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Go on, read my girlfriend’s story

The construct of my desire
“I think it’s kind of funny that when we claim to be an author —finally— well, he died.”*

My girlfriend is an author. She is great with words and works hard to put them together coherently for her readers. Her readers love her stories. Her stories are funny. And queer. I think I’m her biggest fan. I ask her if she could be subversive 24/7. She doesn’t answer me. I imagine she’s putting her washing in the machine and doesn’t hear me. Or maybe she doesn’t want to enter this conversation with me, because she is busy with another story in her head.

Last night I dreamt that we had broken up. The feeling of being rejected by her was unbearable. I didn’t know what to do with myself. When I woke up I was relieved. The days of my broken hearts are in the past. I never want to be broken again. My girlfriend says she doesn’t know if she will never break me. I know, I say, I need to learn to live with that.

We go for walks in the park, and drink coffee in these old little coffee houses in town. I walk her to the university library when she has decided she wants to research something for her stories. She walks me to the city hall where I meet my friends of my political party to discuss the effect of local laws on sexual divers minorities. When my friends and I go for drinks afterwards, she sometimes joins me -that is, if she’s not busy working on her stories. She is always very interested in our queer lobby and she laughs when we tell stories about our strategies of networking. She says, she’s happy she is seeing such a funny woman. I couldn’t do it differently, I tell her.

She and I don’t live together, because she doesn’t want to. She believes it wouldn’t be good for the production of her art. I understand that. She wants to keep doing her own washing. And I want to keep doing my own dishing.
She rings me anyway this evening and asks me what I’m doing. “I’m watching television,” I answer. I ask if she has prepared herself a proper meal. She did, she says. She says she would like to come to my place and stay the night. I answer, she’s welcome.

Next morning I wake up early for work. I’m so happy to do that after a year of unemployment. She will start working on her stories on her laptop she brought with her, the moment she gets up. I like the idea of her working in my house and keeping my cats company. Then she goes away around lunch time and leaves me the note xxx (three muffins) that makes me smile when I come home from work. I don’t tell you what she means by muffins, so you can research my archive of love notes of the author when I’m dead and reconstruct the context in which the author produced art (including love notes) (especially love notes). And one day you will write your girlfriend a love note that makes her smile. Unfortunately you send your poem by text message with your mobile phone and your researcher will never be able to trace it.

The construct of our desire is a song text that keeps repeating itself in our heads. We like our song. Sometimes our lines need revision, because technology has revised our desire. Sometimes people question if our words are art and we explain them politely this is the wrong question. Nowadays we make sure they pay us for this, so there is no doubt our stories can be art. The best is when a reader falls in love with our construct of desire and starts quoting our art in her stories. We write her a note saying we like her work and we would like to give her financial support. Nevertheless she outwrites us. Thank goodness, we think.

* Taken without permission of the author


Go on, read the complete archive of my stories that queer the archives
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