Thoughts on Blood Meridian and Violence

I finished reading Cormac McCarthy's Blood Meridian a few days ago. I'm not sure what to make of it. Upon first setting the novel down, in the immediate aftermath of the murder in the outhouse and the gleeful pirouettes of the towering, albino Judge, I felt certain I had just finished reading something weighted with great meaning. I considered what, exactly Judge Holden stands for. Is it evil? Is it violence? Are these two things different (I think not...)

An interesting passage (the pontificating is Holden's, the laconic responses, the kid’s):

   I tell you this. As war becomes dishonored and its nobility called into question those honorable men who recognize the sanctity of blood will become excluded from the dance, which is the warrior's right, and thereby will the dance become a false dance and the dancers false dancers. And yet there will be one there always who is a true dancer and can you guess who that might be?
   You aint nothin.
   You speak truer than you know. But I will tell you. Only that man who has offered up himself entire to the blood of war, who has been to the floor of the pit and seen horror in the round and learned at last that it speaks to his inmost heart, only that man can dance.
   Even a dumb animal can dance.
   The judge set the bottle on the bar. Hear me, man, he said. There is room on the stage for one beast and one alone. All others are destined for a night that is eternal and without name. One by one they will step down into the darkness before the footlamps. Bears that dance, bears that dont."

........

“The dance,” life and conflict, as seen through the Judge’s warped paradigm, is always a violent thing. Without war (can I use war interchangeably with violence? I think I can...), the dance is meaningless to him. This makes sense literally, if he is a personification of violence. Were life not inherently violent, he would, of course, not be any part of it.

The phrase starting, “And yet there will be one...,” is difficult to parse through. At first, it seemed sloppily written to me, but I think I’ve figured something out about it, so far as I have been able. The phrase is ostensibly self-referential, and this is reinforced by the kid’s response – “You ain’t nothin.”. If it is true, though, that Judge Holden is he “who is a true dancer,” then he is the less for it. For then he is only one man among many, and two things call this possibility into question. First, textually, the Judge’s response, “You speak truer than you know,” indicates that he accepts the kid’s charge of his being nothing, and by accepting this he imbues himself with the intangibility and omnipotence of a god. Second, we have already seen that the book sets him up as a symbol for violence, that it is of this that his godhood consists, and so he has long since ceased to appear to be only one man.

So, that “one” does not refer to the Judge, but instead, I think, refers to the kid. The Judge gives himself away when he says “Hear me man.” His last big speech is an entreaty to the only figure in the book not completely taken by his philosophy. It seems to me that, despite the fact that Holden wins the physical fight at the end, he fails here in his final attempts to persuade the kid to accept life by his rules, the rules of violence.

What good comes of this, though? The kid still ends his life little more than a mess left in the bathroom by the previous occupant. He rejects the logic of war only to become its victim.

Violence wins again. It dictates the order of nature. I wonder, this truism, that violence is inescapable, is it adult reality or childish fantasy? I can imagine Dick Cheney’s answer to this question. I can imagine the answer of the man who recently suggested to me that we should have sent the army into Iran during the hostage crisis, or that we should nuke the same country as a sort of punishment for their atomic ambitions, welcome them to the welcome them to the elite group of bomb-holding nations.

Is a world without war possible, I think, is what I'm trying to get at. If it is possible, then the book (or, at least, the Judge and all the characters subsumed by his all-encompassing violence-as-character) seems to lack the moral imagination necessary to conjure what such a world might look like.

To answer this question, it is necessary to understand what are the causes of war, of violence. This is a question that, by my first reading, doesn’t seem to be present in McCarthy’s book (written later- on second thought, the Judge's story about the salesman and the traveller delves into this territory). Violence is....what? Action without empathetic regard? Or action that works against what a moment of empathy would illuminate? I think I’ll take that. I prefer a broader definition than something that would be provided by a more physical definition.

So what causes a lack of empathy? Ignorance seems an obvious answer. Fear, too, comes to mind. And most importantly, violence is typically a reaction to violence, is it not? Fear, I think, is itself caused by violence. People fear terrorism because of violence. They fear illegal immigration because they fear losing their own jobs, a fear that is itself caused by the violence done upon them by their employers, cutting benefits, downsizing to maximize profit, etc.

Hmmm... Argument needs work. A good start, though.

Anyways, it has been commented that there is no interiority to any of the characters in this novel. There is no empathy for us to have, then. Any empathy we, as readers, feel depends on our constructing an inner life for these hellish men that simply isn't present on the page. There are a few moments that belie this point. I wonder if they do, truly, or if they are purposely misleading.

For example, the moment in which Toadvine threatens to shoot the Judge for murdering the Apache child. The scene is made more terrible because the Judge has acted lovingly toward the youth for a few pages or so; he bounces the child on his knee, plays with him, and he is scalped the next morning. An indignant Toadvine sticks a gun in the Judge’s face. Now, does he act out of a moral sense for the child’s well-being or out of societal assumptions that killing children is wrong? Seeing as Toadvine has, at this point, participated in the slaughter of whole camps of Indians, the first seems unlikely. Rather, it appears he has only been psychologically trained to be disgusted by the Judge’s breaking of a rule of civilization. The Judge's refusal to acknowledge any difference between murdering a child and murdering adults (I think I agree with this, by the way) reminds Toadvine that his morality is a fool's morality, and he lowers the gun.

I actually think the first of the two possibilities is true. True enough, Toadvine's decision not to kill the Judge, I think, is because he sees the hypocricy of his threat, comes to realize that his only reason for feeling disgust is that the Judge has broken a social convention by loving and then murdering a child and that this is little different from his (Toadvine's) own murderous activities (probably including the murder of children, without the knee-bouncing). However, as for his first impulse to confront the Judge, it is more the case that Holden’s display of affection served to humanize the child for a moment and this led to Toadvine's caring for his well-being. It is empathy that prompts Toadvine’s rebellion, but it is quickly suppressed, and he decides not to shoot.

This is what seems to happen.

I can’t decide if this moment is meant to emphasize the decision not to shoot (and the idea that morals are only social norms) or the urge to shoot in the first place (in which case there is a hint of empathy in the novel, however brief). I lean towards the first, but accept the second as possible.

A quick note: I recognize the contradiction that connects Toadvine’s urge to kill the Judge with empathy (and, therefore, peace, as I’ve defined it). Remember, though, the Judge is not a real being. He is violence personified, not a living, breathing man with thoughts and emotions of his own. Doing violence to him is not violence at all, since there is no interiority to be had there, and thus nothing to empathize with. It is worth mentioning that such a man does not exist in reality. A description of the Judge: “Whoever would seek out his history through what unraveling of loins and ledgerbooks must stand at last darkened and dumb at the shore of a void without terminus or origin and whatever science he might bring to bear upon the dusty primal matter blowing down out of the millenia will discover no trace of any ultimate atavistic egg by which to reckon his commencing” (309-10). I read this two ways. Either, the Judge – violence – has always existed and always will, or, by his own words, is nothing at all, a childish fantasy.

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Another thought-
If violence is a lack of empathy, then book, Judge, and violence are one in the same.

I like this idea, but I think it’s questionably true. If the book itself IS violence, then it's effect would have to be damaging to my psyche somehow (since what else could it affect?), and I'm not convinced that it is. Violence only begets more violence; does the book do this? Not as far as I can see.

And that leaves me puzzled. If the book is violent and ultimately vacuous, inflating its own self-worth, than I remain skeptical of its greatness; beauty, yes, and wealth of ideas, sure, but hollow, in the end. I’m unsure whether this is or isn’t the case.

Finished 12/27/09

Eroica

I have a memory of my Form and Analysis professor walking the class through the form of one of Beethoven's piano sonatas. It was interesting to see what rules he breaks, to read through an extended coda.... What stuck with me, though, was a comment our professor made regarding the ability of Beethoven's contemporaries (the audience, more or less) to hear the return of the tonic as it repeats throughout the piece. I'm still skeptical that the average Austrian listener could hear the changes going by in his symphonies; but on the other hand, I'm sure Haydn could hear the music progressing, or whoever else may have been listening with trained ears. I wonder if musical training in the early 1800s entailed learning to hear chord progressions. Were listeners able to hear what was going on on a first listen or only at subsequent performances? A difficult feat even in our time, but back then, who knows when you would get a chance to hear his first symphony again. Would you have to wait a year? Two? Maybe you could find a piano reduction? Or you could make your own reduction out of the score...? Ouch.

Hmmm.... A thought just occurred to me. Maybe the anger (anger?) or criticisms flung at great composers such as Beethoven stemmed from the audience's not being able to hear the changes. Maybe you learned to hear the theme repeat (at the dominant? relative minor? I don't remember the standard form...) in more typical classical works and when Beethoven's piece would modulate to the minor sixth, or something odd like that, it threw his listeners out of their comfort zone, giving them the experience I imagine everyone has now when they listen to a symphony; that is, they don't know what the fuck's going on. Even most musicians, I think, just hear themes repeating, recurring motifs; I'm sure some can hear that a modulation has taken place, but I'm also sure that few (at least, those without perfect pitch) could tell you to which key the orchestra has moved.

Did more people have perfect pitch in the nineteenth century? I guess that depends on when their musical training began and how much ear training was involved.

So, anyways, I've decided to try and get more out of my listening of classical music, starting with Beethoven's symphonies, starting with the Eroica, starting with the first movement....of the Eroica. Play, pause, play, pause, rewind, play, rewind, play. I'm trying to do it without a piano as much as possible, but a couple times I've given in. I finally know what the first chord is after the Eb major chord (a second inversion g diminished chord). This is exciting.

Two hours later.... I've finished with 6 minutes of the first movement (really, that's cheating, though, since the first 3 minutes repeat without any changes...), and I roughly know the chords as they're going by. The piece is really stunning. I'm pretty sure this project is going to be a success, since already I feel like I'm appreciating what I'm listening to a lot more. I wish I had learned this in school.

So many neat things. The dissonant large chords I now know to be (ready?) diminished chords on top of the tonic. So, F# diminished over Bb. I love how every section builds ineluctably to a chord you can't see coming. A lot of...chord, up a half step diminished, up a half step-chord, up a half step-diminished, and a lot of lines, even some rotations. Some of it reminds me of Charlie Parker. And I love the little punch on the last Bb7 chord right before the restatement of the...exposition? I think? I can't remember what it's called. And who cares?

I just had an interesting thought about music, tangentially related. I've been reading a number of essays about Ulysses that explore the relationship (or lack thereof) between signifier (word) and signified (that to which the word refers). I'm not as up on my literary theory as I'd like, but I think this has to do with post-structuralism.....? Anyway, the cool thing, I guess, according to these papers, about Ulysses is that it starts to dismantle the relationship between words and their objects in the "real" world. The words are, sometimes, content to refer to themselves, to gererate meaning through their sounds and their relationships to one another. I'm not sure I agree with all of this, or if I've got it all right (too, it is getting pretty late, so I'm not thinking totally clearly). Something about Derrida....

In any case, the whole idea about signifier and signified will, I promise, pull me back to Beethoven eventually. So Joyce's next book Finnegans Wake makes little immediate sense beyond the associations it pulls up in the reader's mind; the sound of the words, the portmanteaus, the vague undercurrent of the text, a collective unconscious recreated. My point is that, when reading it, I imagine one can make little sense of the signifiers (words) themselves but, at the same time, can get some general impression of what they collectively signify, or at the very least, create a signification of one's own, regardless of Joyce's intent (....well, honestly, this seems to be his intent). The result, with this book and with, to a lesser extent, Ulysses too for that matter, is very different from a reader's usual novel-reading experience. Here is what I'm getting at (blah blah blah blah): The reader doesn't understand the sentences (or even the words sometimes), but reaches a meaning, nevertheless.

Like music, right? Most listeners don't understand the harmony. Even most professional musicians don't follow the chordal movement of Beethoven's symphonies without some preparation first, and even then...
So, here we have a lay audience that is probably consciously missing even the repetition of motifs but still appreciates the beauty of the sounds, and we have an audience of musicians who recognize the musical ideas (words) but consciously are unaware of the progession of keys. Or, even if they are aware of the harmonic movement, they (myself included) don't know exactly what key they're in at any given moment.

So that's 99% of all listeners who aren't able to put the words they're hearing into sentences. How many books could you stomach reading in that manner? Concerts are only so long for a reason. Read beautiful nonsense for more than two hours straight and see how patient you can be.

So, a first step; now I can hear-read the sentences of the first 6 minutes of Beethoven's 3rd. Time for bed. Far past time for bed.

Faheev

Regardless of the lateness of the hour, 2:53 AM Pacific Standard Time, what might Doug Carter say in response to a knock at the door, a casual greeting?

I did it!  I finished rereading the Ithaca episode.  One chapter to go, the early morning ramblings of Molly Bloom.

Before proceeding, has he any thoughts regarding the penultimate episode of the ultimate modernist Irish novel?

He has.

And they are?

That his (Doug's) earlier apathy has diminished: that he (Joyce) is wickedly mundane in concluding his Odyssey, quite the opposite of his beautifully transcendent ending to "The Dead": that, to him (Bloom), all men and women should live in comfort, as much as possible, and thus is his humanism affirmed: that, to the other (Stephen), his comfort should come with the removal of all demands made of him by aforementioned men and women, and thus is his aestheticism affirmed.

Favorite passages?

Yes, many.  All are too long too quote.  Despite this, one will be reproduced, impractical though the reproduction may be.

Reproduced when?

Henceforth:

"Why would a recurrent frustration the more depress him?

Because at the critical turningpoint of human existence he desired to amend many social conditions, the product of inequality and avarice and international animosity.

He believed then that human life was infinitely perfectible, eliminating these conditions?

There remained the generic conditions imposed by natural, as distinct from human law, as integral parts of the human whole: the necessity of destruction to procure alimentary sustenance: the painful character of the ultimate functions of separate existence, the agonies of birth and death: the monotonous menstruation of simian and (particularly) human females extending from the age of puberty to the menopause: inevitable accidents at sea, in mines and factories: certain very painful maladies and their resultant surgical operations, innate lunacy and congenital criminality, decimating epidemics: catastrophic cataclysms which make terror the basis of human mentality: seismic upheavals the epicentres of which are located in densely populated regions: the fact of vital growth, through convulsions of metamorphosis from infancy through maturity to decay.

Why did he desist from speculation?

Because it was a task for a superior intelligence to substitute other more acceptable phenomena in place of the less acceptable phenomena to be removed.

Did stephen participate in his dejection?

He affirmed his significance as a conscious rational animal proceeding syllogistically from the known to the unknown and a conscious rational reagent between a micro- and a macrocosm ineluctably constructed upon the incertitude of the void.

Was this affirmation apprehended by Bloom?

Not verbally.  Substantially.

What comforted his misapprehension?

That as a competent keyless citizen he had proceeded energetically from the unkown to the known through the incertitude of the void." (696-7)

In light of the lateness of the hour, was it worth typing the preceding passage?

Doubtful.

Why?

The extended quotation lacks context.

Any final thoughts?

It seems that, contrary to what I wrote earlier in this post, there are transcendent bits of writing, but all are couched in the unaffected questioning of the God-narrator.  

Temperature?

It still leaves me a bit cold, notwithstanding the warmer moments spent examining the past in Bloom's mind, moments such as all sections concerning Milly's childhood.  Warm yet sad is Rudolph Bloom's fragmented suicide note; Affecting, draining.  It feels as if there should be a moment of silence, please, for the grief of Leopold, surviving son (of Rudolph) and surviving father (of Rudy).  Cold and sadness envelop pockets of warmth.  Modernism.  Everyman (Bloom) in the modern world (Joyce's Ulysses).

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thu.for

Next morning.  Still thinking about my unease having finished the Ithaca chapter.  My diminishing enthusiasm for finishing the book.  

Actually, my enthusiasm is creeping back, as I write these entries.  I'm getting excited about re-reading and eventually tackling the last chapter.

Anyways, now I think this unease is a response to Bloom's inaction anent his wife's affair.  --Haha.  Definitely stole "anent" from Joyce.  -- I think I don't like the self-abnegation.  I feel like, as with Nietzsche's disdain for Judeo-Christian morality, I don't want him to suppress this, to turn the other cheek.  He's spent the whole day thinking of it; it unsettles him that she slept with Boylan during the day.  Boylan, too, though Bloom imagines him as a nice enough guy, is kind of a douche.  Shouldn't Leopold say something to Molly?  Confront her?  He doesn't have to be forceful (which he disdains) or violent (certainly not, though he considers violence fleetingly).  Just assertive, expressive.  He needs to take care of himself, I think, in the same way he cares for Stephen and cares for (and patronizes) Molly.  The model human being, apropos of Odysseus, he is not.  I ask not for a massacre, slaughter in the hall, but do think truthfulness between he and his wife is not too much to ask.

The last chapter serves to further develop all facets of Bloom's personality, but what's uncomfortable about it is that it reveals his selfish imagination compared with his selfless actions.  Is he to be admired as a man who can only dream?  Maybe so.  He seems comfortable enough.

I can feel my own prejudices coloring my perception of the book.  I sit in judgement, polyphemian, when I should (normative?) be learning to see Bloom with two eyes open.  But can I be critical?  Of course!  Right?  Ugh.

I still need to read it again.

3

I'm having trouble mustering up the energy to finish writing a song that I started a good year ago.  I have a bit that I'm proud of, a few lines, and I've just found a good way to structure the whole thing, but I can't seem to force myself to write.  Be creative, dammit.  I've started this blog in an attempt to get used to writing again.

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Here's a different one that's 1/4 finished; the words, anyway:

Old gray man, would you please

Throw your wand out of sight

For the crowd is assailed

By the bright light, dream-seeming.

Ha.  Not really much of a song, yet.  More just....a sentence.

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I finished the second to last chapter of Ulysses today.  I need to read it (the chapter) again, since I feel a bit underwhelmed.  I think the problem is that I've come to look forward to each chapter's epic confrontation between man and logos.  Odysseus battles gods and monsters, while Leopold Bloom battles the English language, the very stuff of creation.  From episode to episode, despite the stylistic weight smothering him, Bloom emerges more human(e) than....hmm...than what?  More human than anti-human, I guess.  Human, antihuman; real, imaginary; love, hate; thoughtful, thoughtless.  

So, when the Ithaca episode (the chapter just completed) is presented with a sort of total objectivity as its stylistic device, I read and find myself uncomfortable at this...raw?... presentation of a human being (who never existed, I guess, but who cares?).  Am I uncomfortable with such a complete representation of what it is to be human?  Can I only handle an edited view of people that I know?  How much do I choose not to see, or, at least, choose not to think about?

So, I was not underwhelmed, I guess, but, rather, uncomfortable.  Maybe mixed with a little boredom.  Because, really how interesting is a real person?  Is it easy to stomach an acquaintance coming up to you and relating every single thing that he or she has thought about and experienced for the past week?  

(Ha! And, isn't that what I'm doing by writing a blog?  Ouch.)

And, if the book celebrates the epic of the ordinary, the 10 year day, have I missed the point by wanting to leave the party early?

Do I really want to know Leo Bloom this well, or do I prefer to see only his cunning and strength, manifested as a humanistic integrity and understanding?

Or, maybe I'm being to hard on myself.  Maybe, Bloom's thoughts as he readies for bed are just less interesting than his thoughts as a man of action.  

I'll read it again, see what I think.

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Second Entry

(Reposted.  Originally written August 19, 3:06 pm)

And another blog!

I'm finding it difficult to write one of these every day. And, despite the fact that nobody is reading this as of yet, I wonder, what kind of thoughts can I dissect in a public forum? Both, what am I willing to reveal about myself to the internet, and also, what are people interested in reading? These questions, I'm sure, have occurred to most everyone who has started an internet blog, so I imagine they should not be considered for the attention-holding pile.

.....

I'm still plugging away at Ulysses. James Joyce has commandeered all of the time I've set aside for reading fiction. Three months, it's been, and I still have quite a ways to go. But now's as good a time as any to reflect, I guess, on the themes of the book, what wisdom I've received so far.

I wonder if piecing together Leopold Bloom's day would reveal something about the novel. So far, he has fixed breakfast for his wife, discussed metempsychosis with her, walked around town a bit, attended a funeral, gone to finish some advertising work for at the newspaper office, walked some more, eaten lunch, continued the advertising errand, walked a bit more, eaten an early supper (while worrying about his wife's infidelity) and had a rousing political debate in Barney Kiernan's bar. Currently, he is helping the widow Dignam with her insurance woes (offstage) having just escaped a bit of violent anti-semitic persecution at the hands of a stand-in Cyclops. 

What I'm trying to figure out is whether this story is as ordinary as it seems. Or, maybe a more pertinent thought is that life was much more interesting one hundred years ago, in Dublin, than in 2009 here in Southern California. Or, it could be that Bloom, with his unassuming, curious manner, is more interesting than most people, then and now. Or, it could be that Joyce has taken something ordinary, expanded it to fill 700-odd pages, and, with a bit of literary alchemy, produced an epic, modern anti-myth. The last of these, is, of course, the standard wisdom (I think?) with regard to Joyce's day-in-the-life. I think, though, that modern life, (at least here in more affluent parts of America) has gotten so stale, that the mundanity of Joyce's day has taken on, itself, a more mythic quality. Excepting the Citizen's final explosion of violence, the scene at the bar is an anachronism compared to our time, or at least, my experiences of our time. The participants in the conversation all have, at least, some factual information, on which to build their one-sided arguments. Tunnel-visioned as their discourse may be (excepting Bloom, of course), the poorer arguers seem to be at least somewhat based in reality and history. Comparatively, the major debates of my day are whether Obama is a citizen, if death panels will be unleashed by the current health care plan, and which torture methods are acceptable (judged on effectiveness, not ethics). The Citizen, Joe Hynes, Lenehan, are maybe fools, stentorian with their opinions, but their crime is that they exaggerate facts beyond recognition, not that they have no facts at all. Oh well.

Another difference: People seem to talk to each other in Joyce's 1904. The majority of Americans I encounter aren't interested in lengthy discussions. The news, large and authoritarian, hovering over everything we know, sees it fit that we be fed these jejune sound bites, and we gobble them up and puke them out on our friends. Such is political conversation. I want some decisions made. I want to take some kind of action as a result of having thought a problem through. But what stands in the way of that? What stands in the way is this gigantic interlocked, invisible network of politicians, the media, and business (business over all) that makes it clear that it has no interest in real substantive action. I feel like, even at a protest, I'm just shouting into a void. 

Back to Ulysses. What I think the book has done for me, despite it's remove from the hyper-sterilized personal bubbles of today, is given reality a bit of a polish. The idea that the myths of the past have some bearing on the ordinary qualities of daily life is exciting in an electric sort of way. Despite the fact that cyclopes don't REALLY exist, how much less interesting or terrifying than that mythical monster is a character like the Citizen? Anyone you encounter who espouses and believes in nationalist, prejudiced arguments and holds you captive to listen to their drivel, is easily as terrifying as the horrific son of Poseiden, especially should you find yourself on the other side of their beliefs, or the target of their racial, sexual, religious, (etc, etc) hatred.

Also, I like how, in the Sirens chapter, Joyce gave the most beautiful, musical moment to Simon Dedalus, a less beautiful character than Bloom. Very perceptive of the non-existence of a musical ideology, I think. Vacuous and still full of meaning. More on that later, hopefully.

What is interesting about the imagination is that it eventually takes you back to reality, not that it has led you away. The latter quality is required, but the former is what makes the flight of fancy worthwhile. 

Lunch! Lestrygonious! Clappyclapclap.

First Entry

 

(Reposted.  Originally written August 14, 5:47 am)

There's a woman dancing on the side of my screen right now.  She's advertising a new line of lingerie for Victoria's Secret.  If she looked real it might make for a sexier ad.  As it stands she looks like a cartoon.  I'm not sure if it's a photograph or a drawing.  Probably something in between.

---

A first entry.  I really should go to bed.  

Oh well.  This is good for me.  

So, here comes an attempt at being creative.  Ready?  Ready?!  

I'm off to a good start with the title of this post.

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Well, don't judge too harshly, oh blog readers (real or imagined).  Stream of consciousness, for the most part, I think, will be what follows.  Maybe I'll edit out the most explicit bits.
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At the computer, here I sit.  It's late.  The sounds of the coastal highway have just re-entered my consciousness.  I've been so wrapped up in writing these two entries that I haven't been aware of the outside world.  Obviously!  Look at the time!  Almost six.  Almost light out.

Laptop.  Glorified typewriter.  Black hole suckssss me out of the peaceful darkness, into the buzzing, everbright infotainment superhighway.  She's looking at me, there at the side of this scroll box.  Her expression.... lust? confusion? Maybe the two combined.  She's lost her way on the highway and is terribly horny.  Am I underdressed, she purrs? stammers? slurs?  The all new body of Victoria.  No, not underdressed.  I guess she's attractive.  I can't really see her breasts, but her lower half looks nice.  The panties, too.  Why is she leaning back?  I want to lay down, she says.  Aha!  For sex!  Yes!  

The faintly gleaming power bar next to the TV promises me something mysterious.  A late night candle is burned by an overworked accountant.  The assessment must be finished by tonight, or no job in the morning.  Or maybe something more ominous, a dreadful thing awaits me, just out of reach, a bit of a ways down the road.  So indistinct, it is, formless and without description.  Orange is coming, it says to me.  Curiousity and fear, neck in neck, vying for control of my subconscious.  And it's.....curiousity!  No surprises there.

The filaments of a legion of incandescent bulbs cascade across down the peaks of my memory.  Something bizarre to fill the gaps, too difficult to explore the missing pieces.  Mountains and a heap of rolling and tumbling, swarming coils.  Batlike, they flitter past my inner eye; now they've commandeered this paragraph.  She waits until I've finished.  Victorian queen of hearts.  Virgin elizabeth skips three centuries, swims through the sixties, rolls around with the television/exploitation crowd in the nineties and returns to the England of 1838, wearing lascivious nightclothes and secretive of her temporal ever-presence.

She's becoming more attractive as the night wanes.  This is probably because the last shreds of logic are leaving me.

The day doesn't so much break at sunset as melt into twilight.  I wonder if that feeling one gets during late afternoon is the same feeling old people live with consistently.  

I can see the mountain of unrecycled recyclables in my kitchen.  It's been terraforming (quite successfully) the Northwest corner of that room for the past year.  Time to take the trash out?  No.  Time to sleep.  If I can see my unclean kitchen without the lights on, then it must be past my bedtime.  May flights of angels sing me to my rest and to my own sleeping Vicktoria, sans lingerie.