turns ultimately into the annihilation of forced premises. Herein lies an explosive and incalculable web upon which and out of which emerges the “equal” stride and fiction of reality.”
He stopped as if he had indeed turned upon her—in her pursuit of him—caught her and felled her to the ground in order to demonstrate to her, beyond a shadow of doubt, the truth of illusion—a marriage to the nemesis of freedom. She in turn sought to grind him into her—the racing pinnacle or beginning of things he had operated upon until all grew fanatical and still and strange. Watch man. THIEF , Sliced in half … antagonistic mating.
THREE
Fruit of the Lips
T he “gap” which remained between them (as between doctor and patient, husband and wife, lover and mistress) made her cry on awaking upon the knife-edge of illusion, anaesthesia, solid bliss. She was blind. Yet she could see “his” lips move to address the apple of his eye. Eyeball of curious wood painted green stars and red. She remembered how he had fiercely cut and chiselled … their Universe …. Globe…. She flung it at him now across the room. Violent storm. He was on the point of leaving her. Was it ten years or twenty ago? Sunset. Blood. Green and red.
“Why don’t you leave me and go?” she cried. “You’ve done your worst. Now you stand there like a dolt … idiot. Dress it up as you like: the truth is—you revolve this way and that … vacillate. Always on the move. Why can’t you make up your mind whether you want to stay or go? I know what I want: security, marriage, a home. Not just roaming like your pupil to the ends of the earth. No use, I tell you. Can’t live like that any more. Can’t you see what you’re doing to me? For the last time: make up your mind….”
Susan was overwhelmed by her own outcry. It had been a brutal year for her. Still she was mad to speak like that. And in fact it sounded incredibly strange in her own ears after all this time (moments or years?) as if it had never occurred save as a dream centuries old. The last straw…. And when she realized he had indeed taken her at her word and gone, she felt she had died in truth within “his” operating theatre—blown to bits, sky-high. The end of the world. The shattering of the globe they once possessed . Why had she—without thinking—flung it at him? All because of one fantastic theory of freedom which he spouted at her until it triggered off an accumulative burden … resentment … pride. Ironic feud. One always read too much into everything at a particular moment. For what remained after each explosion of habit or circumstance was never an identical character within the present and past.
Was it ten years or twenty ago one relationship had died and another begun? In our end is our beginning. Phenomenon of nature. She flung the last burning straw at him out of the declining sun—bonfire of memory. It illuminated shred and circumstance—his departure all over again. He appeared once more to seize the glistening dying fury of recollection within her like a ball in space (though how could she swear it was truly so?): in that instant of recall her eyes splintered. Spiritual horizon. Shower of sparks. OPERATION SUCCESSFUL . Theatre of darkness. Black. His face grew BLACK but not with clinical rage (as she had dreamt) but with irony and submission … irony of fate … submission…. One must not read too much into the night of things. She rounded upon him like all the midnight paradoxical furies of old: there was nothing she wanted to save to clasp him gently to her breast. Let him stay in spite of the bitterness and freedom of option she thrust at him. The truth was she wanted him to stay; not go. She wanted to bind him to her in spite of anything spoken to the contrary. How could he take her literally at her word? How could he dare to involve her (and dissolve all her craft of subtle persuasion) in one action of destiny—ultimatum of choice, motive
He stopped as if he had indeed turned upon her—in her pursuit of him—caught her and felled her to the ground in order to demonstrate to her, beyond a shadow of doubt, the truth of illusion—a marriage to the nemesis of freedom. She in turn sought to grind him into her—the racing pinnacle or beginning of things he had operated upon until all grew fanatical and still and strange. Watch man. THIEF , Sliced in half … antagonistic mating.
THREE
Fruit of the Lips
T he “gap” which remained between them (as between doctor and patient, husband and wife, lover and mistress) made her cry on awaking upon the knife-edge of illusion, anaesthesia, solid bliss. She was blind. Yet she could see “his” lips move to address the apple of his eye. Eyeball of curious wood painted green stars and red. She remembered how he had fiercely cut and chiselled … their Universe …. Globe…. She flung it at him now across the room. Violent storm. He was on the point of leaving her. Was it ten years or twenty ago? Sunset. Blood. Green and red.
“Why don’t you leave me and go?” she cried. “You’ve done your worst. Now you stand there like a dolt … idiot. Dress it up as you like: the truth is—you revolve this way and that … vacillate. Always on the move. Why can’t you make up your mind whether you want to stay or go? I know what I want: security, marriage, a home. Not just roaming like your pupil to the ends of the earth. No use, I tell you. Can’t live like that any more. Can’t you see what you’re doing to me? For the last time: make up your mind….”
Susan was overwhelmed by her own outcry. It had been a brutal year for her. Still she was mad to speak like that. And in fact it sounded incredibly strange in her own ears after all this time (moments or years?) as if it had never occurred save as a dream centuries old. The last straw…. And when she realized he had indeed taken her at her word and gone, she felt she had died in truth within “his” operating theatre—blown to bits, sky-high. The end of the world. The shattering of the globe they once possessed . Why had she—without thinking—flung it at him? All because of one fantastic theory of freedom which he spouted at her until it triggered off an accumulative burden … resentment … pride. Ironic feud. One always read too much into everything at a particular moment. For what remained after each explosion of habit or circumstance was never an identical character within the present and past.
Was it ten years or twenty ago one relationship had died and another begun? In our end is our beginning. Phenomenon of nature. She flung the last burning straw at him out of the declining sun—bonfire of memory. It illuminated shred and circumstance—his departure all over again. He appeared once more to seize the glistening dying fury of recollection within her like a ball in space (though how could she swear it was truly so?): in that instant of recall her eyes splintered. Spiritual horizon. Shower of sparks. OPERATION SUCCESSFUL . Theatre of darkness. Black. His face grew BLACK but not with clinical rage (as she had dreamt) but with irony and submission … irony of fate … submission…. One must not read too much into the night of things. She rounded upon him like all the midnight paradoxical furies of old: there was nothing she wanted to save to clasp him gently to her breast. Let him stay in spite of the bitterness and freedom of option she thrust at him. The truth was she wanted him to stay; not go. She wanted to bind him to her in spite of anything spoken to the contrary. How could he take her literally at her word? How could he dare to involve her (and dissolve all her craft of subtle persuasion) in one action of destiny—ultimatum of choice, motive
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