Loading ...
Sorry, an error occurred while loading the content.


Expand Messages
  • louise
    Jul 3, 2004
      Mary Jo,
      Since by pure geographical helplessness I am the first current
      existlist participator to enter the mysteries of Sunday, I'ld like
      to wish all you Americans a happy holiday.
      I haven't actually been out of the house today, except into the yard
      to peg out some laundry or feed the snails. Alone but for the
      hamsters, the rats, and a few insects, I slip into an almost
      bachelor-like existence. Only half an hour ago, I enjoyed a little
      meal of heated new potatoes, out of a can. But really, of course,
      I'm a hysteric, and my body sometimes embarrasses me - I mean, to
      embark on a new lunar cycle in just this hour, when I'm
      significantly ahead of the New World. But moving swiftly on, to
      another facet of the body, its wrappings. I was in the kitchen,
      daydreaming, remembering the self-assurance of the new ladies'
      Wimbledon champion, and of my own trials at that kind of age. True,
      as head girl, I might have seemed confident to some, and had to read
      occasionally to hundreds of my peers at school assembly, and indeed
      to preside over proceedings at Prize Day, when parents, old girls,
      and the lusty old mayor were also present. But my terror was mostly
      so unconscious that my relationship to my body was chiefly
      manifested through sport - I could get by in gymnastics, but was
      never good at it. Girls' sports, though - I could never understand
      why we were landed with something as lethal as hockey, while boys
      could enjoy a good kick-about with a harmless leather ball. Ever
      seen a pack of vigorous schoolgirls clustered around a hard little
      hockey ball, sticks flailing and missing, divots and mud leaping in
      the air like frightened fishes? Well, I embroider ... but my point
      was that I was alienated from my body unwillingly, made efforts, but
      ended up wearing some outfits I would put together from the
      separates in my wardrobe, which, well, how can I put it? The mental
      images induce longings for death. Far too dramatic. It sounded
      better in silence in the kitchen. Translation from downstairs to
      upstairs, from brain to typewriter, so many many translations.
      Stella's asleep on a play-box, Jessica's asleep in her newly-cleaned
      chalet, Amber rotates in the red wheel, Bronwen in the green.
      Stars and Stripes, I don't salute you, I don't understand you, but I
      won't insult you. I'll borrow your day to indulge myself, with a
      very diary-like entry, pregnant, for those friendly to schizos like
      moi, with philosophical meanings.