Becoming Duchess Goldblatt

by Duchess Goldblatt

Sometimes I tie your words in linen with a little lavender and mint and use them as a poultice for my weary old heart.

People often come to me seeking the true meaning of life, but I find they’re usually satisfied with half a sandwich.

The damnedest thing was: she was better than me. I don’t mean a better writer (although sometimes, yes, that too), but she was a better person. Duchess has perfect compassion and grace.

I didn’t have my father’s compassion or his faith, but Duchess did. She was tapping into something else, an energy in the universe that wasn’t my energy. Nobody’s ever read my aura, but if I had to guess, I’d say it’s probably light gray and covered with lint. I’m exhausted most of the time, impatient, distracted, visiting another neighborhood in my head, always with a slow current of sadness underneath. Duchess is white light. She’s fully present. She’s something else entirely.

The trick is to be superhuman, but only when you have to. The rest of the time I recommend looking out the window. Maybe have a sandwich.

Not until people start seeing typos eating out of their garbage cans at night will they regret hunting proofreaders almost to extinction.

When someone you love dies, you lose them in pieces over time, but you also get them back in pieces: little fragments of memory come rushing back through what they cared about, what brought them joy. If you’re lucky, you get little pieces back for the rest of your life.

Whenever you see the color orange, you will find a kindness in your heart for your mother-in-law.

All lost manuscripts have since been found, numbered, bathed in rose water, and shredded for confetti. It’s what they would have wanted.

“Let me ask you this, Lyle,” I said. “How do you see ideas taking shape in your mind? Do you see a piece of paper with the story written on it?” He made a face. “What do you mean, how do I see ideas? I don’t know. They’re just ideas.” “I see a piece of paper in my mind, all the time, with words on it,” I said. I asked the Genius the same question. “I don’t see words, but I know what you mean. I see geometry everywhere,” he said. “I see dimensions. Patterns. Lines, angles, distance between objects in the room. The intersections of lines. When I hear music, I can see it as geometrical patterns.” “I think I read once that’s how Beethoven’s mind worked,” I said. “He could visualize music.” Lyle glanced back and forth between the two of us. “What?” I said. “No. Nothing,” he said. Later that night, when he was onstage in the acoustic show, he turned to John Hiatt. They always keep a friendly patter going between songs in their concerts. Lyle paused at one point, tuned his guitar for a long moment, and then deadpanned, “John, let me ask you. How do you see ideas forming in your mind? Do you see a piece of paper with a story written on it”—he held up his hands and waved them around—“or do you visualize music in equations and dimensions?” The audience laughed along at the oddity of it, and Hiatt gave it a little thought and went on to answer. But I don’t know what John Hiatt said because the Genius and I were laughing too hard to hear it.

They’re razing Crooked Path’s Möbius strip mall today. Delicate job. The place has no exits. We haven’t been sure who’s inside. Or outside.

Less a rule than a habit, Duchess used pet names for people: rascal, rascalino, sweets, sweetness, love of my life, pumpkin, poodle. She gets that from me. It’s handy if I see people and start talking to them before I can recall their names. Plus, you will perhaps agree with me that there are really only about five different names in the world. Put a couple of consonants and vowels together, that’s it, that’s every name. I can’t be expected to remember which random combination of consonants and vowels matches which unique and inherently divine everlasting soul.

I noticed a few years ago that if you consistently call everyone by pet names, no individual person will take offense that you don’t call up their name in particular. Do I walk into work meetings with serious, important people and call them “rascal” and “favorite”? I wish I could

(“I think I’m developing face blindness,” I said to Chuck once. “You don’t have face blindness. You’re just not paying attention,” he said.) I’m going to admit this to you privately and onl...

What’s your favorite food to prepare for yourself when you’re alone?—JRL Coffee. I look forward to it hours in advance, and I sing it a little love song when we’re together.

What part of marriage did you find happiest, your grace? Before, during, or after the funeral?—K I loved being married. I hope I will.—K You will, sweetheart.

How to handle disappointment and the crushing weight of a broken world?—E The world is broken, but you are not broken. Things may not be okay, but you’re okay, and you will be. I promise.

There’s my Duchess. Before I go, I’m going to tell you something about trust. It goes like this: It’s best if you decide to be true to the relationship rather than being true to the person. Because when the person lets you down (and he/she will!), you’ll say to yourself, “All bets are off!” And you’ll feel free to break a trust or breach privacy or be disloyal in big or small ways. It’s a justification. If you commit to the relationship, you’re being faithful to that. Same with friendship. That’s what I endeavor to do.—PJ

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

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’m okay and my kid will be okay, and this is what the ancestors prayed for.

How can I become fictional, like you? –Kit, Edmonton, Alberta, Canada You have to sit very, very still for a long time, alone, until the self recedes and another self emerges from the wreckage. It stings like the dickens. I don’t necessarily recommend it. On the other hand, I’m saying this as myself, a regular living person, and Duchess Goldblatt is a fictional character who lives inside my head, and none of this hurt her one bit. She’s thrilled that you’re paying attention to her. She’s pushing me out of the way and taking another bow.

Michael tells Pentangeli that Roth tried to have Michael and his family killed; he tells Roth than Pentangeli is responsible. Is this good management, and what do their annual evaluations look like? –Jon Danziger, New York It’s an excellent question; thank you. I was hoping someone would ask. Michael was drawing here on his deep understanding of Maslow’s hierarchy of needs: Pentangeli is driven by a need for belongingness, love, and friendship; Roth is driven by the need for recognition and achievement. Using Maslow’s motivational theory, Michael is able to produce a superior performance from them both short-term, but as for their annual evaluations: they’re both dead, as it were, by the end of II. Possibly there’s a case to be made that Michael’s management style could benefit from an investigation into Herzberg’s two-factor theory; we can certainly see evidence in I and II that his turnover costs are through the roof.