But I was not searching for that today. I was looking for an image of the cover of Memories of My Melancholy Whores. Remembering a connection between that book and the many ecstatic mornings in sex school when i spent meditating and sobbing about the viscera that binds sex and death. This would've been right around April 17, 2014. It was his last book, and it gave me a kind of wild and grounding permission.
Cien Anos de Soledad game me permission also--when I read it my last year in high school. When I was ugly and alone and hid in the bleachers to read during lunch. When my 12th English teacher (who was into Joseph Campbell and archetypes) was so enamored of me reading that book that he allowed me to write poetry about it in lieu of taking all major exams. One Hundred Years of Solitude solidified everything I knew about intimacy, both familial and sexual, about time and its shape, and the fundamental basis of reality as the marvelous, often horrific, sensual.
And here is this woman, he met in in an airport once, who I only hope is telling a true story--though that never really matters. http://www.newsweek.com/2014/08/01/gabriel-garcia-marquezs-secret-muse-finally-reveals-herself-261175.html
