[35] The last fingers of leaf
I make Emma laugh. It’s the best thing I can do, because when she’s laughing she isn’t crying or arguing. She scared me that day at the Rosemeyrs’, though I’ll never tell her. It won’t help her stop being afraid, to know I was frightened…
[34] Songs humbled and stilled
Paul likes to make me laugh, because when I’m laughing I’m not crying, or arguing with him. I can’t do either while I’m laughing. Now Johnny tries to make me laugh, too. He hasn’t yet, but I can see him trying. He’s started to recognize…
[33] The sun shines on the living and the dead
We’re at grandfather’s table on a Sunday afternoon with Johnny napping in a padded cabbage crate by the stove and the remains of lunch between us, soup plates and half a rye loaf and a half-emptied carton of plum squares from the Sun Room…
[32] Miracle, mystery, authority, all three
When you’ve been with one woman for seven years, you want to tell yourself that probably you know her. It’s better to know other people. Knowing yourself is overrated – it doesn’t help much. Insight is a box with another box inside,…
[31] A form of spirited motion
Emma left before me this morning, in a cab, with Johnny, for Gus. This time I know, but when I don’t, I don’t ask her where she’s going. I ask her where she’s been when she comes back, because she likes me to, though I don’t have to…
[30] We understand and then we die
And this morning I’m going to Gus’s studio, which means another fiaker, on another day that Paul’s gone out to his models. It drops me and Johnny at the mouth to a narrow lane off the High Street of the Seventh Quarter, the carriage…
[29] Does the soul have a fate?
Since than night at the Marzipan, I’ve wanted to take Johnny to the zoo behind the Pleasure Palace at the base of the Imperial Folly. There’s an excursion for us. I want to take him there while he’s still an animal himself. So…
[28] The poorly trained soul
When I walk, where doesn’t Paul see me go? I can make the hundred metres to the tram stop without stopping to rest. Then the tram takes me across the river down the Grand Artery to grandfather’s shop on the Isle of Jews. Yesterday afternoon…
[27] The black, death dealing hand
Yesterday I pushed Johnny’s perambulator all the way up Procession Street as far as the Opera House. I’d been hearing that street through our north windows, from out of sight, and now I wanted to see it again. Mistake, with the pedestrians…
[26] Man will be cheated of experience by technology
I was meant to always negotiate my life, coming up to it sideways on soft soles in conditional mode: would, could, should, ought, a function of everyone else’s desired whims. I’m only glad my teachers were a bad example, or a reverse…
[25] The devouring of immortality
[25] The devouring of immortality
Stand on a sidewalk within sight of Poland Station for ten minutes and count all the people who pass – the ones tumbling out of the factories, the downlooking streetsweepers, the mail carriers and…
[24] Far can a single impulse extend
Our second week returned, the Friday after dinner, Paul would be playing with the little guy at home, but instead we’re going out farther than the Singing Swan (where we all can be seen every two nights or three). I need to pretend everything…
[23] Unity, visible or not
Before I left for the studio this morning, she called me into the bedroom. She was with her pants around her ankles. ‘I need those,’ she declared, and pointed to her pants drawer. I helped her step out of the old ones and into new ones,…
[22] Prophecies of the moonmaidens
The first few mornings back, Paul doesn’t blink or stare when I bring Johnny to the studio. We’re there till lunch. He doesn’t notice us much unless Johnny starts to cry, and then he flips a drool cloth over his shoulder and carries him,…
[21] Yet my thoughts somehow contain you
On less pointful days I would have walked the four hours to the hunting lodge. This month of the year, though, one cloud at the wrong time can ruin the light and the day for me. So I take a cab for the last part to make sure I find the best…
[20] How does one reconcile with history?
Mornings – I’ve told you. They’re when people pull down their masks so that all you can know is what their motions tell you, everyone spin-dancing down the pavement, alone. Fear masks, trouble masks, masks of time-sodden rage, and their…
[19] False dreams cling without number
When Paul is near, I always know who I am and what I’m doing and what’s happening around me. Before he was in my life and when he’s not in it now, I learned to keep steady with practical things. I pay the bills, I deposit the draughts,…
[18] How do we know we love?
Paul went yesterday afternoon to ask Rosemeyr who the guy was, whose name I don’t know. There was no point telling him not to. He had a reason to walk that way, and after cracking his head open the night before, I owed him some tolerance.
I’m…
[17] Social idealism, and its affects
Six weeks is a long time away. I’ve used up six lives in one week. In the afternoon crowds, nothing looks normal to me yet, and it’s good to see everything fresh, looking brighter despite itself, than its nature. If I passed the cathedral,…
[16] That silence companions them both
In the afternoon I look for a way to fit an armchair into the studio. In the end, I dismantle it into three, carry the pieces up the stairs, and screw it back together. Then I carry up the five canvased stretchers I’ve brought down from the…
[15] The shadow boys are breaking all the laws
I don’t break things down right away, the details can always come later. I don’t look at faces until I’ve sensed something else. That man’s coat … that one … will tell me something when I look hard enough. It’s too light for this…
[14] Schemers and dancers
I have to go farther each time to find a coffeehouse I don’t know. This morning I’ve crossed the river beyond the Great Wheel. There’s a basement on the wrong side of the Dream City’s river, rhum by night, coffee by morning, one more…
[13] In time but will not
The problem with stories. The problem is you can’t keep them in your head entirely. You read them and read them, and you reach the end and you’ve half-forgotten how they started, and what’s the point of that? A long time ago, and a long,…
[12] Then made one bundle of himself and me
I get out a pair of nail scissors and my sewing kit – both in the top kitchen drawer, a small mercy – and measure out a length of black silk thread, the closest match to his stiff-cut hair. He sits still and silent while I work, our backs…
[11] What beings will succeed mankind?
I’m thinking what I’ll tell the prosecutor: I wasn’t trying to murder him, I just wanted us both to stop feeling sorry for ourselves. If the porcelain candlestick was harder than his head, why blame me? The inspectors would…