Last week she pulled together her history, drama, and email exchanges with me in a redux about a Venetian etching, where cherubs visited the graves of Ptolemy and Cassander. I thought it a poor description of our lives together. Then I pondered (this week) whether she was produced via donor insemination, or from whence she came.
Her: “Because you must decide for yourself.”
Him: “The sea is calm.”
Her: “You know what will happen.”
Him: “It looks unbelievably romantic.”
Her: “Are you trembling?”
Him: “I want to lay and watch the whiteness.”
Her: “Oh sweet lemon tree!”
Sibilant crepitations echo through my eardrums when I think of you.
A couple of weeks ago, I managed to escape to the eastern flanks of the island to a small whitewashed tavern. I delivered myself to an image of the Virgin, hanging on a back wall of the bar. I called out, “Praise God, all is ok! Tonight there will be purple stove-pipe hats for everyone!”
Her words were often far from the truth. It turns out I was frequently duped into believing that her name was Electra. Our conversations were weighted down with no reference whatsoever to gravity or proportion. My breathing for the next three to five years became an improbable structure that surprisingly still stands.
“Many different aims have been assigned to art by many different theorists. Is the nature of art that holds us in check to any disposition to generalize an elastic-sided sentiment?”
That said, she has become more confused than one might expect. Underneath her studied rhetoric there are no shapes or hard edges. One can easily discern whorls of serpentine sentences from previous iterations. My final impression is fear for the safety of this old relic.
You: “Because it’s not something to be deduced.”
Me: “Yet, at the same time… I’m not sure.”
You: “It must be negotiated.”
Me: “It feels like an academic exercise.”
You: “Does it give you happiness?”
Me: “It was only the rain.”
Where old lava met the sea we first kissed. Sometimes we walked together for warmth. Sometimes in great intimacy. There were good times, but most I think were ashy gray or black. Invisible to us both was the poor preparation for unexpected happiness.
Blue-striped sticky worms have a good deal in common with us. Anne and I are both untroubled by the whistle of arrows, and eat raw tripe with trembling hands. We also both rely on the sound of rusted water-wheels turning when running down a steeply inclined plane. Differences? I think that disease has its roots in the sudden interruption of a breathless goodbye. She doesn’t.
running the whole length of the horizon...