The 8th of May 2001 – El Paso, Texas

(found under the clawed foot of a kitchen table)

My dearest Uncle Jacques,

Sometimes I worry that I’m making it all up, the way I feel about her and talk about her and think about her. But then I see her. It really is there, I think. I don’t know what, but it’s just something different. There are other people, but so far there’s only one of her. I’m not saying it’s anything, but I’m still into her, I think.

I don’t like people, I don’t think. I’m not one of those social animals with the instincts and the drive and the interest to get out and meet people. What I think I mean is that I just don’t have a natural affinity for most of them.

Social interaction, in general, has been a game for me, and it can be fun, but it’s still just a game, a process. You go through the motions, and you make your moves, and you try to move things in the direction that you want to move them. But when I’m talking to her it feels like I’m doing a whole different thing.

I wanted to say something to her, but I couldn’t. It was going to be something big, something grandiose and something moving. But it all felt so manipulative. Just then, suddenly, I realized how manipulative being honest with a person can be. It felt so insincere, being so honest in that moment. But I was going to say it, even if it wasn’t entirely true. I still wanted to say it.

And then I saw her. And then I didn’t say it.

So I think, if it’s alright with you, I’ll just say it to you.

This analogy is not going to make sense, I think, but I’m walking around, and I’m smelling things, all sorts of different meals, different smells. I’m going from kitchen to kitchen and smelling all these smells. A lot smells great. A lot smells really, really good. A lot smells like something I want to taste or try or even sit down and enjoy for a while. But she smells different, I think. She smells like filet mignon, something I want to sink my teeth into, something I want to savor for a long while, a good long while.

That’s what I was going to say, to her even. I didn’t.

It’s all so gross. It all feels so manipulative. I don’t even know if it’s true. I don’t even know if it’s the way I feel.

I want it to be, I think.

Regards,

Martin

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