Il n'y a pas l'amour heureux - Aragon

Thursday, July 07, 2005

I'm sitting in my backyard, watching the sun set on my laundry. In the background is the sound of a some water fowl hooting. Wait... the train is passing. The cat sleeps lazily on the table. A couple of nights ago, my evening glass of wine was interrupted by first a raccoon, and then a skunk. If I want to, I can jump on my bike and be by the lake in 10 minutes. But I'm not in the country. I'm in downtown Toronto.

The captain is on board, and he tells me to drink a pastis. I drink it and he says courage. The little flowers in their pots spring legs and jump off the deck. The kidney shaped pool will drain soon, revealing me among the mossy fug at the bottom. I panic so I ask my mother if she remembers how to change into a frog.

Everywhere is the glints of sun that fall equally on flies, mosquitoes, toe hairs and daffodils. I crave a chunk of chocolate fudge. The train is passing again. All those commuters going back to their giant homes in the suburbs, stuffed into their suits, tired polished black leather bags. My dress pants have been folded up to the knees since this afternoon and I've had three good weeps since.

I'm fine. Alon, Sairah, and Annie are coming over soon, with bags of dessert, wine, food and love. Then we will go to art openings and mingle with the hoi polloi. There will be no quiet crackup. Just clean clothes, nice smelling skin, no loud exclamations, no violence. How I search the violence of Paris again on my skin.


The girl, maybe fifteen, maybe blond, lies on her back in the grass, looking up at her older lover. He is perhaps fifty, rugged of jaw, riddled with disease, and sporting a pompadour. His gaze is into the far distance, between the forest that lines the lake. He asks her how she would like to die. She says quickly, with violence. He makes to strangle her, their eyes locked in a supreme complicity. And she chokes and grabs what she thinks is his leg. His penis swells with passion and joy. The field mice run around trying to find a sweet flower to suck on.

He stops strangling her. He walks into the forest and disappears inside. She crys quickly. It is not elegant to lie with a dress covered over the body with the sharp disapproval of the sun. The satin sticks gallantly over her private parts, revealing a pouting passion. There will be no more men for her.


A man waiting at the checkout counter picks up a magazine that advertises sperm donors. He goes home and phones the number, then eats his dinner, and jerks off. Disgusted with the performance of his sex, he calls a friend. He comes over and plays video games for most of the afternoon. The next day the clinic calls him to give his sperm, but when he gets there they ask him for his blood as well. He gives everything, takes the money, and buys a set of clubs for his father's birthday. His father uses the clubs to rape his mother, who then tells her son not to eat so much because he is already over-weight.