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words for my feelings I kept them submerged, protected them from the
invasion of what precisely. Perhaps I felt that my hunger for reciproc–
ity was then the result not of the world's indifference but of my own
secrecy, abstention. I labell ed my convulsions as need, I labelled
sentiments before they were even on the threshhold, as need . But there
was a lways a fringe that eluded all labels, took account of no labels,
pricked me long after the labels had sunk back into my wastes.
In
short,
I was a ll ebu llition as my depths slumbered. But L. accepted me, or she
accepted my use of her words, I deformed her universe by the misuse of
her words. They are your words, I said to myself, I did not want my
infirmities bubbling up into occasionally recognizable clinical entities,
smelling of farts and piss, I wanted them dire beyond manifestation.
The light of day pollutes. Occasionally they leaped like porpoises
anointing their bellies with a little sunlight. Then they subsided, fed
on the foam their leap engendered. She had never asked me what need
meant to me. That she never did. There had been need before, in the
Fall garden, and there was need now, and there wou ld be need later
when she was gone, abandoning me for my own good, to strengthen
me for a final catastrophe that wou ld be mild, doubtless, measured
against these praxes. My own good, phantom, like the fruit of intro–
spection. She came into my arms with no visible sign of reluctance, as
had La Fall, toward the end, one with her tormentors. I did not know
where h er income was coming from but she survived without visible
signs of toil. Which eased my conscience. To see her slaving away in
the garden, planting onions, uprooting chives, that would be too
much. She did not discourage me from my sorting and rambling. I
described them to her as hobbies. For some reason I preferred she see me
as a man of leisure, living off my rents. Once it became clear there were
no dividends for martyrdom from her direction. My work for the post
office I described as a hobby, mild mannered refuge for a large urban
contingent fights a never ending battle against boredom, chaos and the
Empedoclean way. She considered hobbies worthwhile, that was her
word. Did she mean they were worth my wiles. I told her I was afraid of
hobbies. Anything I might enjoy would deplete me for the voyage out.
Only when I disliked what I was doing, when I fought against it as I
did it, did I feel alive. She cou ld not understand how hobbies depleted
me for the voyage out. For the ultimate landscape was tame and its
denizens drank ginger beer and egg creams until the wee hours. But for
all her talk, the ultimate landscape was a blind alley into which she
would never have ventured, except in dreams, where her agents fes–
tooned it with fey solicitation. She was too insulated from the grime.
And yet she was at peace. I took her lack of gui lt for venality.
