JULES OLiTSKI
How can I tell her that I don't really know what it's
about, and after all these years? But I have to say something.
"I guess it's about loneliness," I say.
"Oh, " she looks disappointed. Loneliness isn 't good
enough for her.
"It's about death."
In
desperation I attempt to rescue the
situation.
Ah , that's better. She perks up and starts talking about
symbols and profundities and Borges and other clammy,
airless Latin American writers I can't stand.
"No," I say, "I mean death , dying, like if you actually
know you're going to die. That
I,
me, I
am
going to die.
Somehow, this would be freeing, put me more in touch with
life. Even make me more powerful. You see, none of us really
believe we're going to die. Someone else for sure, but not me.
Not me. We can't believe, because we're terrified. Or is it the
other way around? Anyway, this fear makes us cautious,
makes us afraid to live. It's as though we sleep always with
one eye open so death won't take us unawares. Won't take us
at all, in fact, if we're cautious enough, watchful, on guard. Is
that any way to live?"
She shifts uneasily. She yearns for abstract symbols. She starts
in again about Borges.
"Don't you see," I say "how freeing it would be to get
past the fear of dying?"
''I'm not there yet," she says, looking uncomfortable.
"Neither am
1,"
I acknowledge humbly, or hoping I
sound humble. I am fascinated how she always contrives to sit
so that her crotch invites attention. Her blue jeans are tight
and in her seated position, her upraised knees hunched in
under her chin, she gives me a superb view of her outlined
crotch.
The conversation lapses.
"He who conquers the fear of death becomes Superman!"
I blurt out.
Ah, she likes that better. Now she can talk about
Neitzsche. She's at home again, but I can't let well enough
alone.
"All energy, all life will flow through such a man," I
explain with fervor. I forgot to mention I had been drinking
enough so that now it was the booze that was speaking.
245
