Wednesday, April 28, 2010


Last time you spotted a bug hanging from the ceiling, when I was humming Rumi's quatrains and cooking up Chinese medicine. Tonight you pick up the George Bataille novella on my desk. 'No wonder you've been running a temperature,' you say. 'Talk about indecent universe!'

You brought juice and chocolate. At the rush of sugar I open my eyes. You cast me a mischievous look, as if I was an intruder to my own home and I had sat down to assume my present persona: a woman who is plagued by a mysterious fever when she hardly has a cold.

'Don't ask me why,' I say, 'these days I just have a temperature sometimes.'

There must be other remedies. We can watch a cult movie--I have pirated copies of rare titles from the 70's. An insane young mother puts her love child in a basket and watches it float away down the river; a Mexican gunwoman whips her lover and kisses the wounds on her back so full of love. Or we can play some bizarre Japanese music and celebrate the night, a night others cry to because they pretend to walk under a starry sky when the universe is indecent and lewd--they only put on gelded eyes.

'Let's do something lighthearted,' you say.

There is no music--only the sounds of my steps on the floor, me taking a front step and another around you, a little spin; me raising my arms for an imaginary embrace, for balance; you turning, me following your collarbones to receive your signals when you are not aware of giving them; the sounds of my breathing, of my encircling the night.

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