Becoming Duchess Goldblatt

by Duchess Goldblatt

Good night, rascals, dreamboats, and hermits. Good night, crackpots and nutjobs and scoundrels. Good night, all librarians everywhere.

If you’ve ever wondered what the right thing is to say to someone who’s grieving a death, I think this is it: Tell me all about your dear one.

Sometimes I think of something so funny that I break out laughing by myself, and it’s then that I know you’re with me.

Because that’s what you do and that’s why Duchess is important. If being Duchess began as a selfish act, then it’s a perfect win-win. If by being Duchess for yourself you’re able to help people, give them a voice, and make them feel cared about, you’ve struck the perfect balance in life.

Close your eyes and visualize the best possible outcome. When it’s not looking, grasp it by the neck and fling it into reality.

Good morning, sentient chunks of goodness. We meet again for another spin on the old axis. Let’s see what we can do with this one.

Hello, lemon-lime sourballs. It’s Transitory Saturday, when we remember that nothing is good forever, and nothing is bad forever.

When I find myself in need of great beauty, I close my eyes and listen, and it slips in through the side door.

On the night I was born, there was a pink moon. I’d always been told what that meant: a girl was a gift to the family. I was supposed to take care of him. I spilled a bag of ellipses all over the floor. Now I don’t know where anything begins or ends.

It’s such a beautiful night. I think I’ll catch up on reading your diaries. I’ll use track changes so you can see where you went wrong.

I don’t mind an unreliable narrator, as long as she’s punctual.

I laughed. She’d love that. “I’m trying to make myself a happy ending in real life, and then I can put a happy ending in the book,” I said. “Efforts have been made.”

“Just finish the book,” Lyle said. “The world needs you to.” “You’re a real friend, you know that?” I said. “I haven’t always had one before.” “You’re one of my only real friends, too,” he said. “Everybody else is on the payroll.”

I want to drop by your dreams tonight. When you’re falling asleep, hold a little empty space for me in your mind.

I started looking around the world and realized: I have friends again. I’ve built myself a civilization from the ashes.

If you don’t use autocorrect, it will wither and fall off. It will be forgotten by future generations, much like autodeface and autoabsolve.

It was Lyle who convinced me that I was inherently worthy, that if I cast my inner light out into the universe, more light would bounce back toward me. And lo! The more I’ve become Duchess and myself at once, both of us together with one voice, the more that my real tribe has been able to find me. Fancy that.

I’ve learned how to spot a friend when I see a new one in the wild. I’ve found my voice. Duchess is still in Crooked Path, and Hacienda will always be in a Mexican prison—somehow the two of them are bending time and space to cohost a bake sale fundraiser for the Dorothy Parker Academy for Girls this weekend—but Duchess doesn’t respond to everyone anymore. She’s receding. I know now I won’t lose the sounds passing through sudden rightnesses because it was always just me, singing my own song to keep myself company. I’m okay and my kid will be okay, and this is what the ancestors prayed for.