14 October 1993
Joyce back from the Tibetan mountain. She's very pinkfaced and has big
glasses on. They drove ten days in Landrovers to get to the place where
the walk begins. I said did she take us all with her, it's been very intense.
She said yes it was very intense. Fortuitous. The morning after they arrived,
the first day in two months the mountain was visible. It took three days
to walk around it. I'd brought her nasturtiums, said I was feeling thankful.
She showed me photos. What did I say to make her offer me the bowl of rocks.
This is mean, she says to herself. Pick any one of these. There's one that
looks like a mountain. This is the one that's talking to me I say.
How are you?
Well, I think, but a bit euphoric. I think I need to steady myself. A
lot has happened. And what is my story. Strong enough and weak enough for
me, both in ways that I sort of know. (What was it she said would be difficult
for me? I rushed past it.)
Can I tell you a dream?
I am looking at water, a very wide river or the sea, at a boat the size
of a little fish boat that is foundered. It's full of water but it's still
floating. Suddenly I'm on it looking at the big grey waves wondering how
I'm going to get off, the water is very strong. I can't swim this. What
I'm afraid of is that I'll get swept out to sea. But then the boat is on
land still moving very fast down a road that is wet. There's water running
on it. Maybe it's cobbled. It is still moving too fast for me to be able
to get off. Up ahead I see a turn in the road. There's a very green grassy
mossy bank. Maybe the boat will run into it, but it doesn't, it turns the
corner and now is moving down more of a trail. It's more countrified. Then
the boat is stopped and I've gotten off. In front of us is a canal, a channel,
with water moving very fast and clean between the sort of banks there are
on canals sometimes, cut stone.
There was something else about a man who'd been on the boat before, quite
a large man.
Now tell it as the boat, she says.
I'm out in the water, swamped - but I'm not really telling it as the
boat, if I had I'd have talked about what it's like to be swamped. I had
in mind that he might be the swamped boat Ellie lands on. The boat at the
end faced with a channel that may not be wide enough for it.
It's man-made, she says.
You really don't like this little channel do you, I say.
She says no it's my rebellion.
Well there's nothing to say it can't open up into a larger body of water
further on, it IS clean and fast.
If you could re-dream this dream how would you do it?
I guess I'd row out to the boat and pull it to land and fix it.
Why didn't you just find this beautiful sailboat and step onto it and
fly away to wonderful places?
It didn't occur to me.
That's the interesting thing, she says. (Later, Well, if I saw a boat
like that I'd want to fix it too.)
What's in charge? It seems the boat is. No, not the boat, it's more as
if the road is. Events are.
I thought I'd better know what I'm doing.
What are you doing?
I'm wanting to take on somebody like my father and get it to come out
You know the danger when you do that is you'll get it to come out the
Yes. So should I just drop the idea?
Why should you?
Well, if it isn't going to work -
We don't do things because we know they're going to work surely, she
It's not the outcome, you'd better remember that.
Both laughing. I know, I know.
What do I know - my cheeks were hot coming out of it, are hot now retelling
it. I'm wanting to forgive people, as if I feel I've gone round a corner,
be nice to my relatives, write letters. I've been looking for womanly men,
I say. This one is not like that. He has men's sorts of vices. He doesn't
listen very well, he's not empathetic, his idea of doing something for a
woman is to fix something for her, paint her ceiling. She picks it up right
away: Protective you mean. Yeah. With that slant of satisfied irony.
Yes, so. So the energy is an energy of feeling I can make him be the
father who changes into a good father. A strong energy, very dangerous.
I couldn't see that boat enjoying the channel, it would need to be sent
back out to sea. It's an energy also that turns against me in a second.
What are the dangers. Somebody's secret plan. Danger for me is it glamorizes
so I don't have that easy rebalance into critical sight. Unbalanced I bail
out. Bailing out terrorizes the other person. Must do something to me too.
Other danger. I think about it too much (what do you expect, taking on
something hard), am impulsive and get it wrong and am mad at myself and
mind too much.
What's the best I can do with it. I like the idea of a test. How can
that strong primal energy get - it suggests - channeled? Where does the
channel go? Having ridden the boat that far and unswamped it . - River is
marriage, I wrote that down. The two banks that are rivals and have life
racing fast and clean or sprawled flat and murky between them.
Oh, and he's impotent. Frightened, that means, she said. Well yes, but
he says he's frightened and keeps coming. But it's his body that's frightened.
Yes. And so is mine, I didn't say.
More from yesterday. The swamped boat. "Swamped, that's the word."
That it reminded me of the boat at Read Island they are using in the breakwater.
"It has a woman's name and it's full of water." "Oh that's
wrong," she says, very definite. "It was sinister," I say,
"people have to see that every time they arrive and leave." Her
definiteness helps me as if I'm being shown the existence of a secure body
of knowledge where I have only inklings.
A moment at the cinema, I'm late and don't find him and wait for him
outside. The sensation of waiting at the door, the way I've seen him wait.
The way eyes catch right close. We're standing each with one arm around
the other holding a jacket over our shoulder, he with his right hand and
I with my left, just on the threshold with the open door behind us. I notice
Jennifer and Catherine from the Film Board coming past looking at me both
with the same look on their faces, extraordinary interest and dislike. They're
furious with jealousy. Amazing.
What am I thinking about the video. The subtext. A woman makes a garden,
she makes a place, everything she does is symbolic. She asks people to do
things for the garden and they like to. She gives herself to it without
asking for security. It gives her a lover. A friend comes to her from outside.
She takes that friend into the garden, invites her to work with her in the
garden and under the garden, in the understanding of it. They are struggling
against each other to bring each other to the same change, the beginning
of their lives as women with men. The struggle is built into their work.
A seeing of the garden: video is I see. Is it we see?
(The strategy that wants to capture the mother's sexuality to keep her from
him - such a determination, such a fake.) What we find in the garden, a
furiously determined little girl, her propulsion. (Women keep limping past
this morning, that was the third.) Her strategy different from mine. (Trudy's
strategy because it worked.) Mine to give up on him because her vengeance
is so extreme, her ignorance so terrifying. She has had the power of her
wish, I have not. My solar trembling with, what is this, the rush of fast
clean water through a narrow channel (here's another, with a cane) - comprehension
What is the garden in this. Common life, where people are figuring in
these extraordinary stories.
A Saturday morning, wintery. I drove to UBC to find a book, lay on the
sand at Jericho and saw the day. What I've been living isn't writable. A
dark haze over the city, trees in yellow bits but with air before them a
color I've never seen. What was it, a metal, gunmetal maybe, a blue in a
dark grey. I lay looking sideways at the sea, a loose quite flat surface
stirring stirring stirring, and its thin edge a clinging brightness running
up the hollows in the sand.
I'm saying to him, I let you in. I let myself see the possibility in
you that is what I am really interested in. Then my belly feels like a sea
in motion, a strong chop. I'm not calm, though I keep stopping. I'm saying
to her, You are so proud, rather than feel you have lost any of your importance
to me and control of me you will give me up altogether. We will not laugh
together any more. Then I feel a clamp at the heart. And these days feeling
the clamp around the cunt.
Lying down beginning to track it. I wander but begin to know it's more
than cunt (which feels like a hard ring), it's circulation into the legs.
Tight ring around the temples, and then I'm into seeing. Yes. And more I
know about sex. Treat them like baby genitals, touch them with the least
possible action. Consciousness by itself.
Is it the season. People cracking. Rob phones and hearing him I am so
near to him I can tell him anything. He tells me too, he's living in emotion,
his hands and arms are streaming, he's lying and getting into it. Louie
doesn't sleep and phones me clear and tired, she wants things in suspense
but not forgotten. I clean house, ritual preparation. Buy food. Hang my
black camisole in the window to dry, the lace is a flag to the neighbourhood.
Careful with symbols continuously. Seeing the hidden material in the video
photos, a stream of light bits flowing across the image from the head of
the baby on Frank's shoulders.
(Walking these days, I haven't said, in so light a body feeling shoulders,
hips, waist, independently, and weight meeting the ground as if on the sole
of a hand.)
Soft. I did a lot. Made a kitchen with a gold light over a plate of bacon
and eggs. I knew to talk to him about Sylvia, and when I did he came present
with me across the table. In bed in his green shirt with his arm behind
his head beautifully happy. I was so mobile. There would be a little snag
and I'd pull loose and get downstream into some new feeling. Standing behind
him at the table, with my arms around his neck, I said what I had to say.
"I got more real in relation to you. I took you into me a bit."
He didn't say I love you too; he would change the subject and I would not
be offended. My hands accepted him no matter what, not as policy but because
they did and I was not in pride.
Under my green blanket, under the lamp. If he goes into a spin I keep
touching him. He talks. I stroke his shoulders. The rule was, none of the
sexual parts. Late in the night I, we, something, broke loose - we were
moving fast and hard over across around. I was nipping and pressing, using
tension, opposed by his shoulders and arms and thighs and feet, pushing,
making some kind of noise I can't remember. Coming to the end of that lying
on my back across him, damp, perfectly satisfied. And then we went to sleep.
He settled me in his arms in a beautiful way he knew. I was wrapped in fur,
even my knee between his legs. And then maybe an hour later, maybe more,
I woke very suddenly from a deep sleep. The force of my waking woke him
too. I thought maybe he'd had a dream. But maybe some self in me woke in
fear of where I was.
Listen to this Kenneth (who the cards say will choose Sylvia, my swamped
ship sunk to the bottom) and if not you then someone who likes the offer
more than you do: I want to be loved and fucked, I want to be fucked with
such love both of us are melted sexes and with them flying in the black
wind. - I'd give you something that could make you, and if you aren't able
to want it, it is my openness itself that will throw you out of my way.
I'm saying to myself it is wonderful how being naked I am safer than when
I am hidden.
Is it calming down? No it got wilder. Louie pretty from another of her
nights is so full of confidence she imagines she can get the famous cellist.
I imagine it too. I say: You could get a better man than I could. We have
to go home and get it through. It's true she could get a better man than
I could. It's true she doesn't want to know it, she is frightened of disloyalty
to her mother. What we haven't admitted, that she chased David to test her
power, and that she knew she won, she could have got him. That she could
have got what I wanted so much.
I cry blindly with my hands surrendering on either side of my face.
How are you? he says. David imagined.
I don't know how I'm supposed to go on forever without you. To be so
much less in my love than I could be.
Now what. I go on working with masculinity it says.
Duncan McNaughton yesterday in the Kootenay School's room above Hastings
where the Artropolis opening had lines around the corner. My friend over
there with his friend and me alone with the ugly poets. So surprisingly
ugly. McNaughton wasn't ugly and said women need to be saying what they
have to say. He wore a pink sweater and would come stand against the wall
with his arm out along it. Came to sit next to me, a large man in his early
60s maybe, a soft grey thatch and quite a soft frightened look. I took advantage,
leapt, said - should I be embarrassed by this - "I have something to
show you." He caught it but I didn't stagger.
This happened because while he talked to some local beer bottle poet
during the break and I was listening - repelled by the tone and wondering
unconsciously what he was making of it, unconsciously staring trying to
read him - it was only an instant - he caught my look very sharply and I
stopped it before I had time to be aware. Strong on both sides. The way
he dropped down beside me when he could was a measure of his presence I
thought. His talk was no organized discourse but full of touchings-on.
A strong glint on the roof of a car. If I stare at it the air optics
above it seem to strobe the way my solar is strobing. It is a good picture
because of the way presumably it isn't there.
Is the solar plexus in the brain?
Look at that tree, a thin outer coat of few yellow leaves hung widely
spaced in a single strip down its south-facing tips, catching sun and fluttering.
Clean white and blue with it. When I'm at the Calabria am I always still
with you? Another crowd on Sundays, Italian men. Smoke and voices. Dark
busy air. The flutter. Which sadness is it fighting back today?
Duncan asked good questions. How did you come to be at the reading? How
did you get your limp? Where are you from? Do you also teach? Were you always
like this? What can I do for my daughters? Is there anything else I can
send you? Who do you hang out with? Did you really design all this? Will
you write back?
On the path outside the herb garden, affectionate, "You keep going
like this, when you're older you'll be ..." - what? I was so pleased
to be praised that I didn't register what he said.
A mood of childhood I'm remembering now. The child investigating her
parents, finding and considering evidence found not accidentally but by
intent unconscious search in closets and outbuildings. The closet in my
parent's bedroom had an upper shelf like a little upstairs room, out of
reach without a chair and even with one, hard to search without bringing
down piles of blankets. In this little upper room I find a school scribbler
filled with my father's small handwriting. This notebook was his copy of
a handbook on horse-breaking. Or was it a handbook he wrote himself? Sitting
on my parents' bed considering this notebook, they having gone to town in
the truck, I wasn't sure he had not written it himself. The style seemed
not to be his, but he would have been capable, I was thinking, of imitating
a style he thought impressive. Horses meant something to him. He would have
liked to be described as a thoroughbred among plowhorses. He thought that
of himself, I think. But he was of two minds about the breaking of a horse.
It flattered him that he was in position to break the will of an intelligent
being larger than himself. And at the same time he knew himself a being
on whom the community, secular and religious, focused an intention to break.
He chose to identify himself with the breakers.
Was another choice open to him? No, it's more like this: he wasn't in
a position to understand the whole of the relation one can have to a horse's
vitality. He was in such strain in relation to his own temperament he could
not form a clear understanding of responsibility. He was not a wise husband
or father or citizen, but neither did he have a wise wife or wise children
or a wise community. His wife had not been prepared for his spiritedness
by the authoritarian kindliness of her own father. His children were frightened
of him and not taught by their mother to understand him. (I felt, earlier
- when I was talking about the child investigating her parents, the intensity
of interest with which I sat considering his hand-written treatise on horse-breaking
- that the only member of my family who would like what I am saying here
would be my son, whose pride is like my father's. I thought it, pleased
to have brought into the world someone who would understand us both.)
What would I like to tell my father about horses? Oh but I am writing
this for you, little girl, to help you ride the currents you have to ride
in that small house on so large a land. You love a man for his beauty and
pride, he is the most beautiful and the most interesting man you have experience
of, but you are proud yourself and you forbid yourself to show or feel a
love that isn't welcomed, to a man who does not regard you. A contest of
pride. What can you do? You can feel it elsewhere, and you have done that
The garden today: Hallowe'en a Sunday windy and bright, firecrackers
in the distance like gunshots in duck season. Some of the trees are bare,
but the cottonwoods are shipping enough wind to be giving it the sound of
a fall day in my country. I worked from early afternoon until dark, today
the early dark of clocks set back. These days I've been brushing out behind
the west and northwest beds pleasing myself with bushes seen for the first
time with space behind them - Portuguese laurel in the corner, white rugosa
pruned so it is floating its yellow leaves at a distance from the ground.
Russian olive with r.macrantha in its silvery arms, extracted from bramble's
nets. Salmonberry backed with space so its pretty points and satin legs
can show. The lovely relation of rose leaves, bramble and salmonberry in
That morning happy from having got to him the day before I looked up
through the windshield where we were parked in the Cineworks alley and saw
an angel balanced in the angle, a 6" column at the intersection of
two white walls, plain plaster flushed below with a frail blue light and
above with a pale pink, a form that held out its wings in an exquisite balance
of sorted feelings, right left above below with a strong keel and undelimited
What do I know about last night? I woke a minute before he knocked. He
came in as his foster-father, a stiff-necked man brumming and jerking, and
then read me Kipling in a way that wrung his torso. I felt his physical
fire, so much a dance from the belly, dancing the lines, and felt the elephant's
child beaten everywhere digging in his little heels resisting for his life.
What it's like being with him is maybe like being several people. One
is fast and hardworking in language, and that one is playing with him, nipping
and tagging. With what intention? Exercise. It's frisky. Was there with
waking this morning. Another is the velvet cat that sexes with his good
aura, lies still and basks, hand on his wrist. Another is maybe this one,
who is looking at him with strong impartial interest. Who is he at the moment
- now I'm seeing him ten years old, a pig-headed boy. Now he is that closed
old military man with a stiff lip and a belligerent one. Then there's this
smiling blue and red and yellow man, a conscious charmer.
And it considers our motion - he's quite fiery, this man, look at the
way he's coming after me - there, with him in, look at the way we're in
round love, look at the way he's holding me at the shoulder, it's something
new. If I turn my back at night he feels it, if I turn toward him his breath
goes into deeper sleep. He likes it when I'm on top and take him. But sometimes
he grabs my bum and pries me open - it's all talking isn't it, he says.
I grab you. I say, I'm really grabbed aren't I. A lively man, sparky. And
it is the romantic person saying it, another one, who is pleased to stand
on the porch showing off her catch.
- The way his voice dips into Scots for certain stories.
"Louie reminded me that when you came into the garden I said interesting-looking
people hardly ever come into the garden, but there's one." "You
were on the grass mound looking at me. That's an appraising look, I thought."
Writing this conversation the - what is the sensation? - surprised satisfaction
isn't it, though near - of how the stranger seen can become that furry everyman
body playing in my arms.
And along with it, I was thinking maybe this is one of the truer motives,
the pleasure of feeling I know how to handle this kind of man who is tetchy
and sleazy, ungenerous, critical, evasive. I'll never be helpless with Roy
again, I'm not frozen in moralistic disapproval. I don't have to hold myself
back with my dad because he's cranky, I can adore him and see through him,
I can lead him out of his helplessness, I am not paralyzed.
I had to fight, myself and him, to get him there this morning, but the
last two hours in bed with the wintering sky were very fine. He sleeps with
both arms around me, all night doesn't let me away to my own side of the
bed, presses up against me as if he knows famine, which he says he does.
Quoting Chaucer or Uncle Donald of Labrador, Angela Katz of South London.
Talking about women running away from his little dick with a face of bright
glee. Goblin not elf, that's what his nose says.
Monday night. Back in my bed, early evening, a romantic feeling. It says:
balance, that mood will not be there next time you meet. But say it. Seeing
the green blanket over my knees again, I was saying, I'm loving him aren't
I, this moment. We're loving each other, this moment. It was that soft keen
lofted feeling of romantic pleasure. Not sexual but romantic. The way when
he contentedly licked my clit on and on I was like a petted cat meeting
the motion of his head with my hand. Small inventions of motion. And the
way we went silent together when the light sank.
Stories from this time: once when he was traveling from the Shetlands
on the bus he sat behind a young woman whose hair he liked. Lifting her
case onto the next bus he memorized her name and address. For years after
that he sent her anonymous valentines, from Iceland, Labrador. Once he was
traveling from Labrador to California on a bus. He heard, behind him, a
familiar voice, a Scottish woman from Glasgow, who knew the street where
he was born. Months later, back in Labrador, the California woman having
fallen through, he wrote the Scottish woman a long letter, many pages. She
didn't write back. For two of the years he's been in Vancouver there was
a cellist with the VSO who enslaved him, he says, with refusals of this
and that. Once, for a Russian woman, he read on tape what he considered
to be the thirty best poems of English. Kim who sells hotdogs outside Vancouver
Little Theatre. Nancy of last year. The club-footed woman who was fey, wore
chiffon and floated as best she could.
- Is 'keeping in touch with the deepest being' the best way to live?
Yes and no.
- Why yes? It's faster.
- Why not? Because it's isolating
- Is there a common way? Yes, action
- Like sometimes acting at the garden? Yes.
- Suggestion? Practice it during physical
- Inwardly attentive to what? Something
to do with feeling.
- Rhoda's kind of attention? YES.
- More? Reciprocity.
- Do I do this already? Not worth mentioning.
- Do you mean using the body well? Yes.
- How do you feel about 'attachments'? They
are the way mind is tempered. They are good for a person.
- What about that pigheaded person of Louie's?
- Can I? Yes.
- What would I have to do to be in that state?
Feel her oppression.
- What would I have to do to be able to feel it?
- Something deliberate with language? Yes.
I was awake when the light was ungreying on his face, he asleep. We were
body to body all the way down, he with his arm under my head sleeping the
way he does on his back, both hands on me, both of mine on him, innocent
transfusion, his young eyelashes. He was a youngster, I was skin, I was
saying this is an hour I like so much I'd like to be able to call it again.
His face gives me pleasure and I had it all to myself.
Sound. What I don't like in what we have. The lines of the levels are
hideous. I want sound to be simple. There shouldn't be muddle in the movement
of attention from sound to picture, there should be open space, clearings
for something to come into, clearings afterwards to notice what you have
What kind of film it is. near streets. Bright clear and strong.
Primary. Strong shapes. Unusual. Class politics without the manner of class
politics. Idiosyncratic people, freedom and affection. Nothing dull. Foreground/background
play in three layers. Sync background, visual foreground and voices in the
ear. Michael looks at me when Muggs says 'Skid Row.' Rowen dances to a fiddle
we provided later. There are many twos, the blue twin houses, the ee's and
oo's in Keefer Street, Keefer Rooms. The woman and her reflection, two cyclists,
two cars, "Ch-Chinese," "one and the other," two Indians
passing the Chinese temple, two lesbians, two sick guys. Other threads:
drifting fluffs. Radios. Horizontal flow: cars passing the garden, pedestrians
passing M and Row, both cars and people in Chinatown, bus in front of DERA,
the purse woman, Louie's yellow. Confrontations: houses, radio man, M and
Row, the weight lifter, Joe, Sheila, orange teeshirt man, blue-faced musician,
our reflection. Signs. Oranges, reds, blues, yellows.
In kale the frame flows horizontally, there's no confrontation,
there is a forest of the small. It's another mind, it's two again, a two
between modes, the two begun in near streets with Juan, a two of
parallel texture in sight and speech. It's not primary colors, brown and
blue-green. Plants' motion. Unhalting revelation, time's pace and earth
turning. Then bye-bye waves the little lettuce leaf and bump goes the frame
into the end of the show. But first we cross a space of open ground with
no voice anymore.
herb garden. Is it anything yet? The plants and their industrial
sound. Plant character like house character and face character. Whispers.
Giggles. We've spoiled that though, the laugh isn't infectious anymore.
It's image-sound stuff but then it changes, post, a gate and pool, children's
voices, somewhere back of the gate, Look at it look at it look at it look
at it the girl says, the boy says there's a big hole, motors and frogs
take over, one flow of sound, a woman's hair, a woman's hand, another woman
we grope for, the sudden smell of basil, a colored dark, a darker gate with
lights. The way west sky keeps blue when it's already dark, the way water
holds yellow squares while it moves. A fade that goes way deep under the
threshold and is still there.
When I come from the bathroom in the corridor he's breathing dope at
the open window. I take the exhale from his cold chin. It disrupts us. I
stand back, I want to see what he is. I see how he's narcissistic with his
impotence. Touching me at that moment, what he's with is not me but his
anxiety about his penis. He's saying, Oh now it's going well, oh now I've
lost it. I see again, immediately, that I don't find him, don't track him,
that he's a being, that I let him go by unfound. He's going away out of
my life unknown and without having known me. I lie feeling all this and
he lies feeling something else. It's honest. I let it go on.
Later we hear a rattle of rain. I say "That sound must be so familiar
to you." Lying in his bed with him. "You have been in so many
beds in places where you were a stranger." There is a moment where
he is telling me about the trains between Revelstoke and Golden. I can hear
the way he says the names, his foreigner's acquisition of them and their
places. He says the engine's sound on an incline: buh-buh-buh-buh-buh-buh.
Yes exactly that. And then like this when the incline is more. This squeaking
of the couplings between cars. That was a perfect moment, the bodies were
in some exact harmony when I listened to him listening to the trains in
a tent in a treeplanting camp.
What "verbally unempathetic" means. What she says - she asks
questions. That's ass-crawling, he says. "Men think it's ass-crawling,
women think it's a skill."
What did I dream. I can feel it here. A dark place, a bicycle? Boys -
was it in some way his place - was it his tone. Spaces with things or babies.
I wanted to be visiting his being, his dark. Putting my hand on objects
he can't name, doesn't name, doesn't know to name, because they are him
and no one else. Is that ass-crawling? No, it's travel.
Dear you - oh it's dark this afternoon, the Calabria, four on a Sunday,
dull orange light, air poisonous with smoke. I've come out of the woods
and here's a winter clearing chill and damp.
It's suppertime where you are. You'll eat with a friend and then sit
down to your preparation for teaching tomorrow. What would I tell you if
I thought you wanted to know.
I'm dejected. As if I'm sitting on a stump with my head in my hands.
There's no hope of affection today. As if I'm excluded from my own room,
my own fire. Tell me something. Address me. Say this: Come here. Come in
my house. Sit here. Take your shoes off. Let me look at you. I'm so happy
seeing you in my chair. I don't want to talk, you talk, if you want. I'll
make a room in my chest for anything you say. I want to feel your voice
in my palms. I want to hear the world you stand in when you speak. And I
can, if I create a dark air to absorb it. Here you are. Eat with me. Come
in my arms now. Tell me what you thought this morning when you woke.
Do you want to listen now? Then I'll tell you one thing. This was my
dream. I walked up a flight of stairs in a city I often visit. There was
a corridor. I walked past many doors. I was looking for a room where I could
stay. There was a door closed I knew I could open. It opened very easily.
I saw you standing by a window but looking toward the door. I came to stand
beside you. We were standing looking together from the window. We were looking
at a wide country in a color of light that was at the same time yellow and
white, soft and sharp. We saw the light change. It was moonlight. And then
storm and then morning. We saw grass and leaves growing and moving. Bushes
were like beings whose leaves were their feelings stirring around them.
We saw a field of grass blades turning to follow the sun. We saw shadows
in motion, their sharp edges scouring every part of the ground. We saw the
earth change color so that it was not the light that changed but the color
character of everything in front of us. We felt our own color character
change with it. We were something stable against which all of these changes
could be felt. I knew we were looking at a country created when we stood
together at any window.
I really dreamed you the other night. I came into a school being renovated
for you. Your school. The school of loss, it said. I was willing to speak
to you but you are still sore that I sent you away. Prince Loss at the sink.
I've come to your city, I've walked in your door and found you, your face,
your voice. What would be next. I would say, I can see you are angry with
me. You are suspicious. You can't say you are those things unless you are
willing to say - I've missed you Ellie. Say that. And I have missed you
and gone away and come back and missing you is like home to me. How have
Saturday morning. The light came again, storms of wind last night. I
touched myself this morning and thought sun and a real fuck and I'm cured.
But I'm not cured. I'm needing to tell somebody about him.
He was a kind of Mills and Boon man. Glamorous, untame. Interesting.
I am those things myself, why do I want them. Because I could not get away
with being powerful. He limited my power by not taking me in. I crave that
resistance. He met me nose to nose, he hauled acknowledgement out of me.
I needed to haul acknowledgement out of him and couldn't, not enough. It
was hanging on a very fine balance, if I'd got very little more I could
have hung on. Maybe real fucks wd've given me a base. I want to be loved
and fucked by someone autonomous and difficult. If I look for that and get
it, it's an expensive game. Consuming.
The other thing to notice and make something of is just what I saw would
change if I had that desire - if it were possible to have it - what would
go if the resistance went, come if I shifted to the person I'd be then.
I resist desire I think will only humiliate me. I feel I have no choice.
Energy is sent a long way round. This is where I have to work.
Is it like this: until I was in my wish for my father I was not in my
own love woman. When I was living in my own love woman, I was free from
her. She can't compel me anymore. Many lights. This love woman wants nothing
so much as she wants a physical man, look, smell, fur, taste, energy, touch,
especially touch. She competes with me. She abandons me for a man. When
I lost Louie the first time I was afraid she would commit suicide. She does.
[Then with R] And in the dark, only in the dark, not when I see him,
not when I listen to him, a sweet immediate appetite for being fucked. Deep
in the longest night, somewhere in the silvery dark, an episode so direct
and perfect I sang through all of it, I lay, he moved, we didn't kiss, we
didn't hold, remembering it I want it again, sweet, complete, for the first
time I didn't touch myself and it was altogether there, every moment, sweet
heaven unending, until he came suddenly, unwarned. And was willing to go
on with his finger.
In the morning, again, his face appalls me, his speech bores me. I don't
want to see him, touch him, hold him, think him, feel him, speak to him,
nothing of what I adore to do with K. As if he isn't here. And then that
physical openness K cannot get at all. K cannot give at all. What does it