From: ************************** <*************************@*******.com>
Date: Mon, Sep 21, 2015 at 7:56 PM
Subject: Re: This is *********** contacting *************************
To: Lily Duffy <lillianjoanduffy@gmail.com>


Drreginald:
 
Can you type this up for me?  This entire email.  Including what I am writing right now.  This is what I want it to say:
 
Every Wednesday, I commit suicide.
 
A sentence without resonance.
 
In the ball park.  I have no feeling for that.  Ball park. Never did I have a child.  Except Bach.  Haydn.  All that.  That's all he wanted.  A 66 year old man in utero.  My son.
 
Dr Reginald, I think you are all one thing.
 
Nevertheless, when I wrote that sentence, I felt, very briefly, dead.
 
Is all narrative a mode of finitude?  Discuss.
 
No don't.
 
Just -- is this an advice column?
 
Is this where I come to get: renewed?  Is this my basic no?
 
Something recently I hated was this: two white/local writers looking -- chins up -- right through me -- with what resembled -- disgust.  
 
I felt bad.
 
Because disgust is the hardest emotion or facial expression.
 
To un-see.
 
Or dislodge.
 
The only thing  that had changed since I last saw them was that, in my host community, I had become vocal.
 
In matters.
 
Pertaining to.
 
Race.
 
Though if you checked me.
 
If you really checked.
 
Perhaps there would be a discrepancy.
 
In my own conduct or speech.
 
And you could say, look.
 
What a hypocrite.
 
What a capital C for.
 
Cunt.
 
I don't feel cunt-ish at this time.
 
Mostly because I didn't grow up with one.
 
I grew up with -- I forget.
 
I can't remember what we called it.
 
Back then.
 
A pussy?  Perhaps that.  A pussy.
 
Why didn't I let my boyfriend in college go down on me?  
 
I shouldn't press click, Dr Reginald.
 
But I want to.
 
Just to see.
 
What might happen.
 
Then.
 
Can this be anonymous?
 
You can say: this is a local author of five books.  
 
She has black hair.
 
That's it.
 
If you still want to publish this, as is.
 
Then I accept your kindness.
 
If this is too much.
 
I also accept.
 
But what a relief to get it off my.
 
Chest.
 
The shame I felt.
 
When, at the Jaipur Literary Festival.
 
Those two.
 
Looked at me.
 
As if I didn't.
 
Exist.
 
Non-being suits no-one.
 
Not you, not me.
 
Nobody, Dr Reginald.
 
How much do I owe you?
 
Thank you for your.
 
Time.