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  • While I put all the books from Marcey´s and Janet´s library into my OPEN LIBRARY CREATE AN OPEN LIBRARY I remembered Dorrey Malcolm.

    She had been Janet's adopted sister and first lover. She had known many intellectuals of the day. She had lost Janet to Marcey. She had translated Jose Marti into English and many other writers of the Spanish language. She had been Juan de la Cabada's lover.

    She had been SOMEONE, as we say.

    I was never very close to her. She seemed a little odd and confused, but smart and funny and I liked her. One day during a party in Marcey's and Janet's home, I admired a beautiful Indian necklace she wore. While admiring it I noticed that she had put it on the other way around> wrong side up. We all laughed. especially she herself.

    Today I know that these things happen to me and that Marcey once told me that Dorrey was nearly blind in an old peoples' home in New York. Today I wonder, if she also suffered from Retinitis. I think Marcey told me that once. When I remembered that / after my diagnose / Marcey was 94 years old, had broken her hip for the second time and after that operation and anesthesia she started forgetting a lot of things. Dorrey had died. Marcey did not remember anything about her having died blind.

    She lived for a bunch of years in that home in New York. Whenever Marcey and Janet made it to New York they did visit her, but Dorrey as pretty abandoned most of the time and seems to have died alone.

    When my friend Helga found the boxes of books owned by Dorrey covered in dust in the attic of Marcey's house after Marcey had died, she was amazed at the dedications and books Dorrey herself had translated. Helga had never met Dorrey. Janet was 13 years dead by then and even though she had been quite a presence among many in town she was pretty much forgotten by then.

    Really, once we are dead we dissolve fast. Our traces blur quickly in the rain of forgetfulness. We are nearly nothing, lilies in the field.....

    This is a photograph of the only photograph I have of Dorrey. My husband took it in one of the first exhibitions we ever hosted in our art gallery, photographs of windows and doors of San Cristobal by Cynthia Wooley. I worked on this image a lot in Photoshop, otherwise you would not recognize a thing.

    This is the only trace and proof I have of Dorrey's life and existence once.

    Already on this photograph she looks sad and lonely to me.

    I want to honor her life a bit by mentioning her here. I want to rescue her from complete forgetting.

    For sure she does not care. I care. Deep down it is about myself. I am afraid of being forgotten so fast, I cannot stand this and still know that it will be just the same. We perish soon, some some years sooner than others.

    It all seems so fragile and fugitive and meaningless and nevertheless I feel good about having written a bit about Dorrey here that a handful of you might read.

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