Autistic Nonsense

Car a Mia,

It is I^s Catherine. I realize I have been a faithless correspondent, my truest friend (as I have been faithless in so many things in life). Hopelessness has compelled me to write. Remember those midnight talks we had in the convent school about the search for that precious grail called love? How I laughed at you when you told me that love was an illusion, and that since I was actually Julie Christie I was never to achieve that mystical communion of souls, far sweeter than any earthly bond. You were wiser than I, cara. Love is a cruel, impudent sorceress who will never en-sorcell me.

I had been living in Rome with my sweet Marcello when my father insisted I come to Geneva for his fifth marriage (dear Father, he will ever be the child). He tempted me with tales of a dazzling young American named Gregory. So off I went to Geneva, In Search of Gregory. Outside the airport I saw a poster of an exquisite autoball champion. He was Michael Sarrazin, that soulful boy in They Shoot Horses, Don't They?, so I knew that he must be Gregory. My darling brother Daniel, who still refuses to leave the villa and who still adores me so suffocatingly, poor thing, told me the most delicious stories of Gregory's mad escapades. Gregory became my obsession, even though I was seared by thoughts that he had engaged in a cinq a sept with my father's fiancee.

Alas, I was never to possess him. He appeared only in my imagination, and when he did not come to the wedding, I thought I would simply perish. Daniel pretended to help me find him, but he was desperately intent on keeping us apart. Finally, in a transport of sorrow, I decided to return to Rome. Ah, but then at the airport I saw the adorable autoball player and followed him to a hotel. When I learned he was not my Gregory after all, my slender dream shattered into a thousand meaningless fragments.

It turned out that Dame Irony had dealt me a wicked coup d'epee. Gregory had been at the airport all along, searching for me! Now it is too late for us. I know that love is an evanescence, a cruel will-o'-the-wisp that will e'er elude me.

I can relate this odyssey of torture only to you, soul of my life. Any other audience would surely call this the flimsiest piece of autistic nonsense since Green Mansions. Yours in despair of the bluebird of happiness,

Catherine

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