My dog, Tzara, lies buried in a bayou in Louisiana. Dead from the crazy
of isolation, of a childhood in an apartment rarely left in Seattle,
dead from the wound of a car breaking her leg near the park after which
she never really was the same again, dead from the insecticide always
killing cockroaches in our apartment I believe. Dead, her veins purple
with pentobarbital to stop that constant spasm in the end. Dead from
modern life actually. A pampered, protected, purebred who could
understand me speaking both English and German.
Very personal thing, a dog. As personal as space changing through time,
as personal as lost love, as personal as meaning, skill, and art.
As students, we often spent time drinking near her grave in the bayou by
that lake--lost there. She doesn't have much cheese at all, you see...it
is a space as personal as a Southern night, with frogs and flowers and
wildfowl. Part of me stopped there, it is a death I shall always carry
with me somehow. I am not completely alive anymore, you see, I cry for
me and Tzara. Is she a space? A place? A picture? Or an image? Where is
this lost love? In.23.
Jaakko Hucklebee
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