Many more agreements which we will get to as they to us, and no surprising number of things to these two who held hands in the theater, disengaged them when moist-warm, looked at each other’s profiles, sat sometimes one or other forward in the seat so the other gave the spine a firm, wonderful rub as much the breeze of passion as any light bending down at them from the stage, this immigrant couple who argued and played and talked and argued always in some suddenly and glimmeringly unpredictable agreement of near-touch like lovers who ring each other up three times per day and, at that, can aria and game through their pair-bonded circulatory systems to heart’s content like aliens (with green cards) who are three hundred percent married and flying always into loss of home and into the sea between that still takes them out of themselves and to themselves, let Grace Kimball (whom he has never met) reincarnate herself as she will as priestess of le Swing, doctor of Open Marriage, promoter of posture, poet-lariat of addiction that explains everything except Clara and her husband, isn’t that true. .?
In such shorthand (he by the way loathes dotted ellipses in fiction) and in conversation they two could forget the shadow of their country far away and hence huge — or the source was far away, but then the whole Thing was inside them (to coin America) — forget for hours "on end" (but which end, my love, which part of the—? —The umbrella? — Which point of the umbrella, oh God bless you darling for— Aiee, she broke in again, I just remembered I saw the green grass rains of the south coloring the Pole in a dream and— And where was I, Clara, where was I? was I the rain, wasn’t there an out-of-wok economist cooking up weather-predictions like weather itself like Michelangelo’s visions— Oh you move me, you move me, and a hell of a lot more than that opera — Only if subtracted from the theater as a whole! — Oh you move me, you move me, oh by the way, have you been spinning lately? because you haven’t mentioned the spins, your head-trips dear, maybe you won’t have to have one of those American scans) forget for minutes the wired skeleton of an unjointed country that shaded every impulse almost, except the impulse to themselves, whate’er that meant in this bison-torso-shaped land of dreams that all claimed New York was not the center of where the self helped itself to language of such weekly obsolescence and instant package that— until all over again these two elegant immigrants, but with freshness like the drama that’s rehearsed by you in a state of faith that you have it inside you to… we sometimes forget what comes next except faith, spontaneous faith. . that the next will come, e’en be it some near room. . and to forget yourself, my darling. . shading all impulses except such love that they might sit together in a downsloping audience in a resinous or wood-oil-smelling dubious theater (for we are particular who we go to the theater with, for we must love them) and Clara and her husband know that if need be, they completed (joyfully) this Hamletin (the suffix compacted from — tina, large leather jar, wooden vat, bathtub, where they themselves repaired at three in the morning when they could not sleep because the phone would ring once and not again and then again once but not again and they would think de Talca or someone was thinking again and even of them, by that connection that breeds reactions to a void of guesswork and fear though fear was not their problem, they could lie together naked to their necks and independently not be afraid, that is not be afraid in themselves of an agent’s revenge, abstract or personalized) yes, they completed this Amero-Chile-esque spiel-fable with a lithe black dame as a contralto Ophelia singing sometimes lines that had been the mother Gertrude’s, "Oh speak no more," yet wired in fury to those raised arms and her outraged throat, a tough Ophelia insisting on being present when her lover drags out his weapon, and insisting on holding it (though back and forth was not clear) in some fight that then propelled it through the arras into the next act — all impulses this shade of their country crossed except their impulse to themselves, these Chilean exiles watching Hamletin because their friend Luisa coerced herself into it — up there above them on a stage while they so private were in love yes beyond the friendship they had once for starters unfolded in each other in a London park, a friend’s London kitchen, a pub near the British Museum laughing at each other sometimes silently until they had to hold hands to keep from singing crazily in whatever place they were that had been forgotten. So put that in your vibrator, Grace Kimball, a continent well lost for pair bondage, she said to her husband, who shrugged with such subtle sexual fondness she jabbed him in his bicep and he turned to briefly mouth the tip of her nose that he had once in vain promised to write a poem on, and now he told her she had overreacted Kimball ward (he’s heard "overreacted" from Amy, but he meant it) and they laughed, and then Clara said it was true and that someplace between meeting Grace while seeking to help the one person in her world and later finding some new crushing load of silences controlling what she said to those naked women (one of whom ominously inquired if Clara and her husband saw a lot of other expatriates), she had seen the pretext become real, but not so he would notice it in her arms, her cheek, her voice, her love, but. .
They were in agreement about Hamlet’s mother’s ghost appearing just when an intense hushed unsung argument arose in the audience between evidently de Talca and some other ticket holder; in agreement that the greater event (though center and margins might gently shift each other inside out like light disbelieving it found state of rest at last) proceeded on perhaps three separate tracks: (i) the sung text individuated as per ego continuum, yet ensemble; (2) also, some real and "now" intrigue involving a number of them and climaxing now or soon; and (3) pieces of unknown individual life for instance frictioning North/boyfriend; Mayn/Jean (seen by Clara once kissing lightly shoulder to shoulder and Clara pointed them out to her husband); a family of four including two teenage daughters who kept leaning across the adults to convey messages; a well-known black model whose name escaped and her sleepy little boy; Grace Kimball/Maureen (who herself several times at end of row got up to leave and sat down again as Grace said Go ahead); the ex-con Efrain and the aura reader Hortensa to whom Mayn had gone asking about Clara; a long-headed, slick-haired, slender, predatory-svelt dark athletic man next to fat, russet-bearded type; and several empty seats that might raise again the rented question how much life is required to be exchanged for a thing you want if only to use, not own, where own means not wife but our wigwam we are at liberty to tear down.