There's nothing worse than sitting down to write a novel and saying, "Well, okay, I'm going to do something of high artistic worth." It's funny. I read something the other day, just out of absolute curiosity; I read Thunderball, which is one of the James Bond books that I would love to have read when I was, I don't know, about fourteen, just sort of thumbing through it for the bits where he puts his left hand on her breast and saying, "Oh my God, how exciting." But I just thought, Well, James Bond has become such an icon in our pop culture of the last forty years, it would be interesting to see what it actually was like. And what prompted me to do this, apart from the fact that I happened to find a copy lying around, was reading someone talking about Ian Fleming and saying that he had aimed not to be literary, but to be literate. Which is a very, very big and crucial difference. So I thought, well, I'll see if he managed to do that. It's interesting, because it was actually very well written as a piece of craft. He knew how to use the language, he knew how to make it work, and he wrote well. But obviously nobody would call it literature. But I think you get most of the most interesting work done in fields where people don't think they're doing art, but are merely practicing a craft, and working as good craftsmen. Being literate as a writer is good craft, is knowing your job, is knowing how to use your tools properly and not to damage the tools as you use them. I find when I read literary novels--you know, with a capital "L"--I think an awful lot is nonsense. If I want to know something interesting about a way human beings work, how they relate to each other and how they behave, I'll find an awful lot of women crime novelists who do it better, Ruth Rendell for instance. If I want to read something that's really giving me something serious and fundamental to think about, about the human condition, if you like, or what we're all doing here, or what's going on, then I'd rather read something by a scientist in the life sciences, like Richard Dawkins. I feel that the agenda of life's important issues has moved from novelists to science writers, because they know more. I tend to get very suspicious of anything that thinks it's art while it's being created.
--Douglas Adams in an interview with the Onion AV Club
To Seegahnah, it wasnít a matter of morality anymore, if it ever was. What path was left to take? And the whispers about her experience were making some members of the council quite bold in their overtures. If old Dintohn could charm the young girl, they all thought, surely I have a chance? And how is a Wanderer girl in the bedchambers? Is she pliant like a horse when you know the right treats to offer?
She moved back to her cottage with its empty stable. Men came to visitórespected members of the council, with wives and children at home. Seegahnah was discreet. Because the penalties against adultery were harsh, as harsh for men as for women, no councilor made bold to boast of his experience of her. Still, there were whispers. Soon her name was linked to an esteemed member of the Not-of-our-Tribe council. Seegahnah knew she had to act quickly. She began sending out letters.
Within days the scandal broke. The careful princess had left little solid evidence to substantiate a charge of harlotry. But her political enemies (rather, her son Karlbadís political enemiesóto disgrace her weakened his claim to the throne, and that was their true object) judged the rumors plentiful enough to take this case to the king. Seegahnah was to appear before the royal court and the Not-of-our-Tribe council at noon one week from that day.
During the week before the trial, the wives of Seegahnahís visitors received their letters. One man committed suicide. The others finally understood how they, while thinking they were taking advantage of a young ladyís vulnerability, had themselves been made vulnerable. They despised her blackmail, of course, but most couldnít help but feel admiration for her trick.
Then Seegahnah came before the king, his court, and the Council. She came with Crown Prince Karlbad in her arms. This, too, was shrewdly done. The arched windows opened to the courtyard, where a large crowd had assembled. A crier stood between the window and this court of public opinion, calling out to them a description of the happenings inside. It made for a loud trial.
Seegahnah was brought to the center of the judging-hall, where the king thundered his question down from his throne:
ìPrincess Seegahnah, you have been accused of acts unbefitting your rank. Men not given to speaking false say you have seduced men from their conjugal beds. Have you committed such dishonourable deeds?î
She waited until the crier outside had repeated the question to the crowd. Then Seegahnah answered in her clearest voice:
ìYes, I have, my lordóI will tell you why. My son, the rightful heir to the throne, should be king when my lord Dagbad dies. He is young and has no father to teach him the kingly arts.î She turned toward the council, her eyes seeking out certain councilors as she continued. ìI gave my body to many hoping my son would be protected by them. Think back on my crime when he is your strong, wise, benevolent king!î
The people outside gave a loud cheer. ìWhat are they cheering?î the king asked one of his men. ìShe just announced sheís a whore!î
The other shook his head. ìThey are your people, my lord. They will condemn secret harlotry, but once a crime is admitted the criminal is restored to favor. They prize honesty above all.î
The ruling came quickly: Seegahnahís life was to be spared. (All had had visions of Seegahnah shouting names and details as the noose tightened.) She was to be exiled, but her young son would not suffer for his motherís sins. In fact, Crown Prince Karlbadís guardian was to be Feergah, who would act in his motherís name and make sure he was protected as promised.
The exile from the walled town soon found herself a good horse. With it she set out to find those of her people who had once run away.
Kahrlohn began to suspect mischiefótrained to be on guard for treachery, he could think of no other reason for her change. He barged into rooms where she quietly worked on her stitching, and worse, restricted her time for riding. Finding her faultless only enraged him further. ìI begin to fear for my life,î she confessed to Dintohn once when she managed to slip away. ìHis eyes are measuring my capacity for evil. Before he left me alone. Now if I move to the door, heís there asking where Iím going, never satisfied with the answer.î
ìYes, but what can I do?î Dintohn asked.
She sighed. ìStay nearby, will you? Just watch how he watches me.î
One day her horse fell after a jump, breaking a leg. Seegahnah was uninjured, except in spiritósheíd grown to love the outland creature, clumsy as he was. Only Feergah would understand and empathize. She decided to send a message to her friend and called a scribe to her chamber in the fortress.
ìTake my dictation,î she instructed, and began with warmest greetings to her good friend before describing the injury to her pony.
As she spoke Kahrlohn came to the door of her chamber. He had heard her speaking and thought he would finally catch her plotting against him. He missed the first part of Seegahnahís letter entirely. This is what he heard:
ìI may find it necessary to kill him. I will have to do it myselfóI trust no one else to the task. You know I donít want to, especially because I may never get another, but I see no choice but to destroy him.î
The scribe stopped writing. He looked beyond Seegahnah to the roomís entrance and made a gurgling noise in his throat. At the same time, the princess heard a scrape that made her think of Cook sharpening a knife on a whetstone. Her people didnít keep their swords in scabbards, so the sound of Kahrlohnís being drawn from its sheath didnít impress her with its significance. It was only when she looked behind her, wondering why Cook might be sharpening a knife in her doorway, that she screamed. The scribe left his seat and pressed himself against the far wall.
Kahrlohn was trembling, but his words came out quiet, oddly calm. ìKill me now, if you think itís so necessary. You wonít get another chance.î
For a moment Seegahnah thought he had gone mad, then she saw the letter on the table and awful comprehension dawned. ìI-I wasnít talking about you,î she tried to say, but her husband had already caught her wrists in one of his hands, his sword ready to cut through her.
Then he was a collapsed heap on the floor. Dintohn removed the dagger from his back, wiping it clean on the princeís tunic. ìI did not mean to kill him,î he said, touching the body apologetically. ìI only wanted to prevent injury to you. I was coming to see you anyway, and then I heard a scream.î He looked over at where the scribe had been. Now there was only bare wall in that corner. ìI should have prevented him from fleeing. Too many people will want him to lie about what heís seen.î
Seegahnah crumpled, but Dintohn pulled her to her feet. ìYou canít afford to drop your guard, Highness,î he said firmly. ìFrom now on, everything you want must be fought for.î
Dintohn was tried for murder and condemned. Seegahnah did what she could to counter the scribeís story, which alleged she and the councilor were caught in flagrante delicto by the prince. (No one noticed how this version of events did not adequately account for the scribeís presence in Seegahnahís chambers.) This allegation could not be proved, so Seegahnah suffered no punishment but a tarnished reputation. The councilor, however, had both the adultery story and Kahrlohnís blood on his hands. He was hanged, and when he was, a cold wind blew through Seegahnahís heart. Everything seemed ice to her now.
Yet she was still naÔve. She sent for Feergah and began asking her earnest questions about how to find a new husband, one who could protect her and her son Karlbad, the heir-apparent.
ìPerhaps you have other tasks for your girl,î Feergah said, indicating the chambermaid in the room. Seegahnahís heart skipped a beat. She hadnít even noticed she was there! She dismissed the girl quickly. When they were alone, Feergah sat with the princess on her couch and patted her hand.
ìIím afraid you canít think of marriage yet,î she said. ìIt would be unseemly to go husband-seeking. Just listen for what gets said about you when the chambermaid reports our conversation.î
ìBut how can I?î Seegahnah asked. ìWho will say to my face what is said about me on the street?î
ìDonít worryóI can find out for you.î
The princess looked troubled. Feergah said, ìI know my manner is blunt, but have I ever offered bad advice? Trust me.î
Seegahnah sighed. ìI donít have any choice, do I? All the other friends Iíve ever had are gone.î
The death of Kahrlohn had won Seegahnah many enemies, not out of any loyalty felt for the prince, but because now the heir-apparent was a baby with a Wanderer-mother and no father. Still, the princess was so popular no one dared disparage her openly. Instead, indulging the publicís taste for prurient details, her enemies managed to spread the rumor sheíd become a whore. Because of the chambermaid, it was now a known fact sheíd been eager to marry again; it was said her inability to do so, coupled with the spell of lust-madness sheíd suffered earlier, turned her down a wicked path.
Seegahnah heard all the rumors from her friend. ìThey say Iím a harlot?î she asked Feergah rhetorically. ìThen Iíll play the harlot.î
The next year, she gave birth to a son. Now, though succession is strictly male among the Not-of-our-Tribe, the firstborn does not always become king. They are a cunning people knowledgeable with poison, so often the second or third son takes the throne, if indeed any in the family survive the treachery. Kahrlohn used this to explain to Seegahnah why they would have no more children, then he cut off relations with her altogether.
Soon after this Feergah came to visit. The princess was sitting with her baby prince in the fortressí warmest room, mending her clothes. Sheíd let out the seams while carrying her child, and now she wished them to fit more tightly. ìBut I can't trust the servants with my clothes,î she explained to Feergah. ìThey can't do a quick fix. They embellish and embroider beyond all hope of simplicity.î Suddenly she threw the dress down. ìOh, Feergah, my husband won't even touch me anymore! It's like he's another man.î
ìIs he so different?î Feergah asked, again with the coolness in her voice Seegahnah hated.
ìBefore, he told me he loved me!î
ìAre you sure? Itís against their nature to lie outright; think back on what exactly he told you.î
ìButówhy else would he court me so singlemindedly?î
ìSeegahnah. You are too old to play the innocent. You're his brood mare, and now you've given him all he needed you for.î
The princess rose from her stool so quickly it toppled over. ìGet out,î she said in a low-throated growl, but she was shaking when she said it. Feergah turned to the door.
Seegahnah was after her in a thrice. ìNo. Donít go. Please!î She clutched her friend helplessly. ìTay-Oo-tee, what if itís true?î
Feergah let her cry awhile, but soon she said, ìYour position is not healthy. We must think of ways to protect you.î
ìProtect me from what?î
Feergah did not answer this. ìI met a trustworthy man through my husband. He is wise and prudent, and so has stood at Council for many seasons. His name is Dintohn. Seek him out.î
Seegahnah found Dintohn at the next banquet she and the prince attended. Encouraged by Feergahís glowing report, and by her own desperation, she was soon pouring out all of the sour wine of her unhappiness to him.
Dintohn, compassionate as well as wise, quivered with anger when he had heard it. To think this young girl had never been told the truth! Marriages made for politics and not for love were fine by him, as long as both parties understood the arrangement. Thisóto warp someoneís sense of love, possibly for lifeÖit was evil.
ìWe cannot make him think you are miserable,î Dintohn said. ìIf you mope about he will only wish to rid himself of you. You must put on a public face.î So first he taught her ways to fool a crowd, how smiles and easy laughter will convince anyone she was content. Then he taught her to act as though she were desired by her husband, and then perhaps she would be.
The first strategy proved successful. No one could have guessed how popular Seegahnah became. Next to her, the parade of willowy Not-of-our-Tribe noblewomen looked to Wanderers like so many tinder twigs. Even wellborn families among Kahrlohnís people admired her vitality. They regretted they did not have her love of the endless road, but still they lived sedentary lives.
But the strategy to win Kahrlohnís desire backfired. He could not abide an intelligent wife, capable of saying one thing and feeling another. He had not married her for her political acumen. Besides, Seegahnahís transformation from lost lamb to vixen was too abrupt. One day she trotted into a meeting of the prince and some councilors with ale for them all. Just as quickly she was gone again, but not before pecking her husbandís cheek, cooing ìDonít be late tonight, love.î When sheíd gone Kahrlohn turned to his friends with a helpless look. They all knew the princeís fancies lay elsewhere. ìSheís demon-touched,î he said.
Most of the tribal heroes were killed in battle, an ambush bloodbath when the sun stood still. The others were executed the next day, along with their horses. A few dozen horses and a few lesser men, deserters, fled through mountain passes to rockier valleys. The invaders, the Not-of-our-Tribe, did not pursue them, and their Wanderer-kin called them cowards and turned their backs. This is not their story; they are mentioned only to reassure the reader some horses did survive to be trained the proper ways.
The Wanderersí king, first of their heroes, died in battle. His two sons died as wellóhis first cut down on the field, and the other prince in the next dayís hangings. This left in the kingís family only Seegahnah, a maiden. The invaders saw no profit in her death. They did not believe in female succession, but the Wanderers did. To render her completely harmless, the Not-of-our-Tribe Council ordered Prince Karlohn, heir to the throne and still unwed (much to his father Dagbadís consternation), to court her. With their marriage, Wanderers would have one of their own as queen, and perhaps be pacified.
Seegahnah, young and naive, did not understand the attentions of older, clumsy Karlohn. The prince, for his part, felt nothing for Seegahnah. She had the stereotypical Wanderer figureóshort, stocky legs and a pudgy torso, the body of one who could ride before she could walkóutterly opposite the willowy ideal of his people. So for two seasons he simply escorted her to dinners hosted by his father the king, without demanding anything in return.
A year after the battle, he took her to wedding after wedding. The widowed noblewomen of her tribe, coming out of mourning, took invader husbandsóboth to protect their families and because no suitable Wanderer men were left.
The last wedding Seegahnah and Karlohn attended as a courting couple was that of the princessí friend Feergah. Before the ceremony, as Seegahnah put the brideís hair in plaits, Feergah said, ìI have to marry for the sake of my children, but you are under no such obligation. Don't imagine you're in a hurry.î
ìI was not even thinking of marriage,î Seegahnah said.
ìWhat about Karlohn?î
ìKarlohn has expressed no intention.î
Feergah looked at her friend with pity. Seegahnah hated that expression on the older woman's face; it made her feel ignorant next to her worldly friend. ìHe intends to marry you, all right.î
Seegahnahís confusion was understandable. Though he came to call every week Karlohn never addressed her with the soft words a lover uses; though he treated her with deference he kept his hand on hers and not on her waist. Before his non-pursuit began to awaken her own desire, she had imagined his interest in her stemmed from blood-guilt. Indeed, perhaps as compensation for the loss of her family, he gave Seegahnah fine lodgingóthough she had never wished for a permanent home. (The Not-of-our-Tribe intended to make the Wanderers a settled people. Theirs was the first town walled not to keep invaders out but inhabitants in.) Karlohnís father, King Dagbad, built his fortress at the far south end of town. Near it, over the remains of a Wanderer rain-shelter, Kahrlohn built Seegahnah's cottage with an attached stable. Alone among her tribe, the princess was allowed to keep a horseóa mangy, ill-bred creature, nothing like the proud mountain ponies who had served the Wanderers for generations. Prince Karlohnís people had conquered not with the horse, but with the sword.
After walking her home from Feergahís wedding, Kahrlohn clutched the princessí hand, turning her to face him. He stammered, ìFor you to be my wife, to be the mother of my children, would make me very happy indeed. Will you marry me?î
Their wedding was a grand occasion, but all of the good cheer was enforced by the Not-of-our-Tribe. Seegahnah had come to believe Kahrlohn loved her, and so justified her choice. ìAnd I do love Kahrlohn, with all my heart,î she told Feergah in a quiet moment before the wedding. ìI am sure he loves meóhe just cannot express it.î
(I've lost track of what # excerpt this would be)
I went to hear him speak.
There was a large crowd and I was far from him. At the beginning things were chaotic as those of us on the fringes strained to catch his voice through the incessant incidental music of human gatheringsómen coughing, children crying, whispered side conversations. To these noises we added our own as we poked those closer in to hiss, ìWhatís he saying?î Then an orderly flow began. A chain of listeners murmured the phrases back behind them until all had heard. Jesusí words pulsed outwards like he was the stone and we were the ripples in the pond. I did not hear Jesusí voice at all that day; I had to trust those around me to transmit his speech faithfully.
Here is why I believe they did. The phrases that came back to me were beautiful. The concepts were startling in their implications, yes, and that was part of it. The crowd was only too eager to pass on such subversive talk. But the way he phrased this subversion was poetry. ìBlessed are they who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they will be satisfied.î I could see all the mouths savoring these words while passing them on. Some repeated each new saying to themselves after giving it to their neighbors, so gradually the air filled with echoes. I started to let myself listen to the whole crowd, not just to the whisperers near me. I listened to the rise and fall of all this talk of blessings, mercies obtained, kingdoms inherited. Every phrase harmonized with every other oneóJesus was playing this crowd like a lyre; we were all sounding his chords.
The phrases that rang with me longest were the last: ìBlessed are you when they insult you and persecute you and utter every kind of evil against you falsely because of me. Rejoice and be glad, for your reward will be great in heaven. Thus they persecuted the prophets who were before you.î Here was a genuinely dangerous idea. Tell the people to ignore shame heaped on them by the communityóthat in fact being scorned has positive implicationsóand who knows what they will do? How will any standards of behavior be upheld if public shame is no longer effective?
Next time I came a little earlier and staked out a position closer to where Jesus would stand. People were wedged against me in all directions. Crowds are always smelly, but this one seemed unusually so. I looked closer at my companions and noticed the sores, the swollen legs, the festers of various kinds.
This time I heard Jesusí voice, though still not very clearly. I concentrated on watching him as he taught. I have seen good preachers; even one I considered the best of his time. There is often something compelling about watching a good preacher speak that goes beyond whatever it is that he is saying. He may pace the field, or raise his arms in triumph or warning, or bow in sudden supplication to heaven. Jesus did none of these things. In fact, at first I found him entirely dull to watch. He stood motionless, more rooted than a tree (which at least sways in the wind) and he kept his eyes shut as he spoke. The way the afternoon sunlight touched his face, he almost appeared to have no eyes at all. ìIs this what Iíve come to see?î I found myself thinking. ìThe absence of a man?î
I looked around. All the faces in the crowd were trained on Jesus. Some eyes were closed, either in straight imitation of the preacher or in a focus mirroring his. I saw savage hunger in other eyesónaked, frightening need. I turned away to look at Jesus again.
He was moving a little now. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, rocking in place to the rhythm of his words as one does in prayer. I had to shade my eyes to see him properly as the sun hit an awkward angle. I couldnít be sure of what I was seeing. There was something foreign about the way his eyes were closed. It wasnít as if he was blocking a sight, it was more like he was looking atÖbut how could he be looking at anything? I shook my head. I was reading too much into things.
Still. I was seeing something unusualótotal concentration. Jesusí focus on what he was doing was absolute, like it was physical strain to draw the words from his body. It made me want the same for myself. I wanted to know how it felt to do a jobónot necessarily preaching, just whatever job I could doóand pour my whole spirit into it at every moment. It surely meant confidence in oneís abilityóI saw no worry creasing Jesusí face and heard nothing tentative in his voice. It looked so wonderful. What I at first thought dull was now all I wanted to see.
I have heard of a spirit descending on a person or a gathering, like how Saul caught the frenzy of the prophets. I had not ever seen it or caught it myself. But when Jesus spoke and the crowd responded it was like the heavens opened. His words had such elegant rhythm: ìAsk and it will be given to you, seek and you will find; knock and the door will be opened to you.î They moved me to tears. I looked around and saw tears on hundreds of faces. I could look strangers in the eye; the same emotions in me glittered in them. I wondered if Jesus, if he would open his eyes, would look out on a sea of diamonds. He did open his eyes. He stepped back, looking suddenly shy, then beamed.
Afterwards the sick started moving to the front. There was a long line of them. One would step forward; Jesus would look at him close, touch a hand to his face or shoulder or leg; occasionally the two would embrace. He acted much the same if a woman stepped forward. Most of the time I did not see if a cure came about, but I was not standing very close. There were occasional shouts or quickly suppressed murmurs of surprise. By these I knew something dramatic had just happened. Mostly, as I said, the line moved forward quietly.
The end of the line was near where I was standing. The last man shuffled his feet, hummed a little, slapped his hands to his side. I grew anxious just looking at him. He noticed my noticing him, turned and smiled. ìHere,î he said, taking my hand and pressing something cold into my palm. It was a coin.
ìWhat is this?î I asked.
ìNot much. Itís justÖplease, give it to Jesus for me.î
ìBut Iím notóî
He put up his hand to stave off what he clearly thought was a different sort of objection than what I was actually giving him. ìAll of you have to eat too. I want you to have it. I want Jesus to have it.î His smile was sad. ìTwelve years ago my hand was crushed while I was working on my roofósee?î He held it up so I could see the fingers out of place. ìI came here today to be healed, but this line is too long. Iíll be back, but in the meantimeÖî He patted my hand holding his coin. ìIt means so much more than we can say to have Jesus here. He listens to us. He looks right at us. Thatís everything. Thatís the healing, you know? So tell him ëthank youí for me.î
ìI will,î I promised. The man with the crushed hand left. I debated with myself about whether I should join the line and present Jesus with the coin when I reached him. No, I finally decided; that would take too long. I went instead to a part of the field where a few of the apostles were gathered. I surrendered the coin and told them the message that went with it. They smiled and thanked me in the pleasantly vacant manner born of constant repetition. This sort of thing had happened to them before.
ìYou know what I really want?î I heard a girl say to her companion as I was leaving. ìI want my sickness back so I can go through the line and have Jesus look at me like that again.î
Oh, be my own
Joan of Arc
Hear a holy voice in your head
My voice
My saint
Fight a lost cause just for me
Wear sexy armor
Wave a flag
Lead any army you can muster
(I'll do all the talking)
When it comes undone
Someone else can
Tie you up
But I'll be the fire that
Burns you to ash
An excerpt:
The band takes its name from a predominantly German neighborhood in Cincinnati (so German, the joke went, to cross into this territory meant going "over the Rhine"). Perhaps I relate to the band's worldview because I, too, grew up in a German area of a Midwestern city. Something about Good Dog Bad Dog evokes a sense, not of place, but of the spirit of a place, and the spirit is familiar to me. It's as if each city in town has a soul, something that makes it unique. The soul cannot be captured facilely with a camera or a curt description. Somehow Over the Rhine has turned phrases and notes into a net to catch the deep meaning of where they are. Call the result "mystical Midwestern."
It's a sound from the same territory as the odd photographs in the CD booklet. They share sepia tones, shadows, blurs and fades, obscured faces. In a song like "Faithfully Dangerous" Bergquist's vocals evoke a wicked jazz singer from early in the last century, someone we might only see today in an old photograph. But the sound is not what you'd hear back then, just as the photograph would not be what you would have seen at the time. The photo acquires its enigmatic quality through the fading and discoloring of age; the music, too, uses its many years of distance to layer on its mystique.
Read the whole thing at Thunderstruck.
I wrote this in college, dug it out for an open mike t'other night:
"We ate the food, we drank the wine":
that's one verse of the song.
You were so annoyed when I told its secret:
the drink was with One whose blood and water
mixed. You had loved the weave
of music and lyric; I killed what you liked
when I revealed meaning. Now, that singer like
a vulnerable child, who has fixations with wine:
we've both tried to interpret him; we've
sat with ears glued to speakers, replaying songs.
"Is he saying 'watch her' or 'water'?"
You never minded doing that. He had a secret
similar to the now-revealed secret
you'd hidden so long. Is that why you like
him? Is that what your blood and water
stirs for? I once dreamt something about wine
and you (but it's not important), remember songs
you'd sing: no swimming in the bottle, we've
all drowned. Not for you did I weave
that poem: "Don't worry, love, your secret's
safe with me"--someone else's songs
inspired me. It's not like
I've known you that long. But the wine
of you transformed the bottles of water
that had been my life. Water's
not thick as blood, but your life weaves
as close as family to me. Vintage wine
is what I remember: you telling me secrets,
sharing your stories with me like
I was your sister. So many songs
talk now of a Great Divide. Songs--
if you interpret them!--are flooded with water
and fire, catastrophe. They act like
portents, but I won't believe, we've
been divided, but we have a secret:
we won't read into things too far, we take wine as wine.
The web we weave, we act like
we are free now of secrets, but for his song:
"The whiskey is water, the water is wine."
Thanks, Fletcher:
The Song of Amergin
I am a stag: of seven tines,
I am a flood: across a plain,
I am a wind: on a deep lake,
I am a tear: the Sun lets fall,
I am a hawk: above the cliff,
I am a thorn: beneath the nail,
I am a wonder: among flowers,
I am a wizard: who but I
Sets the cool head aflame with smoke?
I am a spear: that roars for blood,
I am a salmon: in a pool,
I am a lure: from paradise,
I am a hill: where poets walk,
I am a boar: ruthless and red,
I am a breaker: threatening doom,
I am a tide: that drags to death,
I am an infant: who but I
Peeps from the unhewn dolmen arch?
I am the womb: of every holt,
I am the blaze: on every hill,
I am the queen: of every hive,
I am the shield: for every head,
I am the tomb: of every hope.
--translated by Robert Graves in White Goddess
I have always loved typewriters. Before I could read, I was writing and typing. They were two separate pursuits. I wrote stories by drawing pictures, connecting characters to word balloons to indicate dialogue. I typed for the sheer joy of working machinery. I doubt I was aware of the fact that typing could produce words.
Early on we had an ancient black typewriter, immensely heavy, all metal, exciting and mysterious to me because of its many moving parts. To me it resembled a huge, cumbersome centipede, except all of its legs were inside. Or maybe those were teeth I could make gnash by pressing the keys, preferably as many keys as I could at once. I had license to destroy that typewriter as quickly as I liked, since it was loved by no one else in the house. And surely I did destroy it; the next typewriter I remember is the one pertinent to this story. I was using it when I was seven years old.
This typewriter had metal within it, but was not overwhelmingly metal. It was plastic, a gentle beige color with brown keys and white letters on the keys. I was fond of the way it had its name splayed out in bumps of letters across the front--COLUMBIA I think--the way the basement refrigerator said, curiously enough, HOTPOINT. I spent a lot of time with this typewriter striking two keys together so they'd get stuck on the verge of typing their letters, then striking more and more keys so their spindly centipede legs would become attached to the first, until I'd have a huge clump suspended just above the roller. Pretty soon the clump would be too large to sustain itself. As I struck it from one side with a letter, two or three letters would fall off the other side. I didn't use the typewriter solely for playing this game, but it was a wonderful way to alleviate writer's block.
Anyway, I started getting serious about typing up stories when I was around seven. The typing table was in my room anyhow because my sister often used it, and she and I shared the room. I cut sheets of college-ruled composition paper into quarters, typed my stories on them, and stapled them into books. One day as I sat there thinking of what to write, unable to cure my block even with my key clumping game, I set out to explore the drawers of the typewriter desk, which for some reason I had not yet investigate. The desk was actually a table with collapsible sides and a very shallow drawer, barely deep enough to lay a pencil in. I had to jerk it open. Seeing some pages of yellowing newsprint stuffed in there, I took them out and started to read a horrible story.
About 20 years earlier, it seemed, we had a president named John Fitzgerald Kennedy who got shot while riding in a parade in Texas. This story took up a lot more columns than I was used to seeing in newspapers; a lot more pages too. The Post-Dispatch described Kennedy getting taken to a hospital and what the reports out of the hospital were saying. The reports didn't sound very positive. Then, before I knew it, President Kennedy was dead. Another day's articles had news about the funeral. The story kept going on and on, but Kennedy was no longer alive. I couldn't believe it. What a terrible story. Everybody knew when you wrote a story, you had to have a happy ending. Was this all true? Why did it end like this?
I went downstairs and confronted Mom with it. I had gotten the newspapers out of her typing desk, after all. She was the one (although I didn't know this at the time) who had wanted to be a journalist, and she was probably the reason I liked to write. She could tell me whose sick joke this all was.
No, it wasn't a joke, she said. It was all true.
Something was wrong. I had to blame someone for whatever had gone so wrong. I accused Mom the only way I knew how: "Why didn't you tell me?"
"It happened long before you were born," she said, as if to say, this doesn't concern you. But it did, and it does, because time is no real distance.