It was not crude to break away to eat our food, to stick our forks into it by the prevailing standard.
There was nothing crude about my breasts popping up, the tops of them, when I just sat—the corresponding evidence pretty much up for grabs.
When did it happen?
I looked in vain for just one member of my family, or the most prominent person in my world. I was so grateful.
Typically, we are left, so many times. I love that routine—the horns of my dilemma—when they try to drag me forcibly away.
Going Wild
It is a dirty lie that there were no promises at this event in any shape or form because there was food.
There was also a discussion concerning the intellect of children. There was a child sucking a green lollipop and being admired by an adult for being adorable while he was sucking, lying down.
Based on my intuition, my dead father would not have had fun at this event.
I had some fun while I stuffed myself to the gills with the food until I was uncomfortable and then I was no longer having fun.
I petted the head of a two-and-a-half-year-old boy. I succeeded with him by petting him while he was doing something—anything—and then I was redirecting him gently toward something less appropriate for his age.
We all stopped what we were doing, even I had stopped my chewing, and we had orchestrated ourselves to stare as a group at one child who acted as if he knew he should be center stage. I could have asked myself, What does this child wish for more than anything in the whole world?
Maybe there is one correct answer!
The one person who was giving me the most attention at the event is gone! evaporated right out of my sight! He’s off into the pure air of my imagination where I imagine him with me lying down in a bed, where we discuss by what method everything is ordered.
Has there been one grand enough moment of either sex, or serenity, of soothsaying, or of silliness at the tragedy, during which time we paid homage to one object, or to a notion, or to one of us?
Thanks for letting, letting me even address you.
Satisfied is what I am.
Coronation
A royal person, wearing a royal robe, with something royal on his head—something exciting—there are other smudges, other noble people with him, fine furnishings, and precious objects, and so on. From where I sit on my toilet, the chrome soap holder, built into the wall, is looking great.
This magic makes me wonder. The concaveness is going convexly. It is a grand, miniature, several-storied window to look through, or a glass revolving door.
My New York Times I am going through inspires me to think about our Colonel North and about other terrors today which are described.
What is this like? (No answer.) Is this like anything familiar? (No answer.)
Are you familiar with this? (No answer.)
I will answer that it is the burden. It is intellectual work which is as degrading to do as being in the presence of some very great person.
It is so similar to bowing to regard the genitals.
What is it that I would like right now?—to suck a very clean penis? (Yes.)
I am very embarrassed.
Happy
The child arrived in the nick of time to eat a pancake. She wasn’t trying to escape from sadness, and she wasn’t dying for a pancake, but she could handle a pancake standing up, without using a plate or a fork.
The wife wasn’t eating yet, but she was cooking and preparing to serve. It meant so much to the wife to do that. Her husband would be served. The wife must have given him an ultimatum. He wore pajamas. The wife wore daytime clothes. The child was dressed for the occasion, and wore these sturdy toddler shoes.
Surely it is a fact of experience, that a young enough child who believes that pancakes are delicious, usually embraces an opportunity to eat one. At the age of two, this child considered her opportunity and made a decision that was plausible to her at the time. However, as an adult who is a happy-go-lucky person for no good reason, she marvels at how jubilant she was, so young, when she missed out on a pancake in a circumstance when nobody preeminent was sneering at her.
The Case of the Cold Murderer
Getting the lid off the stuff, Mrs. Lewis knew, might mean she would save her son’s life, so she worked at it. You uncap it in extremis.
The doctor had advised her by telephone to give it to her son. “This will work if you say to him it will work.”
Louella Stack always said it was a simple death, this kind, although unexpected. One feature in the matter was Glenn Gould’s playing piano to accompany the death. To get him calmed down—not Glenn Gould—Mr. Lewis embraced his gasping son. The mother, Mrs. Lewis, tried so hard to uncap the bottle.
The prescribed medicine, in these cases, tastes lousy.
Not long before he died, the son—who is also a suspect, actually—shrieked as best he could at Mrs. Lewis, “You have hurt me so much! I don’t want to be your son! I can’t breathe!”
Nobody denied any of this.
But perhaps if I speak to him . . .
Regrettably, the parts you will not hear are the parts that sound the best, as I, your host, shrewdly unravel the tangle of motives and human relations. For instance—I’ll mow the fucker down—who is this fucking Stack? Was she really worth the mention?
Machinery
He moves around in his gloom and then he does something with something. He is calmer about his longings.
He sits for a bit before he hears whatever it is. Hearing it gives him the sensation of holding on to a great instrument which is at work.
He discovers a small square white cardboard box and he opens it. Inside is a disappointment.
His children hold him responsible for everything he does. His house suits him.
For some idea of the full range of tools at his disposal, one would have to know what human longings are all about, a calm voice says calmly.
Perfect
“You want an insight? I’ll give you an insight,” said a perfect stranger at the children’s ball game. Then he gave me his insight, which proved to be exactly correct.
“People will cheer him when he gets himself up,” the man said.
I had thought that the child’s ankle was probably shattered—that was my insight—that the child would not be able to walk, that he would need to be lifted and carried, that he’d never walk again. I thought, Now he is a cripple for the rest of his life.
“He’s fine,” the man said. “I know he’s fine, because, you see, he’s hiding his head. He’s hiding his face. He’s making such a big deal. I know. Sure, it’s very painful.”
The man had told me that the hardball had hit the child in the ankle. I didn’t know where.
I said, “How do you know? It might be shattered. He’s not moving.”
“Because he missed the ball—” the man said, “because he wants everyone to forget he missed the ball, that’s why he’s making such a big deal.”
If I could have an insight about this man’s insight, I could probably save myself. That’s my insight. I could save my children, my marriage, the world, if I could let enough people know—that there’s a powerful solution in here somewhere—a breakthrough trying to break through.
The stranger was so angry talking to me. I don’t think he believed I was believing him, and I didn’t.
Will you please rise and Shame us not, O Father.
THE STUPEFACTION
(1996)
Thank goodness.
An Opening Chat
I am glad he is this man here so that I can do a fuck with someone, but I am regarded as a better cock-sucker. It is one of those lovely times when a crisis does not come as a surprise. That is how I feel. I am glad he is this man here so that I can suck
his cock and lick it. This goes on a little longer. I understood everything up to that point. This goes on a little longer. This—this cock is swollen. The throbbing of this cock begins. I felt sorry about what he had to do to me.
After this time, I noticed that I was not the same again as I had once been. I was much more swollen when the doctor arrived.
“We will get you back—we will get you back to where you were when you were feeling strong. Is that what you want?” the doctor asked.
“Yes. I want to feel strong again. I find that giving a blow job takes everything out of me,” I said.
“Yes, that’s true,” the doctor said.
The doctor might believe that with a person of my age he may be blunt.
You would think that it could not last—his wanting to get straight to the point where something ceases to exist.
A Shrewd and Cunning
Authority
Such a day as Dorriet’s is a reminder to the hopeful that one cannot be hurt in a devastating way, that life should be as endless as possible.
So I am very happy, thought Dorriet.
She is a poor, sick person who is very lonely.
Dorriet said, “Come on, Dorriet.”
She talked softly, aloud, more than she realized—frequently. She did not often wish to keep any of her thoughts to herself—her tendency to try to persuade.
“Daddy! Daddy!” shrieked a little boy who was sitting next to her on the powerful city bus.
The buses are powerful.
“Come on!” said Dorriet. Her fingers tightened into fists. The father’s statements to his child, coursing from him as flowing fountains would in such a desert, had the depth, the clarity of vision which proved to Dorriet that he should be the boy’s father—that he was hers.
She can stay in the lap of their luxury if she keeps her voice down.
The Everlasting Sippers
I sip the coffee almost stealthily while I wait.
Within my purview, the receptionist drinks something.
“Liz, darling!” the receptionist exclaims when she looks up. She says, “Would you like something more to drink while you wait?”
In my mind, there isn’t anything in my mind until I know that I want more coffee with milk.
“Do you want more—” the receptionist asks, “coffee?” The receptionist is drinking something.
Mrs. Fox enters, drinking something.
“You want this?” The receptionist is waving a carafe of coffee at both of us. The receptionist’s face is small and round. She seems to have a nervous tic in one eye, squints it unexpectedly several times. She is the most faithful picture of tenderness I can call forth.
At length I rise, saying, “I see nothing against that.”
That night, after I bathe, I put on my sumptuous robe, brocade. I spoon raspberry sherbert into my mouth with a sherbert spoon. I drink wine from a fine glass. I take a piece of fruit in my hand, not to eat it, to gaze lovingly at it! It is made of stone. There is no problem here with reality. There should be no additional people here at all, doing things, causing problems, that are then solved.
The Power of Performance
They are my protectors, you know. This is my brilliant reasoning.
One of them cried out.
Bridget came bustling back in, rubbing her hands together. She tiptoed around. She was not herself.
I got to my feet, thinking of what I might say to her. What I often do is brag about what I have and about what I can do. Sometimes I do not give a reason for asking for what I want.
Some banging, some thumping had begun out in the hall.
Pots and pans were being batted around, or that was a lot of coughing that I was hearing.
I should have already explained that we are people who only live here. I am not even sure how many people are here!
I heard doors slamming after they all ambled out. Everyone went away. They were being quieter out in the hall.
For me, this is no longer only a matter of mere poundings, or vibrations, or cracking noises.
On one occasion, the pounding was so forceful that one of our antique clocks was pitched forward out away from off of the wall. The clock stopped and had to be put to rights again. I bet my boasting will damage the chandelier.
Customary noise can occur in thick clumps, all of which can be turned sideways.
The Blessing
I said so in the letter, but virtually anyone could have said so: You will have everything you want, but I don’t want to get your hopes up and then disappoint you.
He just loves me. I have a very bad temper.
I walk forward with the letter in my hand, wearing my black dress. I wrote the letter for about an hour, with a dull lead pencil. On the envelope, in ink, dutifully, I wrote the name, the address. The stamp is a large black-and-green one.
Life is curious. I drink half a glass of water. In the corner of the room, rather, in the center of the room, nothing any longer attempts to sing a song, or, on the other hand, is listless, actually sick to death, and will not recover. But I don’t mean this as an incitement to get you to go tell people that everything can turn out happy, wholesome, just wonderful.
One afternoon, when you are particularly tired, you sit down. You will be sitting down, or maybe it will be late in the evening, and you have missed your dinner, and you have missed your lunch, and you have missed out on your breakfast, too, and the weather is hot, so that you feel hot. It is an unhealthy climate, which is humid and stifling, and the air you breathe is unhealthy for you, and then, you obtain your heart’s desire.
Many times a person seems fairly satisfied already but is so unsuspecting.
Eero
Tthe twwo pairrs off iddentical chairrs hadd been chosenn byy tthe ownners off tthe hhouse bbecause off tthe strengthh off theirr ccharacter. Thhe chairrs neverr beckonned tthe litttle girrls forr sitting.
Tthese wwere gennuine Eero Saarinen chaiirs—yyou musst takke mmy worrd forr itt—sttanding behindd thhe litttle girrls innside thhe hhouse, fromm wwhere tthe girrls stood tto watcch rrain beeat dowwn onn little apple trees, whichh treees hadd been plantedd byy thee owwners aas ann orrchard, delliberately, beccause tthey looked sso muchh aalike.
Sso thenn, bbecause itt wwas theirr gamme, onne girrl waas saaying, “Ddo whatt II ddo!” tto the otther, jjust thhe waay thhe trees seemed tto bee doiing.
Uppon thhe wwhat worrd off herr command, thhe otther girrl ssaid thhe wwhat alsso. Ttheir wwhats coveredd overr tthemselves, hhers and herrs, andd thhen thhe exxact saame thingg wwas happening tto ttheir II doos, whhich arrived—nno jokke—withh aa majjestic simmultaneity.
Att ourr housse, itt’s ggoing onn—anny gamme off tormment—wee still doo itt.
EEEverywhere!
Appppology: Itttt wouldddd hhhhave beeeen entirrrrely tooooo tirrrresome forrrr meeee, tttthe onnnne whhhho wrrrrote tttthis, orrrr ffffor anyyyyone whoooo rrrreads thissss, tttto havvvve hadddd toooo advvvvance thrrrrough thissss, assss thhhhrough ourrrr olllld agggge, alllll thhhhe waaaay throughhhh thissss, evennnn thoughhhh thatttt’s sssso obbbbviously thhhhe waaaay, wiiiith aaaa grimmmm conssssstancy, itttt shouldddd beeee dddddone.
The Idealist
Without much enthusiasm, he led me down the corridor and opened the door and I knew, I assume he has been places where he has seen beauty, has had some joy and adventures.
He stumbled. He fell down. I might have struck him, that’s why.
People have to do so many things just to live their lives. He probably suffered from the fall, but he acted oddly lighthearted. I am tempted to guess why that is. I owe him an apology, but not if he is never angry with me.
How do other people who don’t know each other very well count their blessings?
While I eat my hamburger, we leave our clothes on be
cause we are very shy. We hardly know each other. We manage to copulate occasionally and to remain ill-qualified.
A Moment of Panic
I am not ecstatic about the flesh on her not-yet-womanly body, and her other arm is very much like her other one, and so on. However, none of her duties are undone, or need doing, or are duties which will soon need doing, which could be vexing. She has no dilemma evincing a religious principle. And, instead of a gang of people fucking her, or poking fun at her fat cunt lips, she has under her feet a luxuriant carpet. In addition, her laundry has been laundered by her, and now, in spite of itself, this laundry is soft and folded, or hanging languorously. Some of her bedclothes are trimmed with a frothy white trim, because people she has never met made a decision that that trim would be nice.
From her side of it, looking anywhere, everything is sunlit, entrancing.
But beyond this recognition, which is mine, not hers, there is this aroma, unsmelt yet by me, blowing around through the cool air here, coming along, mixed with some sudden large gusts of true love, which all you do—you want it?—is on weekends, you inhale it.
The Revenge
She sat in a chair and looked `out a window to think sad thoughts and to weep. Everything she saw out the window was either richly gleaming or glittering, owing to a supernatural effect. But she was not unused to this. She unlocked the front door. An infinitude of catastrophes was, as usual, apace—even as she walked out to the road. The ground was mushy from a recent rain. Her mind was not changing. Her mind had not changed in years. Somebody’s headlights were blinding her. Her idea of a pilgrimage or of a promenade excited her. She was stalking, going swiftly down the avenue. She arrives at a plausible solution for at least 8 percent of her woes. I know what she is thinking, and am envious of her. But I am shitting on it.
The Collected Stories of Diane Williams Page 11
