally exhausting after forty-five people come in with some terrible story. Tiene una sonrisa amable, pero no sé exactamente qué decirle. Entonces miro el libro que tiene en sus manos y le cuento en un inglés tembloroso y anudado en una emoción que no sé de dónde salió: I read your book twice during the summer, and then I had to put it away from me. (Se sorprende) I wrote about it to some of my friends back home and a writer friend wrote back said she couldn't find it in Mexico and could I please mail her a copy? So I went and got her one and sent it. And you know, I just realized, I sent her my copy. I kept the new one, I sent her my little notes and scribblings and the important folded pages. Sonríe y me parece que es verdadero y bello. Después, cuando recuerdo lo que sentí cuando leí esto, añado: You know, when I read about waitressing and writing, it occurred to me for the very first time that maybe writing is only an intimate way of saving ourselves and nothing more. Maybe, for me you know? And then I'm out of there, my silly heart still pounding. Why do we write? I still don't know. Lately, I haven't really. I'm off to unwritten territories and perhaps I shouldn't. It's like denial. If I don't write about it, then I don't have to deal with it. But I do. The words are still here. Maybe not here, in this white little space with the crimsom heading. Somewhere. Are they still in Spanish? Are they still lonely and hurting? The writer and the slavery of the reader's gaze. The need for this gaze. La mirada ajena. But do we want their voices also? Do we need them? Read this, but don't tell me about it. See what I wrote? Sh. Don't answer. And thus the comments are expelled. I chew on this idea while I make up my mind. Should I walk sixteen blocks downtown home or take the subway? Winter will soon be here and then I won't have a choice. I had a choice this morning, stupid blistering shoes. Aren't you cute, with your caramel skin and the tiny straps. You're killing me. And the shoes sing against Union Square while the feet make a go for the subway stairs. Maybe I should become a serious reader and drop the pen altogether. The Moleskin makes it way out of the sea of homework and paper and I open it. My beautiful forgotten friend. I open it. The last few pages: Print out for Patty info on Grpahic design and Illustration at Kingsbourough CC. This is not my handwriting: MUST! In Between Boyfriends Book by Cindy Chumpack. Tres cuartos de página desperdiciados. October 17th: Read paper again and make last-minute changes. Submit. Translate Annie's letter for advocacy. Email union representative (can I still collect my check on payday?). Buy rainboots. Blue pen: October 18th, 2005. D comes over for (Mex) dinner "yummy and spicy". Sincronizadas? Something hassle-free. Tortillas, tomate, jalapeño, aguacate. Crema. Frijoles? And then: Lo mío no es el trabajo de campo. NO tengo que andar inventando. Los libros, los libros, el análisis. No inventes, ¿etnografía? La invención guárdala para otra cosa, la escribancia. Whew. There I am. That one is my voice. Not the lists of neverending to-dos. Here's the six train. I sit next to a beautiful girl. I like the way he says girl. It's like in England but not, nicer. The i never makes it way into his version. Jermosa, also. Sigh. I need these bangs to start growing soon. And then, I remember. Truth and Beauty. I open it. To Maztrich, Thank you for buying the book twice. Write well and believe in yourself. A. Pattchet.