This letter was originally written for the LUNAR Project screening of films by Jennifer Reeder, THE YOUNG-GIRL IS NOT ALWAYS YOUNG, AND NOT ALWAYS A GIRL
Dear Cat Madden,
I’m sorry I’ve overlooked you for so many years, but I am close to the child, she is easier to understand and I find you hard to pin down and embarrassing. I have wondered why you never learn to play the guitar, choosing instead to grow your nails long and paint their tips white with a little pen you have read about in a magazine and buy from Boots. I don’t know why you scrape your hair back like that and still fancy the boy who burnt your arm with a lighter. I hate those scraggly hair extensions that you click-in on the night you’re sick at a club opening your friend’s uncle took you to, after two drinks. He is annoyed, but later turns out to be a paedophile. That is your fault. And why do you just stand there smoking when the two men talk about how tight it would be if they fucked you in the arse? I suppose you do tut, and not to be underestimated is the excitement of a stranger wanting to fuck you.
I do things that you can only dream of on a lonely weekend: I have my clitoris licked, I sit under a duvet watching TV with somebody who loves me a lot. These things are more boring than you think.
I don’t think people think I’m as clever as you, and I’m not as well read in comparison to my peers. I don’t masturbate as successfully as you who have a free and easy mind, to spend all morning thinking about a woman with no personality touching me up in a shop’s changing room. Infeasible now when I feel guilty for not craving sex for weeks.
I don’t smoke any more. You started so that you wouldn’t look so young and that boys would like you.I don’t look old, but my tits are bigger.
I suppose you are just as pure as the sad little girl you tried to give the slip, just as vital, an overly optimistic oracle of un-tired sexuality. Come and sit with me and we can talk about things you’ve read, poetry by men, after all you are one of the mothers of my woman.