Tuesday, February 06, 2007
She was imaginary. And so was my folly. And her words too.
Anonymous comment on "Coming Soon. & On rats. From Daddy Wolf. From James Purdy.":
Yes, well it's redemption, isn't it, you expect chaos, you get order instead. Unment expectations. Miracles.
My response, written today at the laundromat(where I am without a computer):
The unaffected shrug I read in your words about redemption is seductive.
Like the relief of taking your first cigarette from someone older who assures you that it is just a cigarette. So relieved not to have to rake yourself over the coals, you can ignore the implication in their words that there are bigger things to worry about and just sit and smoke.
I would have done horrible things for Quatorze when she used to visit. Because of her shrug.
It is her shrug I read in your words.
Falling back on the chaise longue with a loud sigh at at the mention of miracles is careless and bizarre. Miracles reside well beyond the boundaries of intention and accident.
Your unmeant miracles suggest the diminishment or compression of meaning used to hasten sentimentality by admen trying to sell me something. I read in your sigh something more affected and distanced than tragedy or romance; that is, the self-conscious adoration of the romantic and tragic. I would venture that if it were miracles you were speaking of your cynicism would be impossible.