Two Eulogies for the Price of One

Truth be told, I am not a fan of writing eulogies for people I haven’t met personally. But today, September 3rd, I will make an exception to this rule. Because it catches me in a soft spot due to my condition as a lunatic who doesn’t want a cure, nor would I want one if it were offered. I have always pampered the sources of imagination and those who awaken it; the more you let yourself be carried away by it, the more it begins to make sense. Just like life itself. And like a good book.

I will start with the departure that hurts the most, the singer Cassandra Wilson, to whom I owe a personal debt. For the times she rescued me from the edge of the abyss, so many years ago now, that I don’t consider myself the same person, even though in reality I am.

It was the last year of the previous century; I had returned from a trip to the hellhole where I lived, where I couldn’t even fit the white sofa I owned because there was no room. But as long as the desk, the books, and a mattress fit, I could keep writing passionately. By twists of fate, from having a bright apartment on the beach, I had gone to living as if I had been kidnapped in that f*****g hellhole, where at night cockroaches crawled out of the shower drain. Thank goodness it didn’t have a kitchen, only an electric coffee maker. But I couldn’t complain, as I had a window facing west, even if it was barred.

I used to write at night back then, rolling myself a cigarette laced with weed—not too much, lest I lose the necessary eloquence. I had the solitary life I always wanted. Because there is a difference between unwanted loneliness and deeply desired solitude.

This didn’t mean that from time to time I didn’t miss a redheaded girl I once knew, who had dumped me very sensibly upon realizing she was wasting her time with a textbook lunatic. The thing is, lunatics aren’t in as high demand as achievers, what can you do?

For such nocturnal trances, I used to put on some music, but always at a low volume so as not to disturb the neighbors’ rest. Cassette tapes were still in vogue, especially the ones where I recorded my favorite radio show, where a velvet-voiced announcer presented her musical discoveries.

And that was how, on one sweet solitary night, I started crying my eyes out listening to Cassandra Wilson covering Cyndi Lauper’s highly famous song Time After Time. Because that redhead, up close and properly intoxicated by alcohol, had for me the spark of Cyndi Lauper and the majesty of Kate Pierson, one of the singers of The B-52s.

The human voice is certainly intangible. But when I searched YouTube for that aforementioned Cassandra Wilson cover, I heard it much better than on that tape—not because of the obvious advance in audio technology, but because I am inordinately happy. How could I not be? I must have had a scandalous number of farewells to get to today. And yet, I now find meaning in what I left behind, so much so that I can time-travel at will without any fear.

The second eulogy goes out to Glo, a woman of boundless courage, known as Gloria Steinem. I confess I have a certain weakness for the feminists of the ‘60s, when everything was still left to be done. And when I say everything, I mean things we take for granted today, forgetting the defiance and the struggle that destroyed the lives of many activists back then, for they were true pioneers in a world full of cojones.

On top of that, she was an intrepid reporter. The night she infiltrated a party at the New York Playboy Club as a Bunny in April 1963 remains for the annals of journalism history. A Bunny’s Tale is a faithful portrait of how women were treated without the slightest respect, even by the very women who never even considered questioning the status quo. Because they mistakenly thought that deep down it benefited them to have a sugar daddy. By the way, I say this thinking about OnlyFans, which is a nightmare return to the past.

In fact, a large number of women without education or resources are tempted by O