Volume 13 of Aphrodite's Garden: 1991-1992 June-February  work & days: a lifetime journal project  









Part 1 buy a 1978 Ford Fairmont, Louie and I begin interviews at the garden, Luke comes from England. Part 2 we rent a broadcast quality video camera and begin to shoot. Part 3 show notes in origin at the Cinemateque in San Francisco. Part 4 meet Dave Carter at a party. A week on a Canada Council film jury in Ottawa.

Notes: Le Guin "The day before the revolution" and Dancing at the edge of the world, Pat Churchland, Neil Gunn The serpent, Calvino Six memos for the next millennium, Nussbaum The fragility of goodness, Hillman The dream and the underworld, Sufism, Anthony Wilden System and structure, Drabble The radiant way, Wittgenstein on math, Evelyn Fox Keller Reflections on gender and science, Margaret Whitford transcribed as a separate document.

Mentioned: Louie E, Rob Mills, Jam Ismail, Trudy Rubenfeld, John Atkins, Laiwan, Monty Jones, Joyce Frazee, Michael Cleghorn, Luke, Juan Echide de Tar, Mrs Hsu., Leslie *, Hilde Westerkamp, Michael Voskamp, Daphne Marlatt, Phil Hanson, Andrew Irvine, Tony Gordon-Wilson, Roy Chisholm, Brent Marchenski, Rhoda Rosenfeld, Cheryl S, Barry Truax, Bjorn *, Martin Hahn, Paul Epp, Mary Epp, Ed Epp, Greg Morrison, Ray Jennings, Philip Kitcher, Rudy Voth, Steve Anker, Sarah Black, Nick Dorsky, Elizabeth Grey, Rudy Epp, Martina, Maxine Gadd, Janis Crystal Lipzin, (landlord) Peter Choy, Ingrid Pincott, Dave Carter, Serge Giguère, Jean-Claude Bustros, Anne-Marie Hogue, Sue Ditta, Yun Lam Li, Richard Holden, Sandy Wilson, Nell Tennhaaf, Gail Scott, Anne McLean, Jody Berland.

CKNW, Air Canada, Annie Griffith Bath of the National Geographic, Rose Lawder, Canadian Filmmaker's Distribution Co-op, Cinematèque Québequoise, notes in origin, Temperance and The lovers in the tarot, Gorbachov, Betacam 505 SP recorder, David Suzuki The nature of things, granular synthesis, Lacan, Video In, the Western Front, the Ridge Theatre, Western Conference Philosophy Association meeting at SFU, Mary Tiles, Van Dusen Gardens plant sale, Canyon Cinema, San Francisco Cinemateque, Dorothy Richardson, Le Guin Searoad, David Marr, Alan Rickman in Truly, madly, deeply, Always coming home, Italo Calvino Six memos for the next millennium, the Art Bank, the Vancouver Sun, Knowledge Network show on the community garden, Mary Tiles Philosophy of Set Theory, Canada Council film jury, Ovid, Gerard's Herbal, Susan Gevirtz Narrative's Journey: The fiction and film writing of Dorothy Richardson, Gerd Bonfert Cycle des yeux, Andre Jasinski Holzweg series.

824 E Pender St, Saturna Island, Gabriola Island, Whistler, the Lake District, Hastings Street, Sechelt, Fraserview Cemetery, Edmonton, London, Granville Market, Kew Gardens, Chelsea Physic Gardens, Shooters Videeo Rental, Stanley Park, the Carnegie Centre, Dwinelle Hall UC Berkeley, Nyingma Institute, Venda South Africa, Gastown, San Francisco Art Institute, New Westminster, Cascade Mountains, Mount Baker, Emily Carr College of Art, Welcome Cafe, Oakville Ontario, Regents Park, Medical History Library in Montreal, Chateau Frontenac in Quebec, the Binerie in Mont Royale, Tagore Restaurant in Montreal.

18 June 1991

"Used to sleep behind there, we got kicked out, behind that big tree there, about eight of us, and then we started losing things, blankets, food. I ended up in the hospital, another guy ended up in jail, another guy in detox and disappeared. Used to be good."

"If you make it too strong and light up a cigarette ... You have to watch, you can't smoke, if it's mixed too strong, eh, and you light up a cigarette."

"Looks strong."

"Let it cook for a while." (Laughing.) "An old Indian trick, you know, you tell people ..., you tell people you learned an old Indian trick, if they want to drink Lysol ... ah you know where's that can. It's empty?"

Airplane. Blackbird. Very loud truck.


Quite stringently in pain. I'm going to blow it - I'm not going to be able to sustain having a - what - don't know what - what other people have - someone they're with.

How not - the oppression of it - the guilt, uncertainty, fear, anguish.

Try it this way: I was buying a car and flooded with how beautiful she is outside and in. Tuesday. Wednesday morning Jam phones her. I'm plunged into terror. She says, There is not enough love in Jam, on any level. I know it's true. But that night in bed tho' I put myself into her hands my labia stick together in blank refusal. She wakes me at 3:30 sobbing because my body doesn't want her and so she shouldn't let me touch her either. That's the end of our possibility of going on together. I don't want to feel it then, I want to sleep, but I'm feeling it now. There is nightmare associated with sexually loving women.


Bitterly haranguing Gay about slashing the wild area corner where trees were being "strangled". A moment when I let something out I didn't expect and with it really a flame - a distinct chemical jet - of hate. "Why don't you talk to Oliver and Rob who also know something about the wild area, maybe you'll believe it if you hear it from a man. What do you think a tree is? Trees have evolved to come up through undergrowth."

With L feeling a big nasty tiger whipping my tail on the floor. Look out little mouse I might not be able to control my claw.

What is it? I'd like a big nasty fight, but why?


Should I make something of my squabbling with Gay? Sunday night there she was with Sean hacking in the wild area. I'm in pain to start with and that sets me going. She's doing it for reasons she doesn't know, she's doing it to be doing it with Sean and his machete, and for territorial gain. The trees are being choked she keeps saying. Trees don't choke I keep saying. It's the trees in her own wild area that are choked.

Yesterday I told [wild area coordinator] John she'd done it, remembering not to mention names and realizing the advantage of speaking to him first and also knowing territoriality will dispose him to use those of my arguments I want him to be more persuaded of. Half an hour later I see Gay leading Betty to show her their work confident she'll be vindicated. John comes back blowing his breath, "I'd like to kick their heads off!"

Then Gay following Betty who is looking impassive. I'm beside the potato edge. She's red and wet. Aggrieved with me. "Why did you talk to them when I said I was going to?" She's understood that I got the advantage (what does she expect) but not that she's not in a position to make much of an evil of it. "Fuck off, Gay." "No I won't" she says like a child, "You want everything your own way and I'm not the only person who thinks so." I get to enjoy the chance to shoot fast. "In fact Gay the truth is you'd like a little more of that yourself." "That's not true! Everything I do is for other people!"

Oh well with that last word ringing in our ears I don't need to say more.

When I'm putting away the wheelbarrow she arranges to intersect at the shed. "You have no right to tell me what I think. You don't know what I'm thinking!" Boiling with resentment. From inside the shed I can be laconic after her. "I don't think you do either." Oh unjust. "You're vicious!" Sloping away home, knock-kneed and retarded.

So that's the story as I like to tell it. What else? That I'm still yelling at her and rejoicing at how easy it is to confound this louche thing, red, moustached, pig-eyed, stomachy, ignorant, famished, self-choked, stupid with envy.

And? What's more to do than recognize shadow when it's apparent? Feel myself her? Yukk.

3rd July

Then it's passed. We tape Monty sitting with Lance on the south slope of the kids' hill in the quietness of Monday holiday.

Yesterday morning I creep into her bed to wake her and we lie there two hours glowing bright yellow. I'm touching her with every surface I can. There are columns of light standing in my palms. It is so blissful I wonder whether my revolt was about getting to this parity in bliss.

Dizzy with happiness to be able to be with her again if I want, more days.

Beautiful tapes of Monty. Frogs with the curves of motor sound rising and falling in the dark.

Sunday 14th

We go up to the herb garden. Sit on the small step looking across over the pool. Two posts completed on the water hovering across the line. It feels safer with Monty gone. L on my right. Her squarish head with earrings quivering.

Someone walking fast up the long path we see between the far posts. He comes into the herb garden carrying a coffee pot. Hi, I say. He's the guy who was looking after Monty the night before. Comes sits down with us crosslegged on the gravel. The cops just released him. He was picking butts, Monty said Here's eighty five cents. He was gone five minutes. He came back and saw Monty lying on the ground with what looked like a piece of wood on his stomach. A little blood around his mouth. When he touches the wood it's wet and warm, his guts are out. He tears away to the firehall. My friend is sick! Grabs a fireman's arm. Ambulance on the firehall parking lot. Saline, suction, abdominal packs (we found the debris). He's gone, he's gone, says the paramedic. Doug as he tells is unobtrusively releasing the pressure on a Lysol can. A long even hiss, goes on for minutes. Shakes part of the can into the pot of water. L and I taste it. It's very strong, tastes like shaving soap she says. It's beautiful sitting with Doug. The beautiful night. City stars not many. Quiet and mild. Doug's simple laughing and crying. Louie is perfect.


What it's like being hot and cold with L. When I'm 'with' her she looks wonderful. The way she was holding her neat beautiful body standing on the pedals next to me riding back along the wharf last night in her jeans and yellow shirt. I follow the precision of her mouth when she speaks. Her hand holding my hand is conscious in all its joints. Her senses in the same way take fine strong note. There's some way she is, there's an aether I'm starting to notice - like the night of Monty's death - I can't afterward remember what we say - but the quality is like clean warm water.

When I'm away from her, her face is swollen. She grins. She strokes or rubs me somewhere, stupidly and insistently as if trying to hypnotize an animal. I feel her mired in feminine concern for people, far too many people, a lifetime's geniality thickening her air. I hear it in her accent, a blunt voice, not cursive, a voice I don't want to hear.

What happened last night. She said, I'm so happy you don't want to leave me yet. I said happily, I was just thinking how much I like going hot and cold with you, I get to find you again and again. She mentioned a plan that has me able to switch in briefly while switched out, and I felt backed against a wall, attacked, silenced, wanting her instantly gone as if she wanted me to give up something I have to have to be alive. I thought it might be my intelligence. But there was something else going on.

"Separatedness" I said. What men have that lets them work.

Saturna 8th August

Douglas firs, corrugating downwards, from deep deep blue sky. O my Greek headland. There was a tenemos under a large juniper a bit further along that coast. Goats sheltering in bad weather had tramped out a little theatre floor, the inner half raised a few inches behind a long root. Juniper is something in itself, and the way its shade was held in a shelf over the rockfall was archaic. Dusty earth with blue juniper berries, dried goat beads. At times a slight smell of goat.

The new owners picked this place to bulldoze a sea view. What they did was level the crevasse that had drained the pasture in a small seep through nettles, windfall giants, silted pockets. So now there are no goat paths down into the soak and through the tangle and up again to the floor under the juniper, which is still there but so dislocated it was hard to find. I saw the man with money whom we allow to own it, stand there oblivious with the cat driver saying Bring it down through here.


Gorbachov's end inscribed into seeing it with Luke. A sunburnt man with black whiskers whose face has the kid light again. And I feel it at times too, like the joy of having him asleep in the Valhalla house. Oh Luke it is you still.

And then more. Louie sad about Rob is lying on my bed reading about computers. I lie down next to her and read her last year's journal from this time. Parts about Rob too. There is such love and recovery in the writing that I think she'll see she's safe. She says The writing is so good. I say, Isn't it really good.


Saying angrily, "She says I'm the one there's something wrong with, there's nothing wrong with you." Joyce missed the obvious, L hasn't a clue of it. Why I have to control people's perception. (When there's nothing wrong with them.)

What happens if I don't control. Pain and fear. Pain and fear so bad I must do anything to escape. What does the pain say. I am less than these.


There's something worth getting to know, tho' - how it happens I have to be so afraid of feeling less than someone.


Crossing a street she saw a gash in the scene, a few inches wide, and seething thru' to somewhere else, sky and street too. She felt she could step into it but if she did she'd be in a world where pain never goes away.


An effective self made by aggression too, feels like it's a bad person but it's the one that gets love, sex, money, influence, a car, a son, a bright body, triumphs over enemies.

This bad but triumphant self also remembers a time steeped in beauty, all day steeped in love, in pain, fear, revelation - only it was a re-entry still without a helper - the others had to defend themselves, so bare it was to see - no one was there.

Then Rob who could contain without frightening, lets me adore and play, I'm effective all the way into feeling - easy to frighten tho', he doesn't betray but he could. Uneasy. It has the mother very contained. I'm with her in his arms but nowhere else. A preverbal mother. Then Louie with her round arms round breasts and kind attention offers to be the mother, not contained, but all around in any conversation. The preverbal mother. Ah but the price - that the preverbal mother is gone. I'm hers and locked away. It's another stage.

7th October

Computer sound editing with Louie in the cold at Western Front. Doing it with her is maddening. "Put it on the top line there." "Louie these things have names!" She was beleidicht. I sat on the floor in the corridor and came to see what was happening. Don't take it personally, we're doing something that's quite hard, we're trying to talk, it's too hard and we're crashing. But she's really crashed, explanation won't get her out. "It is personal!" In her baby tone. "Louie it isn't personal! We're two computers who've crashed." She has to persist. "I'm not going to do this, we don't have to do this. Go away and have a break, or I will" I say. She follows me up the corridor. She's in baby mode. I want to hit her, a flare of exasperation. "This is one of the moments where I know what I'm doing, I think you have to just believe me." She goes, I work, I get into the centre of it, I begin to understand how to move.

Drive home downhill through the lights thinking what I've discovered. My father's pressure with machinery he didn't understand well enough. Chasing cows with Mary, her even-less-capable interference. I took it personally in just Louie's way. There was no one in the overview that says look, both computers have crashed, it isn't personal, it's just a fact.

And also the lovey state I was in during the Indian movie, the Aphrodite estrogen one, is not personal either.

And then - is that what Joyce says - 'love' is not a feeling, it's an overview steadiness in chosen responsibility? And so would be war.

But whether the states themselves, the full chemistry, are useful to the body, a drench of some sort of life.


This morning with Ro, Saturday morning in the garden. He fixed his pies, concentrated for an hour on prying sunflower seeds out of their tight slots. I was setting out spare plants for Van Dusen, clearing the greenhouse, all in the autumn reach, the dear sun, powder, different things in the edges particularizing themselves in colors where all summer they've been unknown.

As we're in our side by side beds, Row and I having a conversation. Rowen do you think you'll want to have children? Yes and I want to have a wife. What kind of a wife? A beautiful one. What kind of beautiful? Long hair. Hair up to here. What color? Pale. What else would she be like? (He talks about Myrie. Myrie is bossy.) Do you want your wife to be bossy? No, nice. How else? You know. Like you.

7th November

Everywhere on the streets, wet shreds. Reds.

Crisis of dwindling light. Make sure to keep a fire in the house.

Sunday 10th

We go to Stanley Park to look for breakfast. It is more beautiful than we'd thought to expect. It's Saturday morning. There are trees with leaves lost in just the amount to leave a floating lace. Yellow. And in another place, on a bank, a small cherry with a head like a yellow circle and at its foot another yellow circle, sloped. The shrubs sort out into kinds of different colors. Be very quiet says Rowen because of the black squirrels whose tail fuzz shows plainly the presence of the long rat tail inside. Rowen has pancakes, eats shapes in the toast while Louie tells the first day of her trip.


Wake with fear in my chest, it's got past the barrier in the solar plex. Feeling that dope is a gate directly into truth, that the relations I control are also that truth of reversal and menace. That my respect and fear of the dark Them is that I think they live in the dark truth. That I'm negligible in art and teaching because I stay out of the dark truth.


She tells a story about Rowen: she is at Carnegie eating with Michael and Rowen, a bearded man she doesn't know and Mary McGuggin the lunchroom shouter. Michael goes to get a glass of milk. Mary is saying excitedly to the stranger, "Love really brings peace, I believe that, true love, not the sex kind there is now." "Like Ellie and Louie," says Rowen. L thinks no one hears. He's watching her take it in. "Ellie really loves you, you know," soberly.

San Francisco 24th

Listening to the last ten minutes of tape not hearing anyone hear the accomplishment in it, the precision of interiority. As always thinking this should be the last time, I won't show my beginner's mind again. The gasping woman said "In the end you're born."


Yesterday shopping and not liking. The gimmickry of the Victorian fronts, a similar gimmickry in people. Boy with petal lips and spiked dogcollar. A woman in plastic leather and Farrah Fawcett hair (layered frosted cantilevered hair) turns a painted face with exactly the right features for the look but maybe twenty years past its moment, toward a man with florid slightly porky skin and an earstud, fine thin hair a too-even auburn, back seam of his blue suit jacket opening a one-inch gape under the collar. Old woman with complicated mask of symmetrical collapse. I don't like the way the house fronts rise directly from the pavement without gardens. I don't like the bumpy hills that obstruct and confuse, or the too many irrational streets. Or the way the tramline isn't serious transportation. Or the stunned tourists obediently gathering in tourist spots. Or the way relationship ads brag of and demand success. Or the bunker I'm housed in, artist apartment with unintelligent paintings and a TV that plays only one channel, America's funniest people and its like.


The woman at the Nyingma Institute said she couldn't allow me to sit with the wheel, but she'd let me see the garden. Very beautiful, she said. Well - but the wheel tireless like the heart turning and humming. I sit down on the flagstone facing it, thinking of the university, my fear of it. I say, I don't want to be where it is so loveless, and find myself crying, sobbing. Cry and stop crying and see the hanging strings of the weeping birch in orange house light, and the beautiful folded colors of the prayer flags. And get up and leave. Buy Le Guin's Pacific Northwest novel at the bookstore by the subway entrance, just as the salesman begins turning off lights in the back. Sit softened facing forward as the train advances timelessly from light to light through the Bay tunnel.

Saturday December 7th

Morning. A story. He says "Come here." Her choice. She's not too proud, so deep an ache. "Ti voglio." "Did you say William?" Laughing.

Later the story of the dream about my father. "I wasn't saying ti voglio, I was saying it's you." "That's what I was saying when I came back from England." "I don't think I've ever said it apart from that."

That's as much as I'm going to tell except for this afternoon when we'd come back here and she'd got her car bill and we were in the red chair in each other's arms in one outline together, our bodies one texture of twilight grey, talking.

The story there'd be in the story of our twenty four hours, a story with stories, the wealth.


L turned on Co-op Radio at midday, heard a song in Punjabi, a crow's cry. She thought, I must let Rani have my new phone number so she doesn't lose touch. Phones Co-op to leave a message. "Rani can't speak now, she's doing a show." Rani phones back. The Punjabi song calls to old friends to return, the crow's cry is that.


I'm standing looking around and it's Luke's birthday - and what will I do with the rest of my years - I like this philosophical work - and I have writing now - and would like to try out living as if my opinion was interesting - and know there are still those paths into the back country. Last night in bed remembering the science of state, what I meant by it. A judgment of the air.


I'm bamboozled by guilt and obligation. There was a face that came forward into hers, it's an ugly stubborn demon, not a kid, more of a dwarf, an old malice with a grin set. Saying that, I'm on track, keen, again. A greed like Mary's. Being willing to see it I would see other people too. The seeing I was missing in yesterday's dullness.

What I insist against her: that the half hour satisfied with Rob is true. It's true, it's true.

Something else. Tuesday night when I'd been shopping, doing and aching all day and we'd got into bed and I was sore all down my back she put three fingers on a pressure point on the right side of the spine a bit above the waist. When she said she was amazed at the suddenness and amount of current I had felt it too. The right bum and up even around to the forehead and then the right heel. And then a sound sweet complete night.


Last night sore and tired going to bed and reading journals. Seen overall a chaos, seen in the detail of writing a precise venturesome passionate mind - that has made itself so finely capable of a work it doesn't find. I can't bear to think the journal will die when I do. That's something I never do think. Always, sometime I'll make something of this.

2nd January 1992

My back breathed. The pleasure of feeling how the ribs where they hinge to the spine can lift and settle like the covers of a book. Usually the back is a wall for me to stand against.

Over New Years in New Westminster, east of here on the skytrain. A flat-topped brown house with a portal. In this house - approached in wet twilight on a mill town street with workers' houses which are small independencies - Louie answers the door. She's been suffering. She'll be formal for now.

Next afternoon we sat backwards on the couch looking through clear tho' wet air at a white house in the embrace of a plain privet hedge. Behind this simplicity a reach of eighty miles: river flats, brush, log booms, roofs, mills, the river, a bridge-curve pouring lights onto the north bank, far west the shine of the sea and mountains stepping north. Across the south, the white Cascades. And vaguely, because sky-colored and too fantastic to take as given, the great pile of Baker with an overview of all.


Eliz and her kids. Taking her to the bus last night. She's in gumboots, plaid jacket and braids, and stands staunch in front of the coffee shop cashier joking until he cracks. Does she work that hard because it makes them welcome - yes - Kane hauling a floppy doll his size, Adam in dirty pale aqua, herself dressed however, only her fast innocent wit to provide them princes' passage.

Weds 8th

This journal the dullest for years.


At Ray's party a stroke of lust. My type. David, says Ray. Twenty-two. Bright black eyes, so black bright eyes. Black eyebrows straight across. A black pigtail in an elastic, a loose bunch escaped behind the other ear. Black jeans, old hiking boots he sat on the floor to tie, jean jacket inside an old leather jacket, black tee. Skinny chest. When he talked about Oakville a kid inflection from someplace in particular.


Where is it now. This day. Silver on the edge. Starlings drop from one branch to another, stand on chimneys. Water hissing in a pipe. Weak yellow light laid over blue daylight on the kitchen wall. Sharp weak whistles. Dark scuffle of letters hitting the floor.


Do people get finer-grained when they have sex in them? Is what I've wondered.

The way I imagine myself coarse or dread it, the way I'm secretively dejected at a coarseness in her face and then other times enthralled by a satin shine.

9th February

What do I need. I said when I wake at night sometimes I'm in a panic thinking maybe it'll be like this until I die, the part of my life where I feel is over. Sometimes another person can bring me open. I'm telling her what it's like on my side and it seems she's taking it in, not hiding, but still it's as if I'm alone being the grown-up. "I was weak, I needed a certain kind of support." And how unforgiving if that was what shut me down. She's supportive and I'm not. And yet it's as if my support is the real support. The way I'm longing to talk to Cheryl because there'll be moments when she spreads her experienced courage under me. We imagine support, Louie imagines support, as willingness to adore, defer. Support is precisely not that. Support is Tony's clear sharp word. Le Guin saying she'd thought it was weakness she needed to let her be strong, but all along it was strength. Strength for what, beloved? Ah - to be on my edge as I'm not. Moving. As if what I want is to be sad. I am sad, this morning. At the forehead I think, not elsewhere.

Ottawa 17th

The streets are dull and dirty, gutters heaped with slush. Horrible hotel restaurant. Poor executives, poor executive bodies, necks sloped forward anxiously. And what a poor breakfast for twelve dollars, flimsy ham, and how meekly he's eating it with his back to the room and feet planted under the table.

Opening the hotel room door: I don't like this, the life it's designed for, minibar and a selection panel for eight pay-TV movies. Click through 42 channels. There's a snowed over vision of a woman's ass and a man's hand decisively tugging the panty up between the cheeks. Like working class sex, matter of fact. They keep their eyes open, breasts flop, fuck fuck fuck fuck. A hand affectionately placed on her flank. Abruptly change position. Faithfully suck. But they won't show us a cock or a slit.


What I want to tell is visiting Richard Holden upstairs in Explorations, shyly coloring in the office pen while he finishes a call. Can I do this. But he's so warm I get all my confidence in a second. "I'm downstairs on a jury, I've only got a minute but I ..." His big gap-toothed black-eyed head beamed at me with what seems the most direct possible pleasure. "Okay now I'm going." He puts his hand across the desk. "Alright." But what he does is not a shake but a taking. Bold. He presses my hand onto the desk under a decisive warm palm.


I was so valiant. Crying at the end of the week.


Still crying this morning. It's a crash. And why. The way Sandy Wilson in white angora and greasy lipstick was stirring such liveliness in my francophone guys. That's not the way to say it. I saw them come to her to say goodbye with such open delight it was like school again, watching a popular girl from the bitter darkness of - whatever I am that's different. Seeing how smart is not as good as cute and willing, although all through the week Jean-Claude was holding a line across to me, depending on my intelligence to hear him.

Montreal 24th

I'm still a skin away from tears. It was very exposed on the jury. What was exposed was my difference - as always - intransigence - a desperation about holding onto difference. I'm tired still, trembling and slow, won't be able to fetch up the long breath I need for this.

Thinking I need to make a charm against those complacent ones who think I and not they are deformed.


Last night it was a deep dim Indian restaurant, the Tagore. I know not from what distant place you are coming ever nearer, the sound of your footsteps and all the rest I don't recall, but the great funnel outward of the longing it built. There was I with Cheryl alongside, beautiful food in front of us, saying I want to ask your advice - no I want to ask what you think - no I want to ask what I think.

"I think we all have something we make the sign of our difference" (she says). "Is this very sensible description the difference they're always talking about?" Laughing.