what I know other people do and have done, all categorized, lumped, the facts of lives and occurrences undermined by failure, by the constant increase of trouble taking and having taken place, of lives documented, or forgotten, or both, or worse, remembered and useless. Useless? Failed? What on earth can I mean by that? I mean Vivian’s men keep traipsing, the Craven kids are wallowing in banality, the homosexuals are shaking hands in their backyard. I mean, after a while, the pregnancy wore off. My period came back, innocent, saying, “Oops, I forgot, sorry,” and instantly, that new feeling, the new idea, crushed itself into a minor moment, and I woke as from a nightmare.
I think there are too many people, and that’s all I think. Still, looking from my little sphere with my relevant eye does not mean I’m without memory, or without imagination. For instance, I never likedVivian’s husband. I knew he would leave, or should, but I can see him, suited up for safari, plainly and purely glowing, standing where giraffes knuckle over to drink, where tigers and zebras materialize from the grass as his past recedes. His little daughter holds his hand and her first word is “Oh.” At seven thirty, the heroin addict steps off Vivian’s porch and stands under the street lamp until, at the end of the dusk, the light bursts on and he takes in his drug, linked, in his mind, with the stars. Vivian can see him from her window, and she allows him his pleasure, tacit, pretending for its sake that it doesn’t exist. Her hair is long, full, and dark, her skin shining through the nightgown she has worn all day.
No one is left out when I watch my people. I can see
Amie’s subtle, appropriate sneer when she finds herself sleepless, watching the television sputter and chat. She makes tea, wanders the house and the yard. The night, the insomnia, is like years for her. She converses with it: she says,“I banish you, insomnia!” and walks it up and down the street. By morning she’s collapsed on the couch, and when Jeff finds her he pulls an afghan over her body. He’s a little confused, momentarily filled with a recognition of the vast spaces of which he’s never conceived and never experienced. The day passes like wind. At dinner, their father breaks down at the table, half weeping, half laughing at the stock of his life. “I can’t deter theft,” he says. “It’s too much. It’s just everywhere.” Mrs. Craven takes his plate of beans and potatoes and replaces it with berries in cream.
In the morning, the homosexuals lay a gingham tablecloth on the lawn and picnic for breakfast.They are dressed in their suits, but one stretches out and rests his head on his lover’s lap. For hours, it seems, his lover strokes his face from above. After a while Goody comes over, puts her head on the man’s chest as he sleeps, and I think it’s a family, whole.
A sphere, even if it is only one body wide, can be comfortable. Shannon gave me a good fuck, and I’m sure he will give many others, and better. He’ll draw tenderness from the cluttered world and let it spill, making other people feel as I felt. The weight of the world can rise, history all fog and ghosts. I lift my eyes from the cul-de-sac and take a jaunt around my own place.Years ago, I threw a yard sale and relieved myself of the furniture my parents left behind, pieces too big and cumbersome in design or content to move. I look at what I brought to this house on my own, what space is taken or empty. I look
at what I see and what I know. I think about war, how it can make a person feel half a unity, and I grow frigid with my fear. I repaint the guest room a careful shade of neutral. I build a shelf in my kitchen and line it with empty jars.
In due course Mother and Dad Craven go out of town. Amie and Jeff throw a rockin’ shindig. Kids come from all over the county, and the cops hang up when I call. They recognize my voice.
Vivian slaps the shit out of her little
I think there are too many people, and that’s all I think. Still, looking from my little sphere with my relevant eye does not mean I’m without memory, or without imagination. For instance, I never likedVivian’s husband. I knew he would leave, or should, but I can see him, suited up for safari, plainly and purely glowing, standing where giraffes knuckle over to drink, where tigers and zebras materialize from the grass as his past recedes. His little daughter holds his hand and her first word is “Oh.” At seven thirty, the heroin addict steps off Vivian’s porch and stands under the street lamp until, at the end of the dusk, the light bursts on and he takes in his drug, linked, in his mind, with the stars. Vivian can see him from her window, and she allows him his pleasure, tacit, pretending for its sake that it doesn’t exist. Her hair is long, full, and dark, her skin shining through the nightgown she has worn all day.
No one is left out when I watch my people. I can see
Amie’s subtle, appropriate sneer when she finds herself sleepless, watching the television sputter and chat. She makes tea, wanders the house and the yard. The night, the insomnia, is like years for her. She converses with it: she says,“I banish you, insomnia!” and walks it up and down the street. By morning she’s collapsed on the couch, and when Jeff finds her he pulls an afghan over her body. He’s a little confused, momentarily filled with a recognition of the vast spaces of which he’s never conceived and never experienced. The day passes like wind. At dinner, their father breaks down at the table, half weeping, half laughing at the stock of his life. “I can’t deter theft,” he says. “It’s too much. It’s just everywhere.” Mrs. Craven takes his plate of beans and potatoes and replaces it with berries in cream.
In the morning, the homosexuals lay a gingham tablecloth on the lawn and picnic for breakfast.They are dressed in their suits, but one stretches out and rests his head on his lover’s lap. For hours, it seems, his lover strokes his face from above. After a while Goody comes over, puts her head on the man’s chest as he sleeps, and I think it’s a family, whole.
A sphere, even if it is only one body wide, can be comfortable. Shannon gave me a good fuck, and I’m sure he will give many others, and better. He’ll draw tenderness from the cluttered world and let it spill, making other people feel as I felt. The weight of the world can rise, history all fog and ghosts. I lift my eyes from the cul-de-sac and take a jaunt around my own place.Years ago, I threw a yard sale and relieved myself of the furniture my parents left behind, pieces too big and cumbersome in design or content to move. I look at what I brought to this house on my own, what space is taken or empty. I look
at what I see and what I know. I think about war, how it can make a person feel half a unity, and I grow frigid with my fear. I repaint the guest room a careful shade of neutral. I build a shelf in my kitchen and line it with empty jars.
In due course Mother and Dad Craven go out of town. Amie and Jeff throw a rockin’ shindig. Kids come from all over the county, and the cops hang up when I call. They recognize my voice.
Vivian slaps the shit out of her little
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