The Collected Stories of Diane Williams

by Diane Williams

  Her robe has the usual fringe of snakes. She wears a wristwatch and a cheap hairclip which was a hairclip over one hundred years ago!

  The whole idea is that there is the pattern. The pattern-work in the woman’s head is her attitude, now worn, the upper edge of which breaks through, which meanders, which makes conversational gestures.

  She could well belong to a mythological land­scape against a deep pinkish orange background—or if she belongs to you—I hope you can restore her beauty.

  The man or boy, he used to sit there in the morn­ing. She would put a coverlet on him and she would pet him and she would kiss him.

  Both of these people have ears which are just wrong.

  It occurred during this phase yesterday that their rough tongues seemed to be merely pegged on.

  It seems they live in a lush era.

  He has already had his best day, the man has. The woman, she has not yet.

  Now then, her hand—flat—she must do as oth­ers do.

  If the two of them have really ever been tender with one another, these people, this morning, will be so mythological as if not to be yet beyond belief.

  Actual People Whose Behavior

  I Was Able to Observe

  I want to act as if I love them and then I want to hurt at least those two during the next period of my life. For years I will do no other difficult work. I am so pleased to ruin them, you know. I said to Gor, “It will be as if they have never run around or as if they have never twisted upon their beds.”

  They both need affection, constant coaxing, inti­macies. If I talk to them sufficiently or if somebody wiser than I am speaks to them concerning me, they will have sympathy for me, I think. I will kill you if you tell anybody I have no anal intercourse, no art treasures. I have an ideal companion I treat tact­fully. I poke my hand into the air ceaselessly, as far as I am concerned.

  I wipe pollen from the stamens as I was taught to do with paper towel and put the towelling into my bowl. The water jug with the goldband lilies inside of it is like a person with a rag in her mouth. If you can believe it, the sample of cake is on a plate with a sheet of paper towelling covering it.

  I said to Gor, nobody would believe it. I wear such a short skirt. I appear to be tied down by my appearance. I should look like someone I would want to see. Someone must have told me to wear this. The fur of it is like feathers. The feathers are like hair, or the feathers are hair. The fur, furry hair swishes. In the day, in the night, I am not impulsive, yet I have to urinate frequently. It was warm enough not to dress warmly. This is what is in the wardrobe—blue, black, blue, light double seams, energetic curves, slipped strokes. There is slim chance that anything is un­able to be unmoved.

  The Idea of Counting

  It is five gems. It is eight gems. It is ten gems.

  It is three gems.

  It is eighteen gems.

  It is five gems. It is four gems. It is five gems. It is three gems. It is three gems.

  It is five gems.

  It is eighteen gems!

  It is three gems.

  It is more than one gem.

  The Duller Legend

  For the duration of my speculation, the girl felt as if she had been in a world.

  There is no item so common to us all as she is.

  I would eat the girl’s food as if it were my food. I would like to have all of her money. She has so much of it.

  I try to speak the way she speaks. I wish I could wish for what she wishes for.

  “Scoot the dishes off the table,” said the girl. “Molly?”

  The girl’s urn was sobbing. The great hall—healthy and unclean—is so noisy.

  The girl—though not at her worst, is not at her best—she is midway between these. A few of her live limbs flare like sprigs. Her young teeth are notorious.

  A girl’s guests are richly made. Unh!—a thing was perceptive.

  Piercing the day is the sun with its flaws.

  But that’s not all. Here they have a set of sixteen greedy butter knives. Somebody is influenced by what the butter knives do.

  Needing a refreshment for myself, I went into the little hills. I sought a hill, but I did not stop. In the glen, I saw three girls. My view passed from the body of one girl into the brain of another. This girl leapt toward me, yelling, dragging itself on two legs, and I went toward her, and I said, “I came looking for you to be my friend.” And now I have her.

  So I take this opportunity to express my deep appreciation for this most sacred object without which I do not believe my troubles would be over.

  It will be interesting to see how my feelings about the girl change. In the best battle I ever fought I was supposed to meet a princess. Within days I received a handwritten letter with the warning which pre­dicted the onslaught. She appeared in gorgeous cloth­ing and dashed toward me, pushing ahead of the collection of pewter plates and mugs, the Turkish cooking pot, strainer and stirrer, the sparkles of hope. In the white bedroom she clung to the curve of my faith and then she sat herself down on the repetitive pattern.

  A superb rider, the princess might have seen anyone or done anything. She was famous. One did not often see something so opulent. And yet, next, she threw herself round the room. We all know how hard that is if you are chunky. She is not.

  That I made this last effort is not surprising. About five miles away a troop of four girls I saw was looking down into the glen. Now they are dead. They were alive. In another battle I killed five. I was married at nineteen. I have ordered my men to at­tack and to kill my enemies.

  My career—this so-called war—one always knows how these things are going to turn out.

  What else could there have been besides a battle? The baby.

  The midwife had come along nicely. I heard my­self say that I felt fine. A long explanation was em­barked upon about flagrant kicking. No attempt was made to conceal the baby which was soon known to all as cool, intellectual, and young—the sort who moves on easily from one person to the next—is handed all around, because the thug is thoroughly emancipated.

  We have banded together, the strong ones. I have engaged in sixty-five battles. Small fires are lit in the houses. The children are bathed. This is the first time I have had an infection in my mouth and it pains me to chew a juicy piece of meat. I have not been able to notice any other pain of mine.

  What is this made of? I love this! See the tartan rug sits on an old chair—sits, and sits, and sits.

  The Source of Authority

  A sad story I heard is that I have to have someone take care of all of the bothersome aspects of my life. Tooth, leg, wrist, vein.

  It feels so unsexual to complain, but when the weather is bad I go walking. I wander about, but I go to the lake because I believe the lake is better than I am and I want to be in good company. Its beauty, its success, its remote aspect, its inability to speak, hints at intelligence and virtue more pure than mine, better.

  The lake means something. I rub the lake and my veins wriggle. I try to make a few things real.

  There is so much silver.

  Occasionally the lake looks at me coldly which gives me the creeps.

  I have had no subsequent conversations with it. We speak about nothing, I tell myself.

  On the shore, to myself I say, “Do you really need all of this? It’s so crowded. Do you really need all this?”

  I am trying to be independent. Is that wrong?

  There Are So Many Smart

  People Walking Around

  I would be manageable if I am encouraged to eat during these days. I should not have neglected to eat more at a grand party where loquat pie had also been served and crayfish soup had been served and we ate that.

  When she started to eat me, I asked her if she was tired. She said yes. I told her to sleep. Then she cried. I brough
t her back to my beard to eat me. She started to cry. I told her to sleep. She started to cry. I asked her if she was tired. She said yes. I told her to sleep, except that I ate her until she started to cry again and she yelled.

  Our beards thrown together caused her to yell at me also.

  You said it was ugly. It is not ugly. What if the young person is as hungry as she is tired, how can I help out? Do I keep trying to feed it, and then do I keep trying to encourage the unreasonable thing to sleep? I am only mentioning this because I thought I was supposed to. You ought to go out there and mention this question of mine as well. Mention it somewhere in an awfully nice locale I am trying to think of. I would if I were you. Is there another pur­pose you could go there for?

  It Can Take Years to Remain

  At the Fort the mister ate fat. He is made to stay inside.

  He has a plan, otherwise he’ll just be ill.

  The missus at the foot of my chair reclines and she opens her legs so I will pet her. She is shareable. Every few hours I take her outside because it’s nec­essary. She thinks her property will keep her from getting up in arms. If she sees her property, she thinks it keeps her from getting up into someone’s arms.

  At the Fort, the houses are made of Portland stone, very formal.

  A steady program of repair on the heavily tree’d land leading from the Fort to the Lake is now in progress. The community has transferred the Fort to the Preservation Trust.

  Several people who come through here act so bored. It’s nothing surprising they prefer to emphasize the human ideal.

  Ruling

  This is right, more pious, they said. They leave notes in the mailbox telling me to come upstairs and they are naked. They offer me food, whatever I want. They offer me whatever I want.

  In the evenings we celebrate. Other people live happily also.

  I said, “I wonder if I should become beautiful again.” I held the hat. I held the hat. I said, “I always want a hat, but I never wear a hat.”

  I put salve on my hands.

  My hair is not red. My hair is yellow. My hair is brown. My hair is plaited, too. I haven’t waited to walk around with a certain somebody. I said, “I like my money better than I like you. Do you need me to take care of you?”

  Most said not entirely.

  I put ten dollars into an envelope and I wrote on it, For Elizabeth. Thank you. Diane Williams. On another envelope, I wrote, For Henry. Thank you. Diane Williams. I put ten dollars into that envelope.

  A maiden washed the twat of mine with the tan spots. The soap is red. The soap is yellow. The soap is a little bit of soap.

  “How much happier do you want to be?” I was asked.

  “Not much happier,” I said. “A little bit hap­pier.”

  I said, “Don’t do that! Would you please not do that. I don’t think you should do that. Are you really thinking of doing that? Is that something you would do? Have you ever done that before? I never thought you would do that. Don’t do that!”

  Spoon

  The person has no sanction for sucking. We had sur­prised her while she was in the act of sucking. She was a sucker who could make a variety of noises. She was spoony—we had thought she was easy to describe. I had thought she was a wallydraigle. She might not have been. Her hair was a moderate brown and it was aimed at her head. She was suffering from vulvovaginitis.

  She was too big. We had climbed into a domin­ion to conceive of her. She had rushed to separate the covering on her meat and on her fat. She had veins. She had turquoise eyes and her belly is a knob.

  Her wan skin was her best female element.

  We could have put a tumpline on her.

  I have to put the worst of her into her.

  A Cautionary Tale

  The water is rubbed into my hair and the black hair is moistened and twirled unprettily. I hope I am not too dry for anyone.

  In fact, last night in Britain, a woman came to me. We talked quite a bit about what she was—a cruel fighter. She lives in England. She has vanity, old age, ignorance, and all the rest! If I suffer, I think I please her. We drank bonnyclabber. It was this that gave—We kept talking about what we used to know, when in came another human being in a dress who dusted an inner form and the faience washstand. Did not see the babe leave, although she’s all gone.

  My mother said she herself would stay longer if not for my certain coolness, my unspecified dimness, my slowing down, my not-looking, my over-heard meekness in this phrase which portrays me and betrays me and portrays me and portrays me. I have fewer goings-on, even cried at times, went on lying on part of my face on the bed, fell asleep! My first few nights in sight are such rubbish. She does not want to love such a lackluster person.

  The worst jolt about being loved is when it will have to start.

  It Is Possible to Imagine a

  More Perfect Thing

  Now my father is better than my hat is. My hat is better than my mother’s shoes, yet her shoes are better than these socks. My hands are better than her wristwatch. My nose is much better than her hair. My teeth are a far cry.

  My carpet is inferior to her breasts, but my carpet is better than either one of my legs. My large-sized saucepot—I acted as if it is a failure compared to her personal hygiene.

  I go scrub yams and put yams into the oven so that dinner can be served.

  “Is this spinach?” my son said. We got a good look at it—this is clear, very active, bland, soft, runny, a fluid, a drink to drink to improve oneself with by becoming familiar with it. I acted as if I could do that.

  Pricker

  Everything here is bleak this, bleak that. We will see what your conclusion is. It’s as if, it’s as if you called to me and I did not answer you. It’s as if your call to me is sufficient, but your allure is such a weakling. I am unimpressed by your allure. Or, it’s as if I took my foot and squashed it inside of the squashed towel to dry it.

  All over the place, after all, do you remember how I try to listen? There is a tale told about you in which you tell a better tale than this one is, one that inspires both of us—a story about something not as vague as a wet foot, veined with gray.

  There it is this afternoon available from your pre­history to my present—a new reasonableness in you when you tell a person’s story from various angles seen here. Really!—men love it.

  Yes, true, true, you’re grand to look at. You look like a nice tweed coat. You have such a kindly chirp too. We experience what is known as love, sexual intercourse, and friendship!

  It is true it is difficult to talk to you in natural life conditions as a trusted friend.

  What a day! Got up at 6:45. A few bashed heads. Your story is still the best story because you said you were chased by a bear, run over by a car—rather, banged into by one—and bitten by a snake. You say nothing about food even though you own a restau­rant. You note the weather, what time you arrive at the restaurant, that the patio is all wet.

  What a day! One is supposed to be like this and get ideas one needs!

  Dear Ears, Mouth, Eyes,

  and Hindquarters

  She crossed the main street which is enlarged by sexual stimulation. Then that’s settled and I want to use the word sexy. I go for the rather goddamned bitch with my beloved arms and hands.

  I have a job and I have that large now ripe sea beside us with its operation of forces.

  Now she is climbing, now running, I say, trotting, typically swelling so that she can be seen. It is called profane. It is not such a time-consuming process. Imagine spending part of every day after her. She may be completely different with Mr. Reinisch who conducts her through the isolation and the cool. What is there that is good about her? Something important—this is in the land of your bitch. I had hoped to get those boners.

  I want Mr. Reinisch to tell this who has the true interes
t to tell this.

  I don’t get money out of it. That is my sky and my favorable opinion of a leaf over there. That is my mother, not your mother. You would like to stop this. I would, too, but not just temporarily. You have your own mother and terraced land with vine bow­ers. A street runs along by many hotels, but don’t bother to remember that.

  It is all so multicolored. I like the stick part and what’s underneath it. I just don’t like the decoration on top.

  I miss you!—and I want to see you! That is not such a good feeling to have at the end of the valley, at the last spur of the ridge.

  Fifty Years of Quality

  All the little problems of life do require solutions I need to say here, although nobody has ever come back from the north to tell me this.

  “You are the only one,” said Jack, “who has ever said that that hurts. You probably don’t even know what your hand is supposed to feel like.”

  His flirtatiousness with me is not unpleasant.

  I had that frothy feeling.

  I saw Jack grip his hand. I thought, What did he do to his hand? Did he put his hand on the spine of a soft animal? His head and his rump were raised.

  “Were you hurt?” I said, “Jack?”

  He said, “No.”

  Together we ate a plate of almonds beforehand. I have heard the vague terms. The details of this story will become clearer—the satisfiers, the expectations, the lusters.

  When I heard Jack locking doors, it is a full ac­count of this structure because a luster can last us for fifty years.

  The Description of the Worlds