Chapter 1
1
Dear Monstera,
Back in May, when it was still cold here in the Great Black Swamp for some reason, I took my usual walk down Easy Street, past Junius Pond, sitting in his big porch recliner, past the house where the Goat Child was born, past the little Catholic Church where they sing Ave Maria on Sundays, past the old cemetery, & finally to my Miss Havisham’s house where I beheld a terrible sight, the old woman’s things set by the curb for the garbage truck to haul away. That’s when I knew the worst, that my Miss Havisham was dead.1
2
I love the Miss Havishams of the world. Within their self-made cloisters, they are able to have their own thoughts. They cannot be swayed by fads or expectations. They are not dulled by quotidian existence but have rich inner lives. Their minds have gone through a long period of gestation, involving effervescence & heat.
3
I wanted to major in literature in college, but the approach my professors took was like an autopsy. I tried other majors but experienced the same claustrophobia, the same shutting of my mind inside a box. I came home and took a job in archives at the local library. Sometimes I think I’m becoming a Miss Havisham myself.
4
There were so many boxes of my Miss Havisham’s things that I had to get help from the neighborhood Manwhore.2 He’s the only person I know with a truck.
After he had neatly stacked the boxes in my parlor, everything according to my instructions, he seemed to be waiting for something.
I said to him, “It looks like rain.”3
He sat down on the nearest chair & said to me, “Why don’t you come & sit in my lap & tell me all about it?”
I ignored him, of course. A hot chocolate bomb with marshmallows & sprinkles was all he got out of me.
Miss Havisham is a character in Great Expectations by Charles Dickens. My concept of her is a good deal more positive than Dickens’
A Manwhore is exactly what you think he is
It didn’t, by the way