Maudlin, but entirely appropriate, self-indulgence
Sitting in Phoenix Park, which is this little reclaimed garden round the back of Charing Cross Road and Shaftesbury Avenue on a stone bench while Sel told me her ideas for one of the beast parable cycle she wanted to do as her big comics magnum opus.
Talking to Sel on the phone with Karita Mattila singing Schubert in the background and Sel making me stop when 'On Music' was on and getting me to turn it back to the beginning and turn it up so she could hear. Sel remarked that she mostly didn't get opera, but maybe Schubert songs would be the way to go for her and classical voices. It was only a week or so before she got ill and I was going to make her a disc, but...
Talking to Sel very early in my UCSL chatroom days and instantly adopting her as kid sister. She was also the very first netfriend slashfangirl I actually met in the flesh and probably the one I got to know best of all in some ways. She always thought that we had a connection - one of us was an avatar of the other or something - and I told her of my theory that reincarnations could be at the same time, and we realized that sometimes we just had the same idea. Of course, the fact we were sisters in another sense was part of that too....
When I visited her in hospital a fortnight ago, she had just finished reading 'Bad Blood' - I had talked to her about my dead friend Lorna and she made a point of reading Lorna's last book. One of the things that sucks about both deaths is that they were both about to write their best work. Lorna was famous and only we know Selena, and I don't for a second feel pretentious or odd about saying that. I firmly believe that Selena was going to write as well as any of us - what there is of her young adult novel 'Pancras Weekes' is funny and exciting and smart.
And there is so much that is unfinished - people got Amy Acker to write her a get-well message on an Illyria photo and there was never a chance to get it to her.
Selfishly, I resent furiously that I don't have Sel to ring up any more when I am travelling back from town and feel like bitching about the evening's events. She was always a good person to discuss crushes and flirtations with - she got the extent to which they are partly a way of feeling involved with life as well as with their objects. She was also someone really voracious for knowledge whom I got to teach things to and show things to and show off at.
I'm listening to Mahler's Sixth - in a two-piano version - and it expresses perfectly my morbid furious sadness.