every disaster, one human heart with knowledge and skill,
some common sense, and I say to her, I cannot stand to talk to
him. I don’t know what to say to him, I don’t know how to
say anything to him because anything I say has to mean: take
me: have me: I love you: I want you, wonderful you. I knew
how, certainly, once. He must be loved, admired, adored, to
publish me, whom he now adores. She tells me what to say. I
write it down, word for word, on a four-by-six plain index
card. I cross out the adjectives. I say what she tells me. I read
it, pausing where I have crossed words out. I sound breathy
and unsure. Brilliant, brave, heroic, you are so wonderful to
want me, I say.
So wonderful, so wise, so brave, so pure, so true, so smart, so
brilliant, so intelligent, so discerning, so unique, so heroic, so
honest, so sensitive, so good, so so you are you are.
So kind, so gentle, so tender, so intuitive, so sweet, so fine,
so vulnerable, so so you are you are.
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The adjectives are all implicit, crossed out on the index cards
but whispered under the silence of the dead pauses, massing in
clusters under the throat.
*
Tell him, she says, my guardian, my friend, standing between
me and disaster, tell him that he alone of all the men in the
world has the brilliant and incredibly courageous capacity and
talent to. . .
I say that he alone— pause— breathe— breathe—is well
I don’t say this easily— breathe— breathe— he alone—
breathe— pause— breathe— has
the— breathy— breathy—
talent— pause—
I know, he says, voice undulating.
Oh, I say, breathy, breathy, talent, pause, breathy, breathy,
courage, it’s so hard for me to, pause, pause, say this, breathe,
breathe, but he alone.
I know, he whispers, voice undulating, rushing through the
trees, wind at dusk, carrying chill. I know. I will take care of
you now, he says, and hangs up.
*
Tell him, she says, this woman who stands between the abyss
and me, who believes in me, who year after year stands with
me so that I will write, tell him that you trust his judgment
implicitly because he is so special and that his incredible mind
and phenomenal intellect and brilliant ability to. . .
I say that I trust, I breathe hard, I trust, I pause, I trust him,
breathy breathy pause, and his mind is— breathe— breathe—
well it’s not often that I can honestly say— I breathe— pause,
pause— breathy, breathy— his intellect and ability—
I know, he says, breathy, undulating wind rushing.
*
He has to believe that every idea of mine is his. This is the art
of being female, but I have lost it. She tells me what to say, I
write it down, I cross out the adjectives, I say it, I read it,
breathy, full of raw nerves: but in his world the breathy pauses
mean fuck me, the misery in my voice means fuck me, the
desperate self-effacement means fuck me.
He whispers, undulating: comforts me: he will take care of
me now.
*
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The contracts are signed. I have been breath-fucked, undulated,
through several intimate talks on the phone. The phone is
slobbered over, whispered over, bits of spit are the silent dissent. In my throat there is a lump the size of a man’s fist.
*
My throat has a rock in it, busting the seams of my neck: each
breathe-pause-breathe is a word lying down there to die,
to decompose, to be a pile of dead bone fragmented in the
throat. Each breathy hello, each breathy sentence about he is a
hero, he is a rescuer, he is a genius, he is a savior, pulls its way
past the rock, bone, graveyard of words not said, remarks not
made, a woman’s slow death, the familiar silence, the choking,
the breathy death. Oh, so quiet, so timid, so wordless, so deferential. It is the only way to absorb, to honor, to recognize, to survive, his immeasurable greatness, his sublime intelligence,
his magnificent sensibility, his superbly-intuitive understanding. Breathtaking qualities: breathtaking love: of an editor for a writer: of a man for a woman: you are so wonderful, I say.
Undulating, he knows.
*
In my throat there is a lump the size of a man’s fist. In my
throat there is a rock the size of my tears. In my throat unsaid
words lie down to die: they are buried there: the writer is
dying: the woman is being reborn. Oh, says the breathy little
thing, you are so wonderful.
*
The air tries to push past the fist of tears. It comes out in a
rush, having had to push through. Oh, says the air having
rushed past the swollen lump in the throat, oh— breathe—
breathe— pause— a tear silently dies, a word dies— oh, you are
so wonderful.
*
His voice undulates, confident, melodious, whispery, I try not
to have to talk to him, the phone rings: I have begun already
to be afraid: he never says who he is: the undulating voice says
hi, deep, whispery, melodious, hi, hi, it sort of slithers out long
and slow like a four-syllable word, the inflection going up and
down singsong: and he begins talking: it is invariably chivalrous— I thought you would like, I thought you would like, to know, I remembered that you like, I protected you from, I
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saved you from, I remembered that you wanted, I was thinking
about you and wanted to know if you wanted— but the voice
undulates: like there is some secret: the voice of someone whispering a secret: each time I think it is an obscene phone call but something warns me and I don’t hang up, I am courteous and
quiet, I listen, and it goes on and on, this undulating voice,
and then he says something recognizable, businesslike, but in
a deep whisper, and I know it is him, my savior, the one I have
to undulate with or die. The phone rings: I have come to dread
it: he never says who he is: the voice is melodious, undulating
or the wind rushing through the trees at dusk carrying the
edge of night, chill, fear. I am breathy, uncertain, timid, tenuous:
in his world it means fuck me.
*
Have you ever seen a snake on parched ground, undulating?
His voice was like a snake. I am the parched ground.
*
“ I can’t, ” I say.
“ What will you do then? Where are you going to go? ” asks
my agent, smart, humane, serious, a serious woman with a
serious question. There is nothing to do, nowhere to go.