He begins to flourish
aggressively and his competitors drop away. More honored in the breach, he is
given the center aisle, is preferred seat. The others line up along the wall.
This game may require a bold gesture, like hailing a cab. Gleam of watch with
diamonds in place of numbers. They cultivate alliances, initiate ampersands:
Ninety-five million angles to take in this bazaar. Objet d’art. Self-mutilator. Double-breasted postwar
contemporary. A Dora Maar au Chat.
When the fight is over, he passes out Cohibas, shakes hands. Imminent Moët. The
glory hounds know when to applaud. Whose purchase, whose hammer? He leans over
to his neighbor, fingering the laser-engraved buttons of his jacket: Just
lay back and try not to create a fevered atmosphere.
Who are we to interfere? It is
only fair after exaltation. There are many ways, almost infinite, to expend. He
wants to stub out his cigars on her. She wants it, too. She can art as well as
muse, “dark-haired huntress of images whom long chases don’t fatigue.”[ii]Our Weeper, the only one who knows the
inexpressible of flowers, fetal Pére Ubu,
the shadow-lined rue or, rather, being swallowed by shadow its own self,
mobile. But the self is not so much self as an other reflection. Of perhaps a
lover. Of a lover version. Many media, many filters for a her, observing
through a series of old world windows. Lit tapers, Sunday after Sunday, the
many prayers-to-Marys, the many somethings “to crystallize upon,”[iii]
to concentrate, to rise above this two-bit jacket. A sad mystery of violence.
[iii] Quote attributed to Jacques Lacan.