Tag: massachusetts

Page 2: Don’t get me wrong…

…. I love my city, born and bred.

A conversation once overheard in St. Louis, Missouri: two Americans asked two Brits on the 4th of July if the British celebrate the 4th of July. And the Brits responded, dryly, as only Brits can: “Um, no, because we don’t celebrate treason…..”

We celebrate treason here in Massachusetts. Tea in the Harbor, etcetera. Fireworks so year-round they’re nonsensical. Celebrating what? Reverberating trauma. Signs posted by the City read: “Hey Boston! Be a good neighbor! Don’t cause trauma. Don’t cause stress. Don’t shoot off fireworks.” So of course everyone shoots off fireworks. In July as in January. Unknowable most of the time what’s gunshots, what’s firecrackers. Bombs. Cop-knocks on the front door that turn out to be the USPS man telling you he’s not leaving your package on the motherfucking porch, so help him God, he will hand it to you, so help him God, he will not leave that motherfucker on the motherfucking porch.

When I rode in the back of the BPD cruiser with my dog 15 months ago the cop had an Irish accent. Not Irish-American. Not like from Southie. Irish-Irish. I found myself wondering if the Boston Police have some kind of cop exchange program. Like was there a Boston cop in Ireland right now? My dog and I were soaking wet from the rain and the Irish cop wanted to take me Downtown to make “a statement,” but I didn’t want to leave my dog. My dog was wearing my red Alpha Industries bomber jacket, buttoned around her chest. “Downtown is no place for a dog,” he told me. In the end I had to leave her.

(She’s still very much alive. She’s still teaching English. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.)

My dog is a good dog. A sturdy dog.

My dog is the Webb telescope of the olfactory, muzzle to the ground, at all times delivering up scent landscapes humans can only tangentially grasp: bouquets at the very edges of perception.

When I returned home after making “a statement,” everybody was looking at me like a clinician.

Everybody was looking at me like a clinician. And the dog, in her housedress, demanded nothing.

**

© 2023 | Valéria M. Souza a.k.a. “Ghostwriter” | All Rights Reserved

Page 1: Ghostwriter

It’s hard to explain why I started picking up trash off the streets, but probably has something to do with the fact that I walk in it every day. You can find all kinds of trash in Mattapan gutters: used condoms, lollipops stuck to sewer grates, flat screen T.V.s, blocks of fishy cat food still in the shape of square tin cans, scooped directly onto the pavement, I suppose as an offering to the rats that have recently infested our block.

My Mom got me some furniture and sent it to herself at my address, where she does not in fact live or even stay, then texted me, basically, what translates into “Pix!!11” regarding the furniture, meaning she wants me to send her photos of the assembled furniture once it’s show-ready. I’m not really sure what to do with this: this sudden awareness that my Mom is acting like one of my former johns. They always wanted pix!!11, as in: “Hey sweetheart. Did you get the gold chain I sent you? I notice all the other girls have at least some kind of jewelry except you. I wanted to get you a little something. When you receive it, send pics of you wearing it so I can see how pretty you look. XOXO, Mike.” There was always something that necessitated pix!!11 — a gifted/unwanted sex toy, a highly specific fetish-themed outfit, a higher rez cam for better pics, requiring, of course, pix!!11 I didn’t text my Mom back. I don’t know what to say about this relationship anymore.

I call myself “ghostwriter” not because I write for other people, but because I am a writer who does not exist. Not in the sense of being A.I. or anything. What I mean is that I died 15 months ago and I’m writing this — all of it — from an interstitial space, somewhere between IRL life and whatever there might be of an “afterlife.” This is the start of my story.

 © 2023 | Valéria M. Souza a.k.a. “Ghostwriter” | All Rights Reserved