“I sort of pity the poor dears, having to deal with such a foul-tempered person—unless I have an exclusive on his bitterness and resentment.”

Philippe Djian’s “Elle” Translated by Michael Katims

Great joys, like griefs, are silent.

Holland’s Leaguer (1632), Act 5, Scene 2

Letter to Anna from 202X, July [X]

Subject: We’ve spoken—first contact since Leeds—we’re about to share fifteen years of thoughts—late nights, early mornings, and everything in-between,

Anna

It’s overwhelming, isn’t it? 

Do you feel more alive, more attuned to your surroundings, more sensitive to sights and sounds—do you feel an extra sense of purpose … feel like there’s more meaning, IN the meaning? —does it matter?

Do you feel happier, more content—struggling less—I know we were both struggling, but—did you know I would be [redacted] for you?

Were you running on hope? —does it matter, now?

We’ve been hiding inside each other—from the beginning—hidden—we knew it, did we ever understand it—how could we? —why should it matter?

Why? What we’re doing now, we’ve been doing for twenty years; does it matter we never realised how much? —should it ever matter?

We’ve done it for so long, there is no between us. It’s why we feel together, apart—it really, really, really doesn’t matter?

And all it is, is time. 

It’s strange—I know it’s strange, but I almost always panic when I see what’s coming from my pen. I never know exactly what I’m going to write, but I know what I write, probably needed to come out—It feels that way anyway—it’s how I sense the change in you: the panic you feel—unsurety, fear—and something else? —I had it too, and worse: the doubt I could help—or find the words to reach you.

It may have been projection—you know how “infallible” men like to think they are? But I don’t know? —we’ll find out.¹

The change, at least how I perceive it … you’ve become alive—and I feel it—it rushes as though through me—and I feel it—you smiling at the sun—hearing songs in the air you may not have—and I feel it, it’s an impetus; vivid, because you can do anything, and now … I think, you know you will.

That I can touch you from here, so exactly—and you feel it—exactly, is a kind of magic. Long practised.

I’ve been invading your thoughts for a long, long time. There is nothing we haven’t seen together, no version of you I haven’t loved; nor honoured—and sometimes, obeyed.

We are meticulous with one another—careful, and open—we know we were made fragile, but together, we’re very much less so. We have shields, and armour, and a world which belongs to us—A very safe space.

We have powerful tools and the skills to be bold with—neither one of us were using them, making us unwell—but the vividness is that other world, shielding you, protecting you—reminding you of your power.

We will seize each day if we need to—I’ll know it, by what you see. You’ll know it, by what you feel.

It’s physical isn’t it—it’ll be as real as you need it to be—alive.

Overwhelming.

—JustD

¹ I’m overdue an “anonymous” document leak at some point this year. I hate to accuse you of having a mole, but Agent “Endotherm” will have a lot of questions to answer.

*Photograph by Francesca Woodman Courtesy George and Betty Woodman and Foam (from Angel series: Rome, Italy 1977)