soaring into the ether. Malice sir I have seen malice for ten.
I regret things.
The man pauses, searching . . . I have—disappointed my wife. A different guide, a woman with frosted hair, a hipsway, leads a small group into the gallery. Art lovers cluster on folding stools, ready for culture.
The guide opens a book . . . Before we begin. Some perspective on the nude.
That’s what I needed . . . the man picks up his cigarette. Everyone regrets things.
For example?
I killed a man.
The man collects himself. Well it was plausible. True. Who could survive a fall like that. It was a fact. Indisputable. Hadn’t she seen the telltale bleeding. It was difficult from the top of that hill but she was sure there was blood all the same.
Right . . . the man breaks the silence . . . Make do, you say. I shall remember that. Have a safe trip back to Sydney.
Perth. It’s Perth.
The more easily distracted members of the nude group watch the man shamble past. Guide intoning The Nude. The ocean is flat, one sail, one gull. She could be from Perth. Only the female nude aspires to beauty.
Yes there are questions and strangers will ask them of you in public spaces. You will aspire to beauty, they will march up with a coat folded overarm demanding to know about happiness.
Well, are you, Catrine?
Through the ears of the cow, she watched Sophie lean back on her palms . . . Not for Christmas, no.
I would like to go someday.
It’s not what you think. Hot and oranges, oil wells.
I know . . . Sophie stopped drumming her heels . . . I hate England I hate. All this.
All what?
Green. Give me a desert. Enough of Shakespeare. You’d think the man was God.
Catrine’s cow began to shift, she touched its bristly hide. I like the desert because it is clean. What did Lawrence mean. Sand is less confusing than shrubbery.
You’d better get off, she wants to stand . . . Sophie slid down her cow’s stomach . . . Enough of Monstead, old Betts trying to keep the tragedies straight.
He likes you.
He likes Madame Araigny. We’re all exactly the same to Betts . . . Sophie slalomed mines of hardened cowshit . . . Year after year, we’re simply different heights, different degrees of poor eyesight.
They made their way across the field, it was after five, trees began to lose their outline.
Something happened to him.
Damn . . . Sophie struggled with the metal latch on a gate . . . What are you talking about?
Betts. Why is he always writing in that notebook? What’s he scribbling?
Catrine . . . Sophie looked up from the gate . . . You think too much.
Into the next gallery.
The first guide, wattled, beet-red, stands before a scene of dead animals . . . Decay . . . he whispers . . . You see it in the decadence of the brushstroke, the brutal application, the shock of color.
Another ocean. A girl, bonnet. Valley. Dark as Gilbert’s scene. His democratic painting. Amsterdam, he said. Or was it Denmark. In Portland, neither sky nor land was favored one over the other, no God-driven shafts of sunlight or dappled elk, just the rotting passage of time. The day was all wrong, they missed one train, Father failed to meet them. Mother’s voice filled the museum as if she were cursing
The rotting passage of time.
They were in Portland to consult a specialist. She was a child then, a believer in daytrips for art. Mother said, Decay can be beautiful, you must forever question your assumption of beauty. No. Mother said, I like to work at a painting. Loudly. Frightening Catrine that she might suddenly blaspheme the lesser Impressionists or mock a bystander’s interest in Wyeth. But Mother quietened. They went for lunch as if they were old friends not related, to a French restaurant with no prices and animated snails on one wall. She was allowed small sips of Mother’s wine and somewhere near dessert, before, it was before dessert because right afterwards the crème caramel appeared, but before dessert Mother slapped her on the face, hard. Once. Then
I regret things.
The man pauses, searching . . . I have—disappointed my wife. A different guide, a woman with frosted hair, a hipsway, leads a small group into the gallery. Art lovers cluster on folding stools, ready for culture.
The guide opens a book . . . Before we begin. Some perspective on the nude.
That’s what I needed . . . the man picks up his cigarette. Everyone regrets things.
For example?
I killed a man.
The man collects himself. Well it was plausible. True. Who could survive a fall like that. It was a fact. Indisputable. Hadn’t she seen the telltale bleeding. It was difficult from the top of that hill but she was sure there was blood all the same.
Right . . . the man breaks the silence . . . Make do, you say. I shall remember that. Have a safe trip back to Sydney.
Perth. It’s Perth.
The more easily distracted members of the nude group watch the man shamble past. Guide intoning The Nude. The ocean is flat, one sail, one gull. She could be from Perth. Only the female nude aspires to beauty.
Yes there are questions and strangers will ask them of you in public spaces. You will aspire to beauty, they will march up with a coat folded overarm demanding to know about happiness.
Well, are you, Catrine?
Through the ears of the cow, she watched Sophie lean back on her palms . . . Not for Christmas, no.
I would like to go someday.
It’s not what you think. Hot and oranges, oil wells.
I know . . . Sophie stopped drumming her heels . . . I hate England I hate. All this.
All what?
Green. Give me a desert. Enough of Shakespeare. You’d think the man was God.
Catrine’s cow began to shift, she touched its bristly hide. I like the desert because it is clean. What did Lawrence mean. Sand is less confusing than shrubbery.
You’d better get off, she wants to stand . . . Sophie slid down her cow’s stomach . . . Enough of Monstead, old Betts trying to keep the tragedies straight.
He likes you.
He likes Madame Araigny. We’re all exactly the same to Betts . . . Sophie slalomed mines of hardened cowshit . . . Year after year, we’re simply different heights, different degrees of poor eyesight.
They made their way across the field, it was after five, trees began to lose their outline.
Something happened to him.
Damn . . . Sophie struggled with the metal latch on a gate . . . What are you talking about?
Betts. Why is he always writing in that notebook? What’s he scribbling?
Catrine . . . Sophie looked up from the gate . . . You think too much.
Into the next gallery.
The first guide, wattled, beet-red, stands before a scene of dead animals . . . Decay . . . he whispers . . . You see it in the decadence of the brushstroke, the brutal application, the shock of color.
Another ocean. A girl, bonnet. Valley. Dark as Gilbert’s scene. His democratic painting. Amsterdam, he said. Or was it Denmark. In Portland, neither sky nor land was favored one over the other, no God-driven shafts of sunlight or dappled elk, just the rotting passage of time. The day was all wrong, they missed one train, Father failed to meet them. Mother’s voice filled the museum as if she were cursing
The rotting passage of time.
They were in Portland to consult a specialist. She was a child then, a believer in daytrips for art. Mother said, Decay can be beautiful, you must forever question your assumption of beauty. No. Mother said, I like to work at a painting. Loudly. Frightening Catrine that she might suddenly blaspheme the lesser Impressionists or mock a bystander’s interest in Wyeth. But Mother quietened. They went for lunch as if they were old friends not related, to a French restaurant with no prices and animated snails on one wall. She was allowed small sips of Mother’s wine and somewhere near dessert, before, it was before dessert because right afterwards the crème caramel appeared, but before dessert Mother slapped her on the face, hard. Once. Then
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