The o wilds
|Unnoticed, a woman tells a (love) story, she reads. Outside the wet trees, and a little bird teasing the cat. The scene folds you back.
The message mimes the gag, so (let us) buy a soft grey jumper, and recover. The scenes are black and white, & the film is black and white. The double is double. She says something impossible, & she says it anyway.
He stops, she says, and screams (while Victoire 'reports', as this is her well-paid job), to be taken to the top of the building for buttered rolls, and nothing, he later says, was lacking. It's the tip of the iceberg. Turning leaves. Dust due west at sunset. The dates of the days,
| and the hours of the days, were false, and this mattered, for no mercy was shown finally, no room for doubt. The trace of a smile on her lips. At the end of her letter, as signature, she drew a cat.
It's a house by the sea, sunshine, a perfect day. Short silence and sly move: a view from the ceiling. The morning light on rosemary & on the shore. But going further and further out, along the pier, in the wind, is crushing. She wears a pink blouse, a yellow cardigan, and a black skirt.
Yes, she says, I like it here in winter. The frosty air, a lovely lovely sight. The words, the melody, flattens the thing, to take it. And the low low regard is spoken, in vain. Take off
|your clothes, he calls, shaking. He can't not say this. To be heard. Time freezes, blue with cold. And is dots, in line, dot after dot, da da da, a beat which goes savage, goes rich and savage, goes from white to grey (excited and stuffed), is curled in savage ball, and missing, that's that. To defend this score, give her middle letter, M, a shove, and word by word you queue with o, that old thing.
And, at the same time, she knows, if a strong word sprouts another word, she'll tie it to a stake, make it a limb. She's a fair person, and trouble takes its course - but, to continue, wrap it, the limb thing, in hessian, as a precaution, and when all is said and done: late at night someone crosses to the lighthouse.
|Start a real story, at l(e)ast. She is watching the twigs she's stuck in a red vase. And she says, I like it here in winter, it's the wilds (o). Rough sea, although she can't hear it, and she's been here for years. She should have come before, she'll never leave now, she tells people. And they believe her. She's a film star, a living person. She was asked: and what was the exact point from which you left (Paris) that night. I told them what I knew, she wrote, and it was useful.
But it's too bad, that the story stops, & must stop. As there is, like a shuffle, and more or less a measure, that tactless act she has of ceasing mid-sentence, to make the instant awkward. Oh, listen, I must tell you,
|she says, it happened just yesterday while I was in the garden. She sees your interest, you are waiting, you are settling down. You'll move in & stay forever if she's not careful.
Well, undoing is (some) advice, a prize, like a train on time. Pity, for the plot, and so on. Be less and less able, that's the key to the p(r)ose. Be 'naturally' forgetting, nothing (rousing) to say, or to cite (resting, & earning, smoke o), or level, in the mode of sentence, by sentence, bending. Be then prior, and but but but and decorate at the same time in the same place, and control my temper, 'naturally', rise to the smell of it, and the rhythm, arrested hand in bowl, and hand in sugar again, and perhaps
|she is, after all, I don't think so, she who picks up the phone. As usual. The brown glass rose. This is what B. said, and she said she could die of it, but she said too that J. had found a brown glass rose, or was it a brown glass something else, but elegant, she said, and the most wonderful brown, but she could still die, she said, if she didn't watch out, with so much and for so long. But she can live, sometimes, for the brown glass rose, and for tongue(s) anyway. And she eats the sweet French cake and drinks the whole pot of tea, her lips painted glory red, her hair tight back. Hardly standing, but standing, no doubt, and driving, and no, it can't be for dying.||
silver leaf o a jay blue shine crude cry
o blue blue leaf shit on these leaves. Who cares about this? or about someone or other's guitar?"
(Rachel Blau DuPlessis, The Pink Guitar, Writing as Feminist Practice, Routledge, NY, 1990, p. 53)
Well, that's enough, now the story again. She hasn't shifted far to the wilds. I mean the voice is, by itself, as her, & she tells the time just like us. You can't make her a beauty, a bit part, she's a film star alive. She didn't hear you. Which is very very funny. Oh no, don't worry, she says, let's not
|do real writing. She seems happy. She opens a cupboard, finds a letter. Some singing in the background. Wants wants wants, more, & of course. And we do not hear J.'s voice on the phone. It is the other end, and the other end is a total end.
It all begins one night, past midnight. A knife, some one is killed. To be sure, two fingers enter the wound. It doesn't hurt, & someone leaves for a holiday with the pleasure of that sight fresh as a daisy.
You noticed, heaven forbid, you came sneaking along, smiling, scared to say nothing. She speaks the way she speaks, she's a live film star.
Standing dead calm, just inside the
|door, way off You can see: she is about to step out. Will she swallow you. She closes the door. What a relief for her, she isn't hungry. A good move, to the wilds (o). Objects behind glass doors, she's gone inside to them and to the room of the rooms, and you thought you'd flushed her out. You'll see, she'll light a fire. Yes, I really don't , she says, need to go far. She walks about, not only the rooms, but the wilds, with the wind off the sea. Hardly one place, hardly a place at all. Yes, she says, it is a big house. Writing as writing goes, as reading, the thing of it, and the thing of things in life, that are not worth writing, which they say often, are not of worth to writing. And they are not details, in the first instance, as she knows, &||making it (she knows) means making it with stray means. Yes, the talk, o read dark dour and if you are lucky darkly dourly, an initial, M, and another, upside down not inside out, W (double u, what, no), & that's a promise. She is zero. She is o or x, especially if you think the wilds are out of reach, are outer reach, are fire(s) on the horizon, are nothing even, in your pocket no(no/o)-horizon. The briefest sound, the syllables hel lo. That first loop, held out, to greet. At this point you are floral: dried sword grass (from roadside, under mat dry), gold-tinged conifer foliage for outline, and triangle of daffodils, all in a length of copper pipe.
Green is green, and you are not her
|past. She pretends to laugh. The documents said you were at the scene - in the pie, spilling out, goods were found - and an accomplice. Explain that. You'll still think it's a gag even when the mob comes, certainly, to repeat, despite Gertrude saying otherwise. And years ago when she first went you said you'd follow her. And she said she'd be by the by. Yellow bird drinking from white bloom, stay still as statue, gosh it's bouncing, darting up branch, like fish, flitting about, to bottom now, looking around, near ground, nearer.
This was intended from the start, the taking out, the putting in, to make the wilds, because, simply, that is where she is. Strangely, she says, there is
|much to do. Then, the middle of the day sees her placed, give or take a grain or two, across the straits to the peninsula, to desert, to towns which are not wilds, but wild, and one longs to see things in words, to say them now and later, as exciting, never never will she be framed but she she is, sure as eggs, and V's body was found, a cool sad death let's face it, o o o in the light of the house, housed as they say, one to one, time then to re-wild the o-essay, and (as a tactic) he went to Paris as if Paris was (still) somewhere to go, and rain came down, oh in the storm, cross (x) between no and x, the o, but o with its glowy tip.
The story has gone on, between the
|'unnoticed' and 'read', near a pier. As well as between morning & night, MW, as she, and it's not thickly midst vines, exactly, pretending to be waken well. How is she hearing the outside from the room of the rooms. The wilds, stopping here, to breathe and so forth. To study the suspect sign B. Let's not forget B and the brown glass something. And J. The flame in the corner would be the flower, as if the eye was next to the stake. Perhaps, tape the eye back in: it did fall out. It's rolling now, across the floor. Nevertheless, the light to the house. She drew a line there, dot dot dot, in the centre. (quoted from Virginia Woolf, To The Lighthouse, in DuPlessis, ibid., p. 93: ""With a sudden intensity, as if she saw it clear for a||second, she drew a line there in the centre."") Would she think that J who found the brown glass thing would forever think of her B as a 'shining' dead woman. A screen, and a curtain, one goes with and without the other. In fact in her room, she looks through a curved window. She has moved the table, as anyone would, to see past the wilds & the ocean, the peninsula, and the white ferry, coming or going. If she did go to the lighthouse, in the process, o for an object, the pick of the crop, a nymphea, a water-lily, you wouldn't have a hope in hell of keeping up. And o is a loaf of bread, and almost any other thing. I paid you twenty dollars Mr M, she says, it doesn't seem to me that you've done a day's work. And one further problem||for her: in order to explain the temporary break in transmissions, someone will have to make up the exact story, if the truth be told. Now, this is the study on essay, obviously, as instantly, here, now, composition: she surely must have co-operated in the composition of the first transmission, which was vital. We take their word for this. She did. But: she pointed out that if the story they were telling (in Paris) had actually been true, and if she was really carrying on the service alone, she would certainly, for security reasons, do so under another name. ("Would she write to me on finding in Paris the address of the hotel at V.?" Georges Bataille, The Impossible, trans. Robert Hurley, City Lights Books, San||Francisco, 1991, p. 44) So, she urged that her messages be signed with a code-name, 'Victoire' for instance. Would Paris reply. There were moments of minor suspense. And then the signal: 'message received'.
It could all stop, suddenly, or it could start, easily. In the old state of black and blue, and hush heart of dead/most/wood which is 'phrase I', but the solemn why (y), gone in a flash, the press of pressure, the sigh of sight, the side way of is she is she going to come, to watch fingers skin, just so, and the gardenias she wanted to give she kept and called Section Fifty Five, not having (at her disposal) a tale to tell. How slowly, a step, one kind of this, one kind of that,
|tap tap tap on the wall. She speaks the o, and 'Victoire' gets a message (finally, from Paris) to go to a certain house on a certain Boulevard. She goes, and finds an envelope full of money. This, and the other 'messages' kept her 'solvent'.
I visit B. and tell her the story. She bandages my right hand and says to say it's burned, so they will write for me. One morning at eleven, I meet a friendly man who gives me a kilo of tea as a gift. He has important 'tidings' about exports to Casablanca and writes them on yellow paper. I hand it over, and while she sat in the Cafˇ Weber, he was finished off.
Back in 'that' time, as if it is what it was, the upper leg snapped, & was
|her reason to think of the wilds o. She had left the Hotel Lutetia (the headquarters, and I have since been there) in the early hours. An advent(ure) was underway, an essay, a book of phrases from her time as 'Victoire', and something else, a register of registers: "an 'it', a space half-entered". (ibid., p. 112) So, she writes herself something to read.|