Friday, March 29, 2013

Ah Toy In Her Parlor Overlooking Clay Street

It was a century undefined, a world which was an amusette.
She was emergent at a time when the world was taking note of personality, and her life was a life as a drama of a life of a woman who makes choices and with full awareness of consequences...she requires men who cooperate.
She is creating herself as a reality of art - and all who touch her life she creates.
She wrote in her book of days -
"When you are writing then at that very moment you are also searching, searching for the reader who will hear you.  But what is this, if not some species of regret?"

She received the citation in her parlor overlooking Clay Street - it was handed over in silence by a rather sheepish looking rather Irish appearing San Francisco cop. She took the paper up and turned it over in her hands, rolling it about between her palms, brought it to her forehead, eyes closed, studied it through the thickness of her closed lids, and then took it out to read -

"Tapping at her window" was the accusation...she smiled and turned to thank the messenger, who had, as it happened, already made his way out..."

With the phrase "tapping at her window" tapping at her mind, she mused that always, always, at the end of the day, it is got to be taken off to market, to matter what it may be - the living of a metalife? She knew all about it who had ever sought the absence - the blessed nod to one's request to "Count me out!" But it seemed at this moment she had been very much counted in, and she squirmed as if caught in a net. She made a sudden move, as though to escape drowning...
to be continued

Friday, March 8, 2013

A Gradual Evocation - The Word and With It The Thing

A Gradual Evocation -
I hear my own voice respond to my past three posts on "The Book Of Anais" -
"nice passages"
"nice piece of work"
and I laugh to myself

and I continue -

"The form emerged as there had been this gradual evocation, celebrating the eternal meaning of all that which passes.
I am reaching back far-to the orange crate on the lawn-to the sublime solitude, alone with my notebook and my pen, a child once again.
African violets often occupied my mind, I would see them when I went within, purple and yellow on black velvet-or it was of their care and maintenance my mind was full - a single leaf, its stem planted firmly in the moist soil, puts down roots, brings forth life, blooms - a car passes - the child takes note - an out-of-state license plate - Delaware -
Delaware - the word was so lovely, as lovely as the silver star shining brightly in the not yet dark sky - the child looked up, and, looking down, made another note.
"The bright star appeared before the fall of night."
He liked how that sounded. He mulled it over in his mind. "It is not the statement that is made," he had then thought, "rather it is the word - the word and with it the thing. The word and the thing."

Saturday, March 2, 2013

The Book Of Anais - Unedited And In The Raw 3

And when she reckoned the image of her mother it would be as though from an old all but forgotten photograph, a mere shade of a shadow of a shade.
The air is thick with grit-fine particles of dust adhere to the page on which I write. I hear her voice: "Dust! How wonderful this theme! Endless!"
It is a matter of mirrors-a matter of mirrors.
She who was to be embraced as the embodiment of passion was as relentless a mechanist as the coldest of intellectuals-We think we see what we see, hear what we hear, think what we think and yes feel what we feel yet even in the dusky shades inhabiting all that is feeling were the mirrors, ever, and always.
This must be taken in.

That he would have found himself contemplating the necessity of taking in such a gaping hole fairly took the breath from out of his chest, as he stood on that unnameable corner in the bowels of the old Bombay-he was there at this confluence and must needs face the scenery, take it, as it were, all in. Well, first, you see, there are the hedgerows all in a row, in many rows, rows of rows, rows upon rows of rows, reflecting a music of the river and its motions...a wash of colors, a garden. 

It was of some interest to note, in passing, that Marguerite insisted on knowledge-"You knew, Anais, didn't you, everything!" she had said. "The child knew everything. the child always knows everything." And then, with a voice disappearing as into a mist: "We are all orphans here." 

to be coninued......

The Book Of Anais Unedited And In The Raw - 2

Anais dwelt in the delta of dust. For her this life was one continuous dust bowl which a sense of duty bade her fight. And so she took upon herself yet another role-soldier and warrior. This  became a rigid presence in her adopted stance. Whatever the face she chose to employ, that core hard and brittle support remained in full presence.
Who? What?
What need to describe when you can invoke?
What need to describe when you might evoke?
A felicitous climate within which the fostering of absence was almost guaranteed was afforded me as a child. I spent my days and nights far away. Anais kept calling me back to earth. There was none of that sublime languor of the serene sea in her world-at any moment the shriek of a siren, not matter at what distance was a jolt into the black and red, that over which she fancied she held some directing sway....
What she did not understand, yet Marguerite knew full well, was had I been present, I could not have discerned these things.
But I digress.
To get to a point here, to come down to brass tacks, to hit the nail right on the head at dead center we must take into this account how Marguerite became a cow, yes. This was an honor bestowed upon her by Truman Capote. He knew full well that Marguerite was a literary heavyweight, and he, Truman, was quite simply really not. And Anais was not, nor was Norman, nor some of the others. But Gore, he was a heavyweight, and that for sure. Well, there are scales you know in which these matters are weighed, just such scales as are used to measure gold, and as exacting, in which the measure of our acts is taken.
As you may have discerned, I am still setting the stage for the book which is at the same moment writing itself.
The Orphan Theme.
Her father left, leaving her soul bereft-never to return and so she had searched for him in every shred and shard of man who happened by. Gonzalo, and all the nameless, those whose names were never known, who passed as the night masked as night. They came and there was this sudden excitation, as would have arisen, no doubt, at the birth of the idea that some distinguished thing might this way pass...yes, that had always and ever been it, precisely.

to be continued......

The Book Of Anais - Unedited and In The Raw

 I was lonely.
And so we met.
We strange three quite simply and really met.
So this triangulation which emerged over a period of time gave rise to a reality within which it became apparent that we are all of us one.

This triangulation.
Marguerite, beyond the ether, travelling there, even while contemplating the strands of hair clinging to the sides of a metal wastepaper basket, even there her absence was her presence, and her presence her absence - as we moved from one point to the next...
Anais, this far side of the ether-in the delta of dust-immersed, and what lay beyond the ether existed but as a mental artifice, and a piece of throbbing gristle moving about in the delta of Venus was more real by far.
So the stage is set.

I cannot think of Anais apart from Marguerite, yet with the greatest of ease I envision Marguerite without Anais.
On this fact hangs a tale.

Two morning stars-If I knew what they were named would I know them any more than in the fondness of a gaze?

An obscurantist fable.
She was full of contradictions.
If it did not meet the measure of music, it was not retained.

This would then be at once "The Story Of  The Notebooks" - a treasure trove of Notebooks awaited him at every post and every port. All the scribes were eager to write down all that they had observed, every shade, every nuance, each bright glimmer, smoke rising from a languidly held cigarette...hotel lobbies worldwide were his haunt.
"His name was Legion whose name was Joke."

I am in a suburban neighborhood south of Philadelphia and about one mile from the banks of the Delaware River-I am seated at an orange crate serving as my desk.
"We don't see things as they are, we see them as we are." It is a thing which amazes my mind that this single saying is the single most often quoted message from Anais to the world. As though she had not said another thing, this one rather pedestrian thing continues to rise up, a monument to her capacity for artifice. So many have said this that Anais has said and said it with greater depth, with a more beauteous lustre, with a richer bundle included in the package, and yet she utters it simply and the world is enchanted. This is her mystery-making capacity. This is who she would have you conceive she is. Ah! Ah Toy!
So it was that the key emerged with which she unlocked the door to the most interior mystery-
Music. Music the doorway to an everyday eternal metaphysic.

In the interim, he was ever this purveyor of exquisitries-even unto the initial beheading in all its spectacular bloody beauty and had held ever fast to the truth of evocation, eschewing any call to describe, for why describe when at hand there lies the thing itself with its word?

to be continued....