8th December 2004, San Diego
Michael went off and studied the bamboos. After a while when our paths
crossed I showed him the cassia artemesioides and he showed me the mosquito
fish and snails in the water tanks. I am never quite ready for the pleasure
of being shown things that interest me. I'm not expecting it, I don't seize
Lying in the dark before I decided to give up on sleeping I was remembering
the Sunday morning visiting Ed and Mary when I was in my middle thirties.
I was going to church with them and put on the green turquoise and gold
blouse John Rowley gave me. It was more transparent than I knew, and I wasn't
wearing a bra. When Ed saw me in it he grimaced and covered his eyes but
he did not refuse to take me and I sat singing hymns in the La Glace MB
church with my breasts displayed. I won, I say, and take a breath.
I took something back from him and them.
Then I remembered Ed crying when he was in the hospital dying, and Grandpa
Konrad at the breakfast table. Opa cried because he couldn't control me.
I don't know why Ed cried. Maybe it was the same. Because they could not
control me I can do what I can do.
I stop listening when it's the men singing, but now Lorna Anderson begins
and I am caught. She is lying back on her breath, her breath is floating
out weightless and precise.
Then looking at the lyrics in the square little CD booklet I discover
the passage was in fact about breathing music and airy stream.
An air they call the lyric sections that aren't recitative or
As for Mr Milton, this was the best they could do before the Romantics?
They had to feel nature through imagined pagan antiquity, ie set about with
Yesterday we went to the beach. A Santa Ana with big waves. We parked
at Torrey Pines State Beach and took the orange blanket up the coast to
a spot with a hunk of telephone pole for a backrest, and sat together facing
the waves all through the afternoon until the sun set at 5:30.
Here's the lovely melody just near the end, the duet, Susan Gritton and
the tenor -
- As steals the morn upon the night
- And melts the shades away
- And me-e-e / e-e-e-e-e-e / e-e-e-elts the shades away
It's perfect choral writing, bassoon and oboe, soprano and tenor, nimbly
overlaid. As if they couldn't feel nature in their language but could do
so superbly in the structure of the music - I guess it's that. Uses of the
We were facing the waves head-on, and they were breaking close to shore,
so that we would see them rising till their edge was just in line with the
horizon, a long line up and down the coast. Then they would fall forward
and in one motion their white rubble would rise as high as they had been.
Later in the afternoon, if we looked southwest toward the sun, we would
see the wave turquoise as glass as it was stretched thin, and then the wide
arc of white spray drawing a half-circle flung over its flattening back.
It was a classic day at the winter beach.
I sat in my orange singlet with bare feet, sunglasses, white hat. The
hair on Tom's arms was glinting silver and copper. It was nine years later.
We were comfortable together. He was fretting about sex and I was lightly
holding my line. Then he entertained me riffing on everyone who passed.
Can I reconstruct any of that? Probably not. It's his gift. Characters passed
and we saw them.
It's Thursday morning in sun, on the street. Michael is next to me in
a very pale blue shirt reading the front section of the Union. He's
refusing to talk.
Fat little sheriff getting into his cruiser with a tall iced tea. Wire-sided
elevator sliding up and down a track on the outside of the new condos. Horizontal
arm of the crane yellow against the deep deep very subtly fibrous blue sky.
The little jacarandas stirring their crocheted plumes. The arm of the crane
rotates 40 degrees. It's half a block long. A black and white seagull was
rowing a straight line that intersected it. A sheer sheeny black tarp screening
two floors at the corner of that building is breathing and rippling like
Michael looked up when that man, picking a table, said the word 'smoke.'
He was assessing for cigarette-bumming purposes.
There was a moment last night - Tom was here having supper, messing with
the internet, watching TV - I was next to him on the couch, listening to
him eat like a piggy, disgusted, alienated - when he turned his eye on me,
unexpectedly bright, and said You have a look on your face that is sad,
pissed, bored, what's going on?
Then we had a little rumble about whether to watch TV New Years Eve.
He said I'm demanding. I said, Tom, you should get this straight, I am not
demanding, I am what I am and you take it as demanding. And so on. I was
satisfied with my statement. Pinned, I said (meaning he was).
The moment I'm referring to, a bit later, was like a little gap in the
present showing through to a Christmas holiday moment on his bed some evening
in the Maryland. A lit moment is my feeling of it, lit into wholeness of
being together. The real thing. I'm willing to know it was illusion, was
it illusion? Because if it is not illusion it is the thing to hold on to.
Then at the end of the evening as he was going to go out the door into
the rain I was saying he always leaves people setting a hook. I watch him
doing it with me and with everyone, he says something meant to keep them
attached to him. He said no he says something to leave them feeling good.
Maybe also that, I said. It was dawning on me that I might have got it wrong.
Pinned, he said.
It rained hard during the night. The sky has cleared this morning.
Do I have anything to say about Cousin Rosamund third reading?
Fairytale. Pleasure as she always is. Oliver defines moral intelligence
as knowing how to keep people from harm. There's quite a lot of considering
how to do that in her books, but Rebecca herself seems often to have found
it necessary to do harm. There's also the way she makes supernatural heroes
of Richard and Rosamund, who foresee that there'll be need of a grand sacrifice
further down the way. She was working something out, but what?
She wanted her beloveds to be pure and she wanted them not to be really
dead. I'd like her to have written the way DR wrote, telling her own real
story with that tenacity of pleasure and desire and moral analysis. She
wanted to be rich, she was such a gourmand that she wanted everything good.
DR wanted something else. DR was defending something, what she said she
was defending, the value of being at all. Rebecca is more fashionable but
she was also more old-fashioned: she was Victorian in wanting a moral framework,
wanting 'life' to mean something. Dorothy said the modern thing, that consciousness
is what means something. But Rebecca was more inclusive, she wanted the
countryside in her work, the way she anchors this book to the seasons on
the river, and, in the city, to the pleasures of Rose's household. Whenever
I fly to Chicago and see the towers on the lakeshore I think of her Christmas
in the hotel, snow flurries against the window above the river of headlights
flowing both ways. She's like Louie in wanting always to go on loving her
mama and papa. HG Wells didn't capture Dorothy but he captured her.
Here's my task for today: what to say about Amanda.
I'm at Starbucks having to keep moving my table to keep sun on my legs.
Susan Sontag died yesterday at 71. 1933-2004
Amanda gives, and wants to give, something real. I like to throw out
student work but I don't like to throw out all of hers. She gives something
I need and she finds it in agony. That's the real moral work. She lets herself
know how crappy people are and she wants to save something from the ruin
of meaning that is American culture. She's responsible. That's the fact.
She's also inexperienced in looking after herself. Wanting to make sure
she knows the worst she sometimes accuses herself too much. She risks herself.
We need to keep her alive long enough for her to find a balance that doesn't
- 1st January 2005
Should I keep my reserve but go on keeping company because it's better
than nothing, should I go cold turkey because it's the only way anything
new can happen, should I commit myself to the truth of the best moments
and fight to have an open-hearted life with him, should I keep waiting as
is, in grey night of soullessness.
It seemed to say yes to the latter.
The tips of the Monterray cyprus are quite pointed up there, hunting.
Boston ivy's quirky threads on the open gate. Shadows of, I should say.
Then it happens that we have a conversation.
I start by saying I'm going to tell him what happens to women when they're
with him. This only applies to women who are in love with him, I say. The
first thing is, there is nothing they want more than to stay in love with
him. But there are some number of things that happen. The first is rage.
They get hit by massive unjust anger. If they are not in love with him they
can handle it but if they're in love with him they're open and they get
blasted. If they don't want to get blasted they have to shut down.
Second is promises. He makes a lot of promises, promises on all sorts
of scales. His record of keeping his promises is about 12%. That may be
too high. His guy friends can say, that's just Fendler, but a woman who
is in love with him will want to believe him. If she starts to say, that's
just Tom, she is shutting down.
Third, sex. If a woman isn't in love she can have good sex, but if she
is in love she won't be able to have sex unless she's feeling connected.
She won't be able to have cold sex. He has been very unskilled about sex,
he has had a lot of drunk sex, a lot of sex with strangers. A lot of sex
he was paying for. He knows very little about sex. That means a woman has
to shut down sexually when she's with him.
Fourth is lies. This one is related to promises. There are two possibilities
with lies. There are the ones she knows about and the ones she doesn't.
The ones she knows about make her feel like a fool and the ones she doesn't
know about make the relation go dead. She's just bewildered, she doesn't
know why the relation has gone dead.
There's another one, what is it - money. If he doesn't take care of business
there's too much insecurity. People shut down when they are insecure.
That's a summary, I said all of it with more explanation. I noticed I
was speaking in a strong voice, articulate.
He was defensive etc and I was insisting that none of it is about judgment.
I'm telling him what happens to a woman who's in love with him, he forces
her to shut down. It's information. I said, does he do that on purpose or
in ignorance? He said he only does what he has to. To remain himself. I
said I know that's how it seems to him but he's blind to the effect it's
having on women he's with. He needs women and thrives with women but doesn't
have a sense of skill in making them able to keep an open heart with him.
He doesn't have a sense of skill because he doesn't look to the effects
of what he does. He closes his eyes. He's so afraid he will have to give
up being himself.
He went back to various protests I don't remember and then said I talk
about him as if he's deeply flawed but he's not. I laugh quite a lot. I
say firmly he's very deeply flawed. In what way, he asks. Sure you want
to know? I say. Alright, you're deeply flawed in relation to love. That's
the one I was just talking about, and even more deeply flawed in relation
to work. His flaw is that he didn't commit himself to his talent. At some
point, I don't know where, he let go of it. The result is that he doesn't
have a life. He doesn't have a body of work he can look at. His self-esteem
is always very fragile for that reason. He has to care too much how people
see him because he hasn't had a life with his talent.
I deliver this with such confidence and clarity that it seems the final
word. I am saying it without a sense that it will make a difference either
to him or to me. It's the truth, is all.
In fact I'm not sure he isn't right when he says he's been what he wants
to be and there's nothing wrong with him. But if I say that it's as if my
depth shuts its door, and my time with Tom turns into nothing. If I accept
the authority of that knowledge my life, not only with Tom, but altogether,
wakes up saying, let's go, now we're moving ahead again, now it makes sense,
the whole story does. As if it's far beyond sentiment of love, I'm a spirit
who has accepted to go into abeyance when Tom isn't moving ahead, a sort
of vow that has led to long sacrifice. Is that true? It says yes. Am I willing?
I'm not alive when I'm not doing it. Is that how it's been for Louie with
me? No she wanted something for herself it says. And I'm selfless in this?
Yes. And that's what you want me to be? Yes. Sacrificial. Yes. Will I die
of sacrificing for Tom? No. It's grown up. Yes. That's why you don't want
me to have sex. Yes.
After a while I took it further. I said, I think maybe all the things
you do to a woman that make her shut down and stop loving you are the same
things that you do to your talent.
I'm just supposed to work with him on writing. He could have had a life
with his talent. He chose against the possibilities that opened up for us.
He didn't see them the way I did. So it's a tragic love story. He didn't
fall in love with me the way I did with him. It's as if this tragic story
is the basement of my time here, and I've been living without depth because
I haven't kept it open under me. It's his trajectory.
I'm feeling this as a dimension in any life. It's the dimension of soul
because it's where whole life choices are made. It's choice of what kind
of being to be. It's not made before birth or in another life, it is made
in this life, unconsciously.
- Saturday 8th
The fire-leaves at the windows. Complex perfume of night air. Stone walls.
Good lattice. Maple floors. Worn rugs. Tiles. Built-in cupboards and drawers.
Reading room. 100-year-old trees. Wet oak bark. Corridor lined with windows
onto the garden. An exquisite, intelligent house. The firebox is deep. Somehow
the temperature stays even, unlike my little box on the roof, which gets
violently cold. The brushy shrubs are so well established they never need
any sort of care. In the shade garden the ferns and acanthus stand against
darkness in their gleaming and glowing shapes. Eliz's intelligence everywhere,
a perfect understanding of the house.
Is there anything to say about being in it. There can be open senses
here, a background love. It's that. It's a house that is as if a loving
person. Grounded love of stone, plants and wood, which is also love of air
and light. The garden in rain darkness is walls of texture, a fairyland
of subtlety. The house is civilized in the right way, it looks at its mother
in gratitude. It's not humble but it's quiet. It's also as if an old person's
house. Eliz has been living here with the liking she has for a cultivated
old aunt, but she has many more houses in her.
Tom hasn't come and I tried what it would be like to feel what I was
feeling as if it was my mother. Mama wo bist du. Sore heart. Fear. Unbearable
waiting. Pricking my ear if there is a sound. Looking toward the road. Restlessness.
Is there anything to be said about the way belonging was in one language
and not belonging was in another, and that's the language I still speak
and write? Did I feel something like that when I read that English used
to be German, ie it was Old German before it was Old English. As if I migrated
swiftly through time between not quite three and three? - Here I realize
that it's January. Should I say the birthday of this self.
- There is so much I can't tell you.
- You were life and death to my well-being and you are nowhere, you are
- There I think of Joyce, the way she watched and knew. The way she sat
alert, not afraid of me and not afraid for me - skilful - feeling my life
a venture, like hers.
- She died in January and so did Frank.
- Why do I want to say death harvested her significance. Mary will die
and I'll feel she died so long ago. And even that is wrong. it's as if
I don't feel she ever lived.
[the college] 16th
This morning with Margo talking about how to talk about what a concentration
requires and claims. I say embodiment studies is about developing a framework.
Margo says what is a framework? I say it's a body, it's the way a body is
organized. She says we have to do it better. I say we have to distinguish
between doing what we do well, and interface difficulties. She says how
do we encapsulate it. I say, see, there's an example of a metaphor that
doesn't work. She says, I appreciate your sensitivity about language, but
- What it is I like and dislike is always immediately a body.
- How I know what I know is often attention to body feeling.
- I believe in examples because bodies are altered by dealing with examples
- Margo is doing progressive ed without having a framework, and she has
no clue what I'm talking about, and neither does anyone else.
- Everyone else means something different.
Rebecca saying heart integrates the rest of the body.
I said knowing, being and doing are integrated in a structured body.
Susan Mol. I like to look at her. She has dark brown eyes, very strong.
Pale fine-skinned face, hawk nose, muscled broad lower lip. Stringy grey
hair - silver. Ascetic looking Margo said, but she's not exactly that. Thin.
Narrow shoulders, thin long hands. She's patrician rather than ascetic.
Angevin queen. Light and responsible with students.
- Yes she's agile, swift.
- She startled me three times today.
- You defined it out from under him, she said - consciousness and Francis.
- She said my colleagues are intimidated by me. I said I'd rather think
that than that they hate me. She said, But you don't care all that much
if they do hate you, and laughed.
- Talking about a time when she was grieving she said, Sun and moon came
and went, I got that.
- She drives a Jeep Liberty, dark blue.
- Ah her beautiful son who calls her ma and looks at her the way a right
- The way the love for a woman get displaced to a man and
is stepped down, is that the crisis
- If it isn't stepped down one knows it's inappropriate
- And then the task is making it appropriate without stepping
- And it has to be done by enduring its inappropriateness
We were cuddled on the bed in the dark. We'd been on the couch under
a pink mohair blanket and then when it had got dark and she'd sobbed in
my arms we day down with her one pillow. Oh a blazing soul, and mixed in,
the unbearable, claustrophobic texture of lesbian communities - the sound
of that culture.
What I could do for her was touch her. I stroked her hair back off her
forehead, I held the back of her skull at the nape in my palm. I kept my
hand on her arm. I held my palm flat against the base of her spine. I told
her how beautiful she is. I felt the small ridge at the top of her nose
where it was broken. (She was lying on the table, she heard the doctor go
out into the corridor and say to the nurse You might want to come in here.
I have to set this girl's nose and I think she's going to pass out.)
What she could do for me was hear my stories. She'd croon and pat when
I came to the hard parts but that wasn't important. What was important was
that she knew the significance of each of them instantly.
I said, If I were your lover I would never in this world require you
to be faithful.
I told her the story of Tom careful not to betray it.
I said I've often wished to be able to hand on the task, but I'm not
sure it isn't going on. I said I haven't found my work, I feel I have to
stay in suspension.
She's very fiery but she's weaker than I am, she needs to fit into a
Male culture - all of it is poisoned. Yes, I said.
I was far past my limit, almost speechless. My solar was a tight mass
black and quivering. I said, I need to go home. There were cold stars, very
large. She had taken out her contacts and was trying to find her glasses
in a bag in the jeep without being able to see. The jeep was freezing cold.
Karen was on the porch of Dewey smoking a cigarette when we got to the
I was so glad to be alone. When I opened my Mac there was a letter from
Tom, a nice one.
Above clouds ten minutes west of O'Hare.
After she cried she said And now I'm going to take you to sleep in the
cold dorm? Yup, I said. She was walking past me, light body in the dark,
and she said bitterly And why does that make you happy? I liked that she
could be bitter. And after that we had more hours.
There was a story I needed to tell her. And was the story she needed
to tell me the story of valiant isolated intelligence? She said, in advising
group, people have always found her too large and the divine source never
In Burlington airport I sat and wrote about her, and in the plane, and
at C2 in O'Hare, and everywhere people were looking at me. I was handsome
Alright, how was that residency.
In one of the interim days Margo came into my room with a folder and
said what did I think about working with this one. Moul. Mole, mouth,
a mouthy name. Moule shortened.
- When I go toward you
- It is with my whole life
She set that at the top. And then a mix of careful balance and religious
credulity. I want her, I said. Margo was hesitating about Francis. I'm better
than Francis at consciousness studies, I said recklessly. Next day at new
student assignments Margo handed me her folder. I gave it a kiss. Not much
later at the new student introductions I was spying from the other room
looking for someone who could have written that application and there was
a white-haired person with strong brown eyes, very lively. If that's her
she's better than I hoped.
When the meeting broke she was standing in the corner talking to Juliana
(she said, I didn't remember that). I had a look. She's scrappy. Scrawny,
a Tom Sawyer woman, loose-jointed, old jeans too big for her and ripped
across the knee. Taller than I am but a bit of a thing.
I go stand in front of her and say, Are you Susan? She takes a rapid
step toward me. Does this mean we're going to be ------? I wish I remembered
the words, it was like 'important to each other'. I thought she'd guessed
I was her advisor and laughed with pleasure at her quickness.
I'm enthralled with her face. I watch it every moment I can. She's startlingly
there. Her eyelids are deep and clean. She has a narrow beak of a
nose, the finest grain of flushed white skin, so human a mouth, broad lower
lip, and what else about it, a lot of decision in it, a kind of European
cut, maturity, swelling controlled.
What holds me in her face is her moral perfection. That.
When I woke in the dark here in my own house and tried touching myself
and thinking of her I realized the obvious thing, why didn't I realize it
sooner, witless, that I didn't want to sleep with her because I'd want to
be a man fucking her, I'd feel helpless and foolish poking at her like a
The two of us lounging in our low leather armchairs drawn up to the radiator
and our crossed legs propped high on the wall, with cold blue sky in the
window above us, or lit sideways in orange lamplight in the empty office
Seeing her is seeing women released, it's seeing what can only have been
accomplished by the most fervent fighting love. It's seeing myself, not
exactly, but more than usual. And makes me notice how lonely I am looking
and looking at the ones who haven't fought.
I want nothing to do with her apparatus - family, friends, circumstantial
history, lesbian romance. I want to be in love with her in work. I want
to pour out what I've found, and I want to hear her story told as close
as can be to her self. I want to work with her for the culture of female
She said I'm a selfish woman and this is what it means.
This morning I wrote out the history of my interest in state change.
It begins with that but works into a moral program with the book; lately
I have been more interested in restructuring by ethical means, is what I
saw. Now it isn't state change, which is change of consciousness, but structural
The difference it makes to me to have generous love, someone wanting
what I have to say, someone wanting me to know her, loving the exchange
itself. Will I hedge that? Yes. It's too soon to know how much of that is
actually, can actually be, for me.
When I notice what I'm doing it's as if I feel a thinness of self - did
Joyce used to feel this when she did what her other told her to do and it
worked? A faint incredulity, not strong.
I am feeling that for my young women one of the most important things
is teaching them that they don't have to fear pain, they can always venture
into it because it won't overcome them.
I want to teach them emotional courage first, so they can look straight
at anything - emotional facts, early love, defense, dissociation, how to
work directly with the body to restructure, leaving the thoughts to alter
as they will - fearless disrespect of male blindness, strong experience
of physical world, of attention to physical world - strong experience of
feeling through to the significance of mythic elements.
Drove with Tom yesterday to the Santa Rosas. What did I like best. The
passage after Anza where there were wildflower patches in rocky highlands
- blue, orange, yellow. The mountain views were stunning above Palm Desert,
and I liked the agave garden in a cleft off the road, but those patches
and drifts of blue and orange that I saw so briefly as we whisked through,
those were the value of the day. A blotch of orange on a distant slope,
a running swale of blue alongside the asphalt. Those small wild California
poppies, lupins. And I love the mustard, which floats, floating particles
of yellow, waist height, and everywhere silky bearded grass.
- Is there anything to say about Millie?
- She's very frangible, is that the word? She can crumble from one moment
to the next.
- She's had crashes that are very intense.
- I've been saying 1) feel it in your body, 2) paint it, and she's been
coming through to both fierce and transcendently symbolic pictures.
- Then she has a day or two of intellectual excitement.
- Then a painting or something else puts her over the edge and we go
through it again.
- What I assume is that the crashes are reconnects, she's allowing childhood
somatics that her talk therapy didn't get to.
- I'm also assuming that it will go on for a while and that she'll quickly
notice that her health is better.
I said proofread and Tom couldn't help editing. Most of his marks were
over-correct and some were ignorant. I decided to be tolerant. I also decided
to tell him my principles in for instance punctuation. We got through that
conversation with no harm to either and both were proud of how improved
we are. He's willing to read my journals - he's on volume 2 now - and that
was unthinkable ten years ago. I am not panicking that he's ignorant and
unworthy - he's worthy in the ways that he is. That sigh surprised me; it
agrees. He's company I can stand and a quarter of a kiss hasn't lost interest
despite ten years and much else. He said yesterday that after our hour on
the ledge at Japatul he'd closed his eyes in bed and been able to see in
detail. There'd been ten minutes when I wandered off, and he found himself
seeing the way a branch moves. I couldn't see with him next to me, but I
can remember to sit somewhere else.
We liked each other today. Mr Tom in his dirty work clothes and boots,
sunburnt, tall, fit, scraped up, green-eyed, no fat on him, and that voice.
He saw me drive up beaming with pleasure to see him and it gave him a flush
of happiness from head to foot, he said. He watched me talking to Eliz and
was proud of me and I was proud of him too cos he's 59 and physical.
He's proud of himself for his supervising dash and wisdom and pleased to
have been in the world, wind, sun, morning, night, heat, cold.
Lemon Grove to RCP Block and Brick. It turns out that's where Bud and
Carol live. Tom is driving and goes by feel, small street with a lot of
trees, which of these houses? Small ranches. Drive past them, drive back.
Park in front of that one.
And then, and then. Dark small rooms full of stuff, an extremely fat
man with a mouth like a line turned down at the corners. A wife who automatically
stops talking when he starts. Why was I exhausted after - because there
was no civil way to leave sooner and sparing people is exhausting. I was
looking at Tom with pleasure though, sitting near him.
What happened yesterday was that at the end, when we were saying goodbye,
I went to shake Bud's hand and he said, Give me a hug. I had that instant
of hesitation, and then gave over and hugged him hard. And then went to
Carol and was thinking if I've hugged him I'm going to hug her, and saw
the second of hesitation in her eyes. What I see more clearly after I've
slept is that he was establishing dominance and I gave it to him but then
went and established it over her. I feel slightly sick at having given over
to that gut bucket. It was automatic. I wasn't expecting it, I wasn't alert.
She said they'd looked at my web site and were intimidated. He jumped
in at that moment and said something false to imply he wasn't intimidated,
all he cares about is that Tom likes me. Meantime he talked for two hours
straight and looked at me the whole time he was talking. My quandary is
I don't want to wrestle someone like that for dominance, and certainly not
in his own garden, and not in a way that humiliates him, but being dominated
even in that shallow way is harmful to me. It harmed my energy. I have twice
his brains and don't want him to have to feel it, or even to have Tom feel
it, since he was Tom's intellectual friend, but that leaves me alone in
the company, looking at bluejays and a lump of obsidian.
Millie. This morning it hit her worse than ever. She called it being
mangled. Bones crushed. I suggested it might be birth memory. She said she
just needed to be quiet. I said yes that's what newborns need. She wrote
back much later and said she wasn't sure it was birth and sent an image
that had a ragged womb shape with bits like sickle moons floating in it.
I said had her mother attempted an abortion. She said she didn't know but
the story in the notes about the man who lacerated himself because his mother
had tried to abort him had struck her. She had actually lacerated her own
cervix with a knife. Then she sent an astonishing image of what looks like
womb as blast furnace.
Last week she had a feeling of shocks all over her body. I said, did
you ever have shock therapy? She said, eight times, anesthetized.