this line of lake and rail and condominiums and old factories and beaches for the last hour, thinking.
NINE
E very other Wednesday, Sibyl, the woman who washes her face in Clorox, came to visit June at the archive. She washes her hands in Clorox too, and any other part of her body that she decides needs it. Clorox, Sibyl said, was a great invention and if only Lady Macbeth had had it, none of us would have known that story. June pointed out to her that
Macbeth
was a fiction, only a play. But the woman said it had to be true first, for it to have become a fiction.
She came to see June about dreams. Was it possible, Sibyl asked, was it possible at all, that she was in a dream?
This question gave June real pause. In reality she should tell the woman no, no it is not possible. But why? The woman is delusional, but what good would it do to tell her that? It would be much better for her if it were possible that she was in a dream. The reality, in which she washes herself in Clorox, is much more understandable as a dream after all.
So June told Sibyl, “Quite likely.” Sibyl looked relieved, briefly, then looked at her bleached hands. They were dry like papyrus and some parts were burned white. “And how do I stop dreaming?”
“Well,” June began, “I suppose wake up.”
“But I don’t … I can’t now.” Sibyl turned her attention to a brown patch of skin near her left wrist and began brushing it with her right thumb. The small brush strokes would turn into rubbing in a moment, and then she would need the key to the washroom to go scrub the spot fully.
“Dream something else then,” June said.
The woman’s thumb hovered over her wrist, she smiled at June. “Yes, I can do that. I think I can do that. I’ve had many other dreams, you know, lots of others.”
“Choose one then, Sibyl.” June’s voice urged enthusiasm. “Choose another one.”
“I had one where I went to the mail and found a packageand there was a rubber band around it and I took it into my room and opened it and inside there were three gold keys. I didn’t know what to open with the keys. I left them in the box for a day and lying there, they looked like bright metallic babies. But they were not babies. They were metal keys, gold shiny keys and each had a red ribbon—and did I tell you about the buds of flowers in the box, they were metallic too. What does it mean, do you know?”
“I’m not sure,” June replied. “Should it mean anything?”
Sibyl rubbed the palms of her hands together. The Clorox made them itch. June heard her pop psychology tone and felt a small self-disdain. She had not anticipated that sentiment in herself. She was not a psychiatrist, she was not a counsellor, the archive did not do that kind of work. Gloria, the head archivist, became agitated when Sibyl came to see June. After Sibyl left, Gloria said to her, “This is not Queen Street Mental Health.”
June and Gloria were the only employees at the archive. Not exactly employees, they were a collective of two, recording women’s social action in the city. Gloria was a historian and June, of course, the social activist. So naturally they would clash, though they were perfect for an archive. One, to rush madly in, the other, to pull the brakes. It wasn’t their job to save any one woman, Gloria said. “Big Picture, June.”This was an archive of feminist social history. A hot arrow flew up June’s nostril. Yes, and Sibyl is a casualty, June said bitterly.
By way of history, which is really allegory after all, June’s father had told her, “Only read the business section of the newspaper.
That
is the news. The other parts are the casualties.” He had said this to her from the veranda of the house where he lived with a second family. It was where she had discovered him quite by accident one morning when she was late for school and took a shortcut down an unknown street. He did not explain the identical house with his identical chair and his
NINE
E very other Wednesday, Sibyl, the woman who washes her face in Clorox, came to visit June at the archive. She washes her hands in Clorox too, and any other part of her body that she decides needs it. Clorox, Sibyl said, was a great invention and if only Lady Macbeth had had it, none of us would have known that story. June pointed out to her that
Macbeth
was a fiction, only a play. But the woman said it had to be true first, for it to have become a fiction.
She came to see June about dreams. Was it possible, Sibyl asked, was it possible at all, that she was in a dream?
This question gave June real pause. In reality she should tell the woman no, no it is not possible. But why? The woman is delusional, but what good would it do to tell her that? It would be much better for her if it were possible that she was in a dream. The reality, in which she washes herself in Clorox, is much more understandable as a dream after all.
So June told Sibyl, “Quite likely.” Sibyl looked relieved, briefly, then looked at her bleached hands. They were dry like papyrus and some parts were burned white. “And how do I stop dreaming?”
“Well,” June began, “I suppose wake up.”
“But I don’t … I can’t now.” Sibyl turned her attention to a brown patch of skin near her left wrist and began brushing it with her right thumb. The small brush strokes would turn into rubbing in a moment, and then she would need the key to the washroom to go scrub the spot fully.
“Dream something else then,” June said.
The woman’s thumb hovered over her wrist, she smiled at June. “Yes, I can do that. I think I can do that. I’ve had many other dreams, you know, lots of others.”
“Choose one then, Sibyl.” June’s voice urged enthusiasm. “Choose another one.”
“I had one where I went to the mail and found a packageand there was a rubber band around it and I took it into my room and opened it and inside there were three gold keys. I didn’t know what to open with the keys. I left them in the box for a day and lying there, they looked like bright metallic babies. But they were not babies. They were metal keys, gold shiny keys and each had a red ribbon—and did I tell you about the buds of flowers in the box, they were metallic too. What does it mean, do you know?”
“I’m not sure,” June replied. “Should it mean anything?”
Sibyl rubbed the palms of her hands together. The Clorox made them itch. June heard her pop psychology tone and felt a small self-disdain. She had not anticipated that sentiment in herself. She was not a psychiatrist, she was not a counsellor, the archive did not do that kind of work. Gloria, the head archivist, became agitated when Sibyl came to see June. After Sibyl left, Gloria said to her, “This is not Queen Street Mental Health.”
June and Gloria were the only employees at the archive. Not exactly employees, they were a collective of two, recording women’s social action in the city. Gloria was a historian and June, of course, the social activist. So naturally they would clash, though they were perfect for an archive. One, to rush madly in, the other, to pull the brakes. It wasn’t their job to save any one woman, Gloria said. “Big Picture, June.”This was an archive of feminist social history. A hot arrow flew up June’s nostril. Yes, and Sibyl is a casualty, June said bitterly.
By way of history, which is really allegory after all, June’s father had told her, “Only read the business section of the newspaper.
That
is the news. The other parts are the casualties.” He had said this to her from the veranda of the house where he lived with a second family. It was where she had discovered him quite by accident one morning when she was late for school and took a shortcut down an unknown street. He did not explain the identical house with his identical chair and his
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