More than a year and a half has passed since my friend Dolores died. I keep wanting to have conversations with her--the kind where she brings out something she has just read to show me, the column in THE NEW YORKER she wants me to read, the kind of time together where, when it's time to part, we're already talking about what we'll do next time, and she says, "There are so many things to do." Poems to discuss and copy down, customs of other countries to enthuse about, walks to take, nettles to cut and brew. There is really an ache inside me where she was. Some days I wake and she's alive inside me, and I'm devouring new reading, new thoughts, but I still want to talk to someone about these things, and that person is her.
What would we talk about today, Dolores? This book I'm reading called WOMEN OF THE LIGHT: THE NEW SACRED PROSTITUTE by Kenneth Ray Stubbs, the idea of prostitutes as offerers of compassion. You and I went to THE VAGINA MONOLOGUES together. We talked about our birth experiences on the way home. Before the play, you showed me pictures of Sheila na Gigs on Irish churches in your large book about Ireland. I had a Sheila na Gig in my home, and I gave it to you for your 80th birthday. I could only have given it to someone I really love and admire. I would also talk to you about TECHNICIANS OF ECSTASY by Mark Levy, which I'm reading for the third time. I would talk about the shamanic trance and writing. But what I miss is what YOU would say. You would say things I hadn't thought about before, show me something I've never seen.
We would walk in Cunningham Gulch and listen to the water and shout at each other, both of us hard of hearing. But the water speaks clearly. In the car on the way and way back, Gudrun would kiss you. Eldar and I would show you his Drop on Command, and you'd be impressed all over again, with him.
