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New beauty

February 22, 2010

I’ve watched the last part of a performance with Andy Warhol’s “13 most beautiful pictures,” the faces are the butterflies of the New York scene of the 1960s.

I see Ann Buchanan staring straight at the camera, at me, her eyes unblinking as tears slide through her left cheek, then dangling from her left chin just as the non-diegetic music ends and the screen fades. Ann was a room mate of Neal Cassady and Allan Ginsberg when they shared an apartment together in New York.

I see in Ann, the image on the screentest, wiping into the figure of my former self. The me of tear drops, interleaving through various episodes that have propelled the tears to hang out of a watery gaze, perhaps shed in vain since their inducers were never there to see, nor to care. Tears flowing as one sat on a bed in a tiny rented room in a boarding house, a bedroom of an apartment, a divan in the living room, the bench by the pool, or in the cold on the balcony, staring at the towering monuments of a tired city.

I am thankful today. I ran forever from the prison of a pastness, my vitality intact and rejuvenated because the vampire that fed on it has been staked. I have re-established myself in this new land. Much of of that past will remain solidly behind, no longer a figure to my present nor to a time to come. Some, as I look at their names and the history, no longer matter, because they are invisible in this present, their traces dissipating. The history is filed away to a dusty corner and shot out, away from the boundary of my space. Relations change, some figures are imaginary, becoming ghostly in time; some are kindred beings and will remain so. Time to delete, defrag and rearrange.

Time to say goodbye to many of you who were once present. Today, you are vanquished.

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