I found a cassette tape in the trash last week. I've been masturbating to it lately. It's labeled
Madoline in washed out red marker. I put it in the tape player and a sensual Spanish women begins
to speak. Spoken words of broken love, mourning, darkness. I turn off the light and light a candle.
Placing a stick of opium in the small delicate china Confucius that sits as my incense holder on my
mantle. I take off my clothes and lie on my dark black sheets naked, listening to the words of this
unknown Spanish woman as she speaks so slowly and sensually. Her words gliding into each other,
sliding over beautiful music that lies in the background played on a tape recorder.
The tape has a date on it. It says it was made on May 7, 1994. Every once in a while the tape cuts
off for a second, then starts again. Sometimes you can hear the microphone tap against something.
A quick rush of static. The Indigo Girls are playing in the background now. She speaks about the
paths we walk in relation to each other. I lie staring into the darkness.
I imagine that her name is Madoline. That she has long curled Spanish hair, a dark olive complexion.
She is somewhat tall, maybe five eight, five nine. The clothes she wears are bright and lively, but
elegant at the same time. When she speaks to you, she speaks slowly, like she does on the tape.
Sometimes she does not answer right away, pauses to consider the question. She is burning inside,
a fire burning. She makes these tapes to release some thing. Something deep inside. Perhaps no
one knows she makes them. She does it late at night when everyone else is asleep and no one can
hear, or care.
She works at a bookstore during the day, working the register. She smiles at everyone who comes
in. Chats with them as she rings up their book purchases. Sometimes she tells them the novels she
really likes, or ones she thought were absolutely horrible. They always take her advice.