Something terrible happened inside me then. Something very tiny and awful there in the very middle of me, making my breathing deep and difficult and my heart race. I ran away up the hill after him, making little whimpering sounds and getting all snotty in my nose and teary-eyed. I tried a yell to him but my throat croaked and I stumbled, falling with my face in the dirt, and I clambered back up and off again, gulping the wet salty air and making those awful sounds.
He was nowhere. I came all the way up out of the woods and into the long yellow grass, the whole sky opening up gray and terrible, stretching out to every border and dumping rain over the land and in the sea. It was washing down over everything. I cried again there like I'd cried in the city, only now I was exposed out on this ridge, high up with the ground falling away in every direction. Down and down into the dark woods and down the falling face to that dirty path and the lagoon, and there was Duncan, running off alone in the muddy rain, running away, south through the storm, going as far as he could go in what time he had.
5 JULY 1915
I must've caught a chill in the rain yesterday. I slept the night so fitfully and shaking, burning a fever and trembling there in bed all night, curled up as close to Duncan as I could just for comfort.
Duncan and Flora were both very sweet, bringing me hot soup in bed and reading out loud from Cicero. I napped in the late morning and by lunch I felt strong and able enough to get up and out.
Father visited me at my sickbed, holding his hand to my forehead and clucking his concern.
"Did you see me there?" I asked him simply.
"Oh, yes," he said. "Quite exciting, really. you're so very quick with this memorization." He patted my hand by way of congratulations. "I hadn't expected you'd be up that far so soon. I prefer working in isolation, you see."
"I know," I assured him. "I'm sorry."
"Oh, don't be silly. Max. What's to be sorry for?"
I thought quite carefully. I did feel sorry, very sorry about something, and I wanted to tell him as clearly as I could.
"I'm not sure," I began. "I'm sorry I was there disturbing you. I'm sorry I went running like a pig all through your woods and chasing about when you had your watching to do."
He smiled through his bristles and ruffled my hair some. I waited for him to answer, to help me figure more closely what I felt sorry for. He gave me a kiss on the forehead.
"Apology accepted, little fish. If we're more careful with our planning, things should be just fine," and he scooted his chair out, getting up to go. "Lunch?" he said.
I nodded yes and put my clothes on and joined them for lunch.
* * *
I put the first color on my landscape today, a deep reddish orange in the upper right corner. It's like the real sun has finally begun to set in my drawing, its light cast into the little corner, a spreading, effusive glow, so soon the whole neat structure, all of my carefully drawn lines will be taken over, inhabited by the presence of this real, gooey, wet, glowing thing.
6 JULY 1915
I'm well again. Slept and slept, nuzzled in so deep into bed I thought I might never emerge. But morning kept getting to be more and more, more bright sun dappling down and birds keeping up their crazy calling and then a fresh breeze through the screens and we were up and out to the pond in a flash.
A dog adopted us today by the boat. A big brown dog, all shaggy and with his mouth full of slobber. His tongue wobbled in the wind. He swam after sticks and jumped up, front paws all muddy, to dance whatever dance dogs do. We went home to lunch and he went trotting south, off to Stinson Beach I imagine.
7 JULY 1915
Hot again, if you found the right shelter spot, up away from the water and free from any wind. Up Bourne's Gulch was like a desert, parched and dusty like it hadn't rained for centuries. Duncan ran by and fell in the dirt screaming. I nearly killed myself running down off the ridge to him, and he looked up at me from the dirty ground and wiggled and laughed. Everyone's a joker.
8 JULY 1915
Another note from Father, this in my morning oatmeal:
What keeps the cow from merging inextricably into me? How can I look into that unfixed riot of colors and shapes that is out there, everywhere, and see what I see, the cow sitting placidly in a field of rye? Somehow things remain distinct, defined. I've made borders. I've expectations, maps made by memory, that outline arrangements I will see. There's a fine brown cow in that green field of rye. Out there, little fish.
Europeans searching for Shangri-la are escorted by voiceless monks through the treacherous mountains of Tibet. The wise monks forbid maps. Visitors who attempt any sort of record are killed in terrible and strange ways. What do we forbid by forbidding maps? What do we make possible? Can you travel without maps? Really there is too much to see.
I do try to think about these things. This one is a bit more baffling than the usual. Though I recall one when I was only just ten or so that wasn't even grammatically sensible, at least it didn't seem so to me or Duncan, to whom I showed it, just in case I was being dense. How very brave of me that must have been. Memory. Well, I've got some hunches there. We see what we see because memories make expectations? That's like things I've been thinking, how things have to fit somehow or they slip away. I like this inextricable merging too. I feel that with Duncan sometimes, that inextricable merging. And with the cold night air and water. Maps make no sense to me. What am I to make of that?
While we poked around in town waiting for the mail drop, a gaggle of kids ran past us through the grocery finding items from off a list, all flitty and flighty with excitement, so we asked them what was up.
"Mr. McKennan's hired out his launch for a moonlight ride. We'll be having a bonfire too, after."
Duncan, being bolder than I, asked, "May we come along? Three of us?" and after some confident calling back and forth across the store was answered "Yes, certainly, we'd all love for you to come." We were introduced to a boy about thirteen who said his name was Grover.
"Duncan," Duncan said, extending his hand.
"Max," I added. "Flora Profuso will be our third."
"Do I know you?" Grover asked, as two girls and another boy, all a bit older than he, crowded up behind.
"We're just here for the summer, along Bolinas Road at the end of the lagoon," I explained. "My father lives there."
The other three introduced themselves. "Tyrone," "Falillia," "Tiffany," they said in turn. Tyrone and Tiffany were twins and Grover was their little brother. Falillia and Tyrone held hands. We agreed to meet by the docks just after nine-thirty and Grover said we must bring something for roasting.
* * *
We bundled warm in sweaters and caps, our little bow ties sitting smartly on our collars. Flora wore a lovely dress and father's floppy hat, making her look like a cowboy who'd been through hell, lost his cowboy duds and been forced to wear a dress. I carried a sack of yams, for roasting.
The launch was long and low and we introduced Flora straightaway, chitchatting briskly about the stars and geography, the richness of the air and its comparison to the city. Flora impressed them with her bohemian tales, counseling Falillia and Tiffany on the importance of suffrage. Mr. McKennah sat by the wheel in silence sucking on his warm, smoky pipe. It was high tide and perfectly calm, the water sitting smooth as glass and black, reflecting a trailing glow of moon and individual stars if you looked very close into an especially still pool.
The wide empty air filled us full of silence soon, and we drifted, not speaking, lying back into the boat and gazing out at the black night, each with our private thoughts. Tyrone and Falillia were necking quietly nearby. I had thoughts but let them lie with a warm arm on Duncan's shoulders. Grover sat up close to Mr. McKennan and asked please could we go out over the bar, it being so calm and still tonight, and Mr. McKennan agreed.
As the boat approached the bar we all got up from our reveries and faced out into the brisk ocean. The breakers could be seen crashing ghost white far out into the night. The bri
ny ocean-air smell came whipping in around us as the boat beat along into the waves, smashing into the rugged breakers head-on.
It was a wonderful white moon, and we rolled through the swells out beyond the bar, cruising almost to the clam patch and back again, everyone up and about and screaming to the rolling sea. We were back and docked very late, past eleven, and we thanked Mr. McKennan politely, wandering on through town, Grover rushing ahead to set flame to the previously built bonfire.
The yams were hot and sweet and delicious.
9 JULY 1915
Duncan woke me up today, I was so sleepy from our launch. He rolled me out of bed and we walked bleary-eyed and yawning out to the pond, stripping off our clothes there in the grass. And then we jumped in.
Duncan's worked the rib and beam skeleton onto the back of the boat now. It juts out forward, the ribs brushing back like the windblown branches of trees. I helped him seal the back end with pine pitch, brushing amber gobs across the old dry seams, fixing joints where the new boards meet. It's all so solid and strong.
10 JULY 1915
Flora made us dress up as dogs today. She'd fashioned dog hats by turning some old fur collars out and fixing furry dog ears on them. Just that and mittens she'd also fixed all furry and paw-padded, and big fluffy tails. She had us in our shorts, dressed up in this doggy wear, lying on our backs in the grass all stretched out and very undoglike. We lay there close with our arms around each other's shoulders and smiling. This was the latest photo. She took it.
I snapped her midair flight, just as she'd planned, her flying out into nothing, floating in the bright air. Flora says it will be just a blur but that she tried to keep her face still so you might see it was she.
But I don't trust photos. And I fear I'm beginning to lose faith in Cicero too. I could make a little list: photographs; frozen memories (as with Cicero); the Fair's fake monuments and flimsy plaster walls. All of them are brittle thin surfaces hovering over nothing. From a distance they seem so substantial. But if your head swings in too close, bumping recklessly against them, they shatter and vanish, leaving you swinging in empty air.
We tipped Squashtoe's cow for mischief tonight. They sleep standing up. Duncan and I sneaked up into their meadow, hiding in the oaks, and looked about for a victim. They're beautiful patchwork ghosts in the moonlight, swatches of black and white, floating there in the dark field. We watched and waited, confident the one we'd chosen was indeed asleep as it hadn't moved for many long minutes. We moved swiftly across the meadow, crouched low and quiet, coming up alongside. Then, two hands each on the starboard flank, uumph and over she went, letting out a terrible panicked little cry. We ran and ran away as fast and far as we could. That little noise was so innocent and helpless I felt bad the rest of the night. But there was nothing I could do to make amends, so I lived with it and made a little private promise before falling off to sleep.
* * *
11 JULY 1915
Under water almost two minutes today. Duncan timed me by his pulse. The longer I stay down the more scared he gets so the faster his pulse races. Good deal, huh?
Father's got zucchini squash that are nearly the size of baseball bats. He's got baskets full that are less grotesque, running the range from tiny frog's fingers to a good healthy forearm and every size between. But I fancied eating the biggest. We plucked it from its vine and carried it in at lunch, hung in a sling on the broomstick, like some wild game we'd bagged. We sliced it down its middle and baked it, basting its face in garlic butter. It smelled like heaven, as garlic butter does, but went down like snot-covered string, slimy and unmanageable. Thank God for the garlic butter, as that was all that saved it. The more manageable sizes, one must conclude, are ever more delicious and mouth-watering.
In town I saw Grover and he said, "Hi, pal," like we'd been pals a long time and just hadn't seen each other much. Maybe I'm becoming a sex maniac like the cases in Havelock Ellis because Grover didn't have a shirt on and I found myself looking down across his smooth belly and up onto his little muscular chest and getting all stirred up in my pants, sort of leaning into him and talking about whatever just to stay close by.
12 JULY 1915
Walking in Bourne's Gulch today, the sun burning sweetly among the cedar branches. Cicero prefers buildings (when choosing a memory matrix), but I think my landscape is the better choice. Everything here is in its proper place. Thick cool groves of redwood deep in the cut, growing near to the streams, then tall straight fir and cedar up the steep slopes, oak and grasses above that, all of it opening up onto yellow grasslands where the ridges round off. The land is organized by simple forces, reliable forces like the wind and weather and the seasons. It's not like buildings which answer to the ridiculous whims of architects. There is nothing arbitrary here.
And like my memory this place is changing in a slow and patterned way, spinning on a pivot, marking a path that retains every trace of its turning. An earthquake comes cracking through, and the land takes its full force, splitting open and spilling out on itself. The explosion's gone in a fraction of a second, but it stays here forever, torn out and tumbled across the gullies. The rain falls and makes its mark, rising back up in the green plants. Nothing here is ever lost or forgotten. And neither is it caught, held fixed and frozen in its moment, hard and brittle as the glass face of a photographic plate.
13 JULY 1915
Bright and sunny again, but now a brisk wind is blowing, full of salty freshness in off the sea. I'm dark as Duncan from my walks up into the woods, but when I'm naked my body wears little ghost shorts where I'm still pale. I like that. I like lying naked next to Duncan and looking down to where our middles meet.
Duncan's banged some boards on, up the middle of the boat. We sealed them tight with pitch, just at dusk down by the water.
14 JULY 1915
Flora says it is Bastille Day, French independence. I kept my dream a secret.
My mind is so muddled concerning Cicero. The thought of perfect powers of recollection is still seductive, yet the actuality seems like death to me. As if I'd ever known the actuality. Perhaps if I kiss Duncan often enough the entirety of things will begin to make clear sense. One never knows. All previous plans will be put on hold while I pursue this alternative.
Duncan wanted to tip cows again tonight but I said no and we swam in the moonlit pond instead. We took a blanket and lay there looking up into the night for a very long time.
* * *
15 JULY 1915
The lagoon really stinks at low tide. The water seems to be dragging out farther than before and all manner of disgusting goo and gunk lies steaming in the hot sun. It's not fit to walk in and makes me think twice about swimming there at all. I'm only going to help on the boat when the tide's in.
We rode the waves on our bellies in the roaring white water, it rushing into shore and us dumping hard into the sand all tossed and turned as the wave comes crashing down on itself. Grover showed us how.
I made dinner, fruits de mer en chemise, in the Parisian style. I found it in a little card file of recipes which Father claims bear no relation to him. Flora says it means "seafood in a shirt."
16 JULY 1915
This morning the covers were all kicked down around our feet and Duncan half-asleep tugged my boxers off and was going at me all over, reaching his long arms up and down the length of my body and pushing his mouth down over me, both of us making all sorts of odd noises. Flora was there, just across the porch, lying very calm and silent.
It made me feel very odd, knowing how rude we were being, and also very queer wondering what she must feel. She must have the patience of a saint to be putting up with us being so inconsiderate and still be so polite as she is.
There was a note on our bed tonight. "Please be more discreet," it said simply. We slept very chaste and sound.
The sunset tonight was a small, wonderful thing.
* * *
17 JULY 1915
Clouds came in overnight so the early morn
ing was pearl gray and luminous. Father woke us before seven for a minus tide, passing through the porch with a steaming pot of coffee and and his usual buzz-lipped reveille. We were off to Duxbury Reef to collect mussels.
We walked up the windblown beach all wrapped in sweaters and scarves. The clouds came in thick, drifting down onto the headlands. We picked in pairs, each with a pail, looking for the fat healthy ones and tearing them from the rocks with little prying tools. Tidewater rippled in the wind, splashing about in tiny pools, their shallow rock bottoms aquiver with strange sea life, sturdy urchins and waving anemones. One fat fleshy sea cucumber jutted obscenely out from a barnacled crevice. We filled our pails and then some and walked back against the wind, heading home to a good hot chowder.
18 JULY 1915
I slept poorly. Duncan was fitful, dead to the world but tossing about and grabbing me, clutching my arm very tight and making whimpery noises. He said he hadn't dreamed anything, but ached and felt grumpy. I ached too, but was more sad than grumpy, feeling uncertain about the end of summer and silly about the particulars of Duncan. We don't talk about particulars.
I couldn't concentrate and went down to Duncan's boat. It stunk to high heaven, the tide being low, and Duncan felt a bit queasy so we walked back up in the woods over on the mesa and in along the Garzoli Ranch. We didn't talk, but Duncan walked close by me and we wrapped our arms round each other's backs and that seemed just right. At Pebble Beach we stripped and swam but the water was so icy cold we just shivered there on shore and couldn't really warm up until we'd climbed back up inland and sat to rest in amongst the lupine.
Landscape: Memory Page 16
