Wonder whether what's wrong with my early journals and letters should
be described as moral - what I would see if I searched them with that question.
Why are they trivial?
The writing is the writing of someone who doesn't seem to realize how
uneasy she is. She's straining. She's writing about the things that make
her uneasy. Often she is writing to the people with whom she is uneasy,
but she is not saying she is uneasy. She's at sea trying to assemble a raft.
I read myself grieving that there was no one who could teach me.
I haven't taken account of what was taught, and I will. But first I owe
myself this grief for waste.
Hello, it's Monday. It's a year later. We kept on. There were crossings.
We despaired for hours but we didn't cut out. He was a man yesterday of
such singularity I didn't know how to take him. This morning when he was
in the bath I came in and sat on the floor and said I had been trying to
understand what I was seeing and it is his power, the power he has been
afraid of, that he thought people wouldn't be able to take - and also that
he hasn't wanted to take responsibility for.
And what happened then: he got younger. He invited me - you invited me
- to touch you. You let me see you. You came in my hand.
It turned for both of us last night when I sat up straight and spoke
to your demon. You put yourself in my hands and I was tracking resourcefully,
gently and remourselessly. "How does the demon see the other?"
He won't say. "How would you describe the relation of the demon and
the other? It seems a standoff to me." "There is a lot of energy
going into this standoff."
I showed you the two sides of your face when you were a child and now.
"That is the origin of your demon." Then the demon spoke to me.
The demon judges, assesses, is hateful, impatient, swift, observant, intolerant.
"I have enjoyed being a dangerous man. It is a rush."
This morning it occurred to me to ask the book, What should we call the
demon? Love woman, it said - creative energy. That surprised us both. Not
the left side. What it means is that the woman in him was powerful, intelligent,
the man oppressed and sad. "You saw me and said bingo," I said.
"That's exactly what happened, too" you said.
We did amazingly well. The way it was ahead of me and too much for me
but I kept going. It also occurred to me to ask what is the name of the
other. It said it is the work. Human skill and creative instinctive energy,
that's the marriage, it said. "I look at you and I'm thinking something
like this: this is what happens to a little boy. He becomes something so
spectacularly particular." The face I had in front of me was indescribable
- wings of hair, long pointed eyes, wide line of mouth, big nose, big ears
- rough, scarred, lined, a vivid old male - so far from female - so extreme
- extreme the way a gargoyle is. I kept trying to get my bearings with it.
I have never seen such a thing as this face. It is so unlike his self-description,
self-concern. It's a face from another planet and I am making contact of
whatever kind I can with a form of life so unlike mine. I'm marveling but
I am also overwhelmed.
The smell of my pussy, my beautiful ass. "I love your fat."
He kept stroking my belly pad.
Sunday when I woke I was still stunned and overwhelmed. The Havana for
breakfast. His face by now was too much for me so I invited him to sit on
my side of the booth. A young black man in a baseball cap came in. I caught
a flash. "What was that about?" "What?" "The way
that black guy looked at you." "I saw his demon and he didn't
like it." "What's his demon?" "He's destructive, he
hurts people and he doesn't care." (Something like that.) Interesting,
I thought: it's recognition. It's erotic. Anger saw anger, there among the
peaceable whites munching crepes.
Then on to the bike ride story. Tom kept describing people as nice people.
I kept being surprised that he seemed to think of it as praise, or relevant
in any way. Wanting us to be having a good time like the pleasant couples
walking the seawall.
We came in from the cold and the last race home and walked into separate
rooms. I was thinking, this is impossible, it's over. Alright, I'm willing.
I don't know what's happening and I don't know how to go on, I can't figure
it out. I don't like him. When I went into his room I found him sitting
on the floor with his legs out straight in front of him. At the end of his
rope. When he gets there I collect myself.
It was after that it came to me to ask to talk to his demon. I liked
the demon. Right away I got interested. - Is it the way it has always been
with my lovers, the nice person in them bores and stupefies me and I go
hunting for trouble? His nice person drops the g's on his words the way
Michael does too. I hear myself joining them in that tone, and then, though
I'm humorous, I feel false and out of contact. When the demon says he hates
that was when I was satisfied. Yes, that's what I need to hear. This is
who I need to speak to. He hates lies and hypocrisy, he says. The world
is dishonest. The world? I'm thinking. But there isn't time just
then to follow that. I have to concentrate.
I know approximately that I'm supposed to find the opposition. "How
do you see the other?" "He's empty." "What's he empty
of?" "Power." "Now I want to talk to the other."
"The demon just wants you to talk to him." "Demon
I'll talk to you again, I just want to ask the other one a question. Do
you think you are empty?" "No." "What are you full of?"
"Light." "Demon, if you think the other is empty, and the
other thinks he is full of light, it sounds like a standoff to me."
I felt I was hearing gender opposition, religious training, his mum and
"I want to show you something." The two sides of his face.
He didn't want to believe there's an opposition visible in him - he didn't
want that at all. I said don't worry, people only see it if they're looking
for it and most of them don't want to know. I think the intervention that
will matter most to him is seeing the original look of his imp side. He
has feared he is possessed by an evil force. That was done to him. I said,
"Demon, I believe in you. I'm on your side, I like you." When
he saw the brightness, autonomy, ancestral sharpness of his child-imp set
together with the sunny social availability of his mother's child, and then
saw next to it the belligerence of his man-demon and the sadness and withdrawal
of his love-self, he saw - I think - or will see eventually - the separating
branches of a tree in which love and anger are one light which is his power.