To the Beloved a Letter
Prefatory Note.—I wrote the following to my ex-boyfriend at 3 a.m. on a Monday, during another one of my doomed attempts to save myself, my work, my standing at school, &c., &c. from ruin by pulling an all-nighter. I remember falling asleep right after and forgetting to send it to him until weeks later. Now I share it here in the hopes that some other profoundly lovesick soul might relate to it and that we might commiserate (directly or otherwise) with one another in our lovesickness, in our yearning, in our want, and in a thousand-thousand things besides, which at all events make up naught but the beating, bleeding heart of Christ and consequently of humanity.
Pao Ching-ming
8th April 2024
Beloved:
I tried something new to-day and it didn't work and now I can't sleep. I half-remembered half-liking a film I only half-watched and went to see what this filmmaker I half-respect thought of it---I don't put much stock in most of my opinions, as you well know. Anyways: Letterboxd apparently doesn't let you search for specific reviews on people's pages or profiles or whatever. Some two-year-old comment on Reddit says something vaguely to the contrary but I don't care enough to check. At this juncture I can only think about you. I wish you were here. I wish we were still together.
Days ago I made a new friend who is as much of a longer as I am: I'm convinced the Christ led her to me and me to her. Yesterday she shared with me a (prose?) poem about her ex(?) and I thought it was very good--she nails the conversational style in a way I can't ever hope to do. Inasmuch as something cannot come from nothing and insofar as nothing cannot produce something, everything is derivative. But I shan't try to be emulous of my new friend's good poetry--I don't trust my voice enough.
Yesterday, too, I saw you joke-flirting (or almost joke-flirting) with some friend of yours who's always irritated me. (She didn't reply to a reply of mine which I thought well-written, or at the very least worthy of reply.) I'm not sure if I've gotten over you already. Sometimes I think I have but then I think I never can. What is true in the final analysis? in the last instance? (Nowadays the question mark is treated as a full stop at all times. It isn't.) All things are in disagreement with themselves--this is from Politzer, I think. Mao was being very forward-thinking when he pointed out that in everything there are principal and secondary contradictions, and in those contradictions principal and secondary aspects. Which is principal, my grieving or my moving on? I don't know. Did I fumble you or did you fumble me? Dualism is another problem of thinking. Are you still impressed by my pseudointellect? were you ever? Do you still think I'm cute? did you ever? I need no mollycoddling but also I do. All things are in disagreement with themselves. These, too, are problems of thinking.
This paper is marketed as typewriting paper but it's no good for typewriting--the punctuation slugs keep making holes in it. But that's really an issue with this machine's platen, which after 60-something years is hard as a rock and very disagreeable. I promised I'd send you a letter and knick-knacks and concretisings of my love and you promised the same, but neither of us ever did. I'm glad I split up with you. I wish we were still together. I would've been yours if you would've had me. I'm not but somehow someway I remain
Yours,
Pao.
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