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  • (This letter was written by the woman who is now my wife in November 2006. In June 2006, after 5 years together, we broke up for 7 months.)


    In this corner of the world, the swampland of spring, miasmic with horror and anticipation, poured out into the fetid wasteland of my summer. A landscape far too shit-bleak to remember rightly, but a dive into the journal will set me crying with shock and memory. It was madness.

    Now in autumn I am in a broad field in unknown foothills. It’s a place that has very few boundaries between the truth of my magic dreamworld and the waking world. So I can’t complain, since I wake up fresh from horserace hairbraiding and carousel children and mazes and flight and all manners of physically impossible truths made real, then set afloat.

    But in the field I am alone. Its not a dream, I’m standing on the ground. I seem to be realizing I have always been there, or not really so far away, anyway. And I am squatting, digging with my fingers, trying to see what’s under that dry grass, brown from August, grasshoppers flying and stinging my legs below my skirt. If I know the quality of the soil here it could give me a sense of impending possibility, of nascent spirit-wealth, of rural self-reliance.

    This is going to be my home forever. And it is a sovereign land. It contains everything within it and it is everything. It has tigers that kill peasants who search for honey in the mangroves. It has banquet hall-debates, mad feasts and marvelous vineyards. It has high mountaintop monasteries, cut from granite, clinging ancient in the rain, with half-naked priestesses that the world has never seen, and never will. Our nation is mighty, our workers prosperous!

    We have chosen, as our government, a parliamentary monarchy. All its lands will be represented judiciously, applying well-researched policy, and with limited corruption (we hope). However, there is a power here that cannot be overthrown. Every household knows the pedigree of the supreme leader, and in a state-approved photo she is seated with her ethereal family, in a teak frame, encircled with plastic flowers; before the morning meal, the people light three sticks of incense and pray for their health and longevity.

    The monarch will oversee the health of the newborn nation. The supreme leader will throw out the corporate representative of flash and power at will, even if he were elected, then she will return power to the electorate. The nation will protect its borders from foreign powers. And will not be colonized under pain of self-annihilation. What happened before must never happen again. We will never forget the good earth.

    The people are proud and strong!

    And what of the young colonizers with their fast talk and coca-cola? Should we entertain them?

    They use speed as their weapon. They deal in sandcastles, which melt in the tide. They are fancy and worldly, and buy four plane tickets a month. They have machines that can till wide fields and medicines to make you forget the pain of amputation. They know the value of our native raw materials, which our entrepreneurs and learned scholars have yet to grasp, their uses still undiscovered.

    What can they offer us, that wont result in our demise?

    The problem with them is that they are bigger than us. And that we have been tricked before, into believing that our people should be bound to the repetitious, banal work of the fields, while they enjoyed the fruits of our labor. It is easy to believe that their rock/roll ambitions must precede maintenance of our sovereignty, and pursuit of our vision for our undeveloped nation. While at night their clubs are irresistible to our youth, since they have the most well selected light fixtures, impeccable aesthetics and deliciously milky prostitutes.

    But what can they offer us that will help us to improve and develop our own lands? We have yet to fully understand our potential. The intellectuals among our people see a sovereign land like no other, and through the imagination of the high philosophers, and the raw emotion of our peasantry, we are developing a national consciousness that has not yet matured. A brewing blood consciousness, independent, and unlike that of any of our sister nations or the breakaway republics to the south. One that incorporates the traditions of our cave dwelling, levitating sages, as well as the brave possibilities that are paraded before us, streaming from the tanks of these western devils. Who are so young.

    Will they interpret our culture through their own contact lenses? Or will they see us like we see ourselves?
    Would they even try? Would we dare to hope that they could help and protect us?

    The field is raw, and perfect. I can do with it as I like. What I wish to take from things I love I must endeavor to take, what I wish to eliminate, I must eliminate. This can absolutely not be accomplished with outside interference.

    I must have total autonomy.

    Do not contact me any more.
    I am not ready. Neither are you.
    I need to not fear being colonized by you.
    I need to forget you for a while
    And envision, and build,
    Until I don’t know how do anything else.
    It seems to me that
    You need to decide (for reals this time)
    What you have to offer,
    What you need to be happy,
    And what it means to be a man.

    Know this, my Napoleon, my tiny doppelganger:
    I love you in a way that is not rational
    So desist from asking me why I love you.
    From the beginning I have known that I would be doomed
    With this crazylove.

    You will never be my friend.
    You exist to me as only one thing.
    This is living in my cells.
    Double helix, hydrogen bonds.
    That is why you smell me like you do.

    Do you know what I want Aaron Huey?
    I want you to love me.
    I want you to see me as I am, and then I want you to love me anyway.

    I don’t know if you can give me what I need.
    I must be happy without you absolutely first, or I will never have the capacity to know.

    You know–

    I wouldn’t even mind being your colony
    If I could be the Formosa to your Portugal,
    The Seychelles to your France. . .

    Your most beloved.

    May 13th, 2007: Aaron Huey and Kristin Moore were married at sunset on
    a rusting Russian tank on the edge of Kabul.

    December 19th, 2009: at 9:36 PM Hawkeye Huey was born in Seattle, Washington.
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