Read an Excerpt
Visiting Rites
By Phyllis Janowitz PRINCETON UNIVERSITY PRESS
Copyright © 1982 Princeton University Press
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-0-691-06523-6
CHAPTER 1
Case
This is a tale of the body, its inert
material, sullen texture, which I do
not understand. Passive and massive it is
tedious, tedious, as it sits in a
fatherly armchair, refusing to get up
to look for its slippers and the day's paper.
While the mind is no doubt worrying about
how bloated and repulsive the body is
becoming and wondering why it doesn't
care to rise and jog several times around
the block in the rain. The mind thinks, Without a
body hair would not need to be blown dry, chins
squared, eyebrows lifted and so forth. All of us
could thus and in such a manner have more time.
This is a marriage between a drugged slug and
an aerial acrobat. The mind has more
than once applied for divorce, but the body
doesn't want to be bothered with procedures.
The body wants to be left alone to sit
in the sun's way and to spread, like some kind of
vegetable matter, into the loam of the
garden. The mind would like to strangle it, but
lacks that kind of strength. Oh no, this is not a
blissful coupling! Often the mind is as quick
as some sprightly animal traveling by
way of hanging vines with all the ancestral
energy the body lacks, in its torpor,
waiting for supper, the smell of food raking
through its middle like a red-hot fingernail.
Mrs. Lucky
Although I am taking courses in the language
of children, penguin socialization
and creative writing, now, in my dotage —
dotage, what a striking word — I find
myself betrayed — betrayed — by what?
Betrayed! That's what it means to be human.
First acceptance, then rage, then reiteration.
Once dinner was always exactly at seven.
We said a prayer. Naturally, I imagined
my grandchildren would have red hair and make
kipful good as my own. I didn't think they'd
arrive right off the green farms of Alpha Centauri
out of touch, wearing headphones and refusing
to move without tape decks and wide receivers.
Exhausting, their tolerance for a drifting world.
How can I get through to them? Listen, listen
I want to say (as if it would make a difference)
without order there can be no love, not even
tenderness, the only possible purpose
under a dying sun — the only one.
My hearing grows worse with the years;
what passes from human to human is inaudible,
yet how clearly I hear what they hear. Fragile
and pale, Humpty-Dumpty bounces on his wall
in the sky, high on the timeliest twaddling tunes
and worlds may break to bits, worlds may be reglued.
I nod and sigh. What else can I do?
It is not to me, alone, the little
angels cry, Come to dust Come to dust
The sun has ten billion years to go.
The Apple Tree and Mrs. Lucky
Enter Winter Together
Trunk, branches, leaves —
sere and blemished —
I am not what I wanted.
Dignity is a hindrance.
I am weighted with notions
and unbalanced by fear.
Night sweats, vapours.
Why am I frightened
alone on the street?
No one is here —
a pair of brown squirrels —
a few fallen apples —
These rococo grimaces, sequins
and pearls of despair — baubles
suitable for someone younger.
It is time to shed them,
to remove in artful fashion
the accumulated trinkets,
the scarves, hats and sashes,
the maquillage,the foliage,
the peacock plumage of my years.
While some brassy music blares
I shall peel, first, my kidskin
gloves, then send layer after
layer packing — faille chemise
and skirt, clocked stockings —
fling garters to the breeze,
skillfully teasing, and strip
what remains, until a few sparse
feathers are all I have to wear.
The lights dim. The last leaves
descend. And I? Ha! I shall blow
kisses, go with the wind, pin up
my threads of hair and pretend
a composed smile has always been
carved on my face, this peace
in my eyes is not merely a pose
and growing old — something
to look forward to.
Compensations
I have reached the right age. Speeding
adrenal molecules no longer skid
through my veins wearing crash helmets
and goggles like Mario Andretti.
Now they go in for a beer; they walk.
Or they take the local, hanging onto
a strap, reading People magazine
through bifocals. They forget to get
off at their stop. For whole hours,
maybe days, I am able to reassure
the young when their faces turn
blue with tears. Mick Jagger.
Mercedes Benzes. Gucci, Pucci.
Who cares? Whatever we get we
keep such a short time it doesn't
matter. I say this over. Often
pebbles are left in the sifter.
I'm old enough to stop such playing.
What can I buy with pebbles?
Another pint of blood?
There are compensations for blood
gone thin. I've put up
fences and locked myself in
with a tin of tea, a telescope
full of old stars. Once
our heads barely reached the sill,
the candy machine turned
and turned, heavy and slow:
pink blue green —
hard lumps to suck but ocean sweet
as long as the last sticky pieces
stuck to our teeth. Now the flowers
darken and dry in their clear flask —
the legacy of summer. Sores won't
heal anymore. Something wants to cut
loose; something is trying to tear.
Anyone can see through me, hear
the liquids filter through my veins.
Muddy gravy. Tin can jello.
Overheated radiators, spitting blood.
Oh cold kiss approaching, sweeter than
any I've ever had, your breath smells
like the milk of my mother! Cheerleaders
should chant elegies outside
my window. Give me a D, give me a D,
give me a D D D! I live on credit
in my final cell and it isn't good.
One gets used to bruised veins but not
the bills, or those hospital religiosos
steeped in recycled words, equating
indifference with the will of God.
Games and Refrains of Children
1. Sardines
The baby is not exceedingly miserable.
Its bleat signifies, rather, a refusal.
It will not willingly accept betrayal.
What could it want? Does it have croup, catarrh?
It sings its sorrowful song from breakfast to supper
and vice versa. The frail notes convene and warble
from a vent above Letitia's self-cleaning oven.
She would like to complain, but no one can tell
her where an infant — possibly orphaned —
is roosting. Perhaps, in the wall, a cradle
is endlessly rocking a small, unblissful baby.
Perhaps it is merely a Platonic ideal,
the essential quintessence of infancy.
It might be the voice of the next generation.
There are other voices, Letitia insists.
When she wakes she does not wake alone.
She looks around. She is the only one
in bed. Yet it's crowded, there is no room.
Covering her is a blanket of arguments,
demands, threats and regrets. This is existence
in a grand new complex. She doesn't know
what to do with the imps of exuberance
cavorting about her head, cartwheeling over
her stomach, the noise in the walls growing louder,
and no one to take a complaint, issue a citation,
and no one to say what is tangible, what is not —
no one with any substance or conviction.
2. Roles
Herman would make an impeccable baby,
even a believable brother, the kind
easily scalped by Indians, the kind
who might rise to command squadrons
of Samurai warriors. But a father
is not John Wayne, Elvis Presley,
or Hie Nastase. A father leaves
with a passionless kiss and returns
with a daily paper, circles of sweat
ringing his armpits. It is true,
nevertheless, that he has not
always been this dull, this careful,
he can remember the bliss of tropical
tantrums, the moist exotic anguish
blooming over a bitter cheekbone,
a listless air, a lack of delicacy
in the touch of lover or friend.
Why is it he, once adored for twitching
instability and astonished hair —
often compared to a porcupine's quills —
yes, why, when they come bearing tales
of infantile quarrels, is it he who must
halve the baby, smiling benevolently,
his rage like underwear under the bed,
pushed out of sight, but highly compressed,
even dense, and unpredictable as a sudden
hole in a sky leafed with vertigo.
Letitia and Prue
1. Unraveling
This is our room; the clothes
on the floor have been worn,
but not by us. They date
back before our time. A few
belonged to Aunt Hannalke, who
lived nearby in a hunting lodge
with three starving greyhounds.
They left permanent pawprints
on her summer frocks and bitten
scars on her arms. When she died
we received a box of sleeveless
dresses and a box of sleeves.
Our nightmares are epiphanies
of connections. This aqua
taffeta with the tight skirt
is a Balenciaga (circa 1950).
This peach mousseline, weighted
with sequins, must have been
chosen by some raucous pipsqueak
to do the Charleston in.
And friend fox, with his fixed,
lunatic eyes, has to be cleaned
and given a new tail; we'd do
well if we sold him now —
but we never would, we'd
rather sell our brother, only
he's dead. These jars contain
morsels of broken glass we
put in our shoes if we wish to walk.
Collectors of the rare and obscure
must approach impossible borders
where the body cannot go,
where a black-veiled wind tears
around on a bicycle, where the air
is so pure breathing is like
swallowing fire. Which explains
the swollen ankles of that lump
you hear snoring on beaded pillows,
mascara caking her eyes, my bouts
of pleurisy, steaming tea kettles,
and why we prefer to stay in bed
surrounded by a plethora of books
and antique mannequins, our quest
holy as anyone's, letting the door-
bell ring until it dies, until
silence returns in fogs and ethers,
wearing the clothes of historical
figures or former friends.
2. Hide and Seek
Wearing a torn undershirt, Millard Fillmore
surfaces in the mirror. From his lower
lip a hook dangles like a cigarette.
Letitia glimpses something lethal she was not
scheduled to see. Memory — a disconnected
entity longing for connections — selects
its messages nervously, plays partial chords
in a minor key. Then a few major ones,
gilded patches on an aging tapestry. Tapestry.
The word preserves drafty winters, thermostats
set at sixty degrees, lavender and moody
piano tunes; catches faces in threadbare
drawing rooms; veined ivory hands pass cups,
butter dishes, silver sugar spoons. Viewed
this way, years shrink to a single Sunday
afternoon, a lethargic dog scratching a flea.
Is she never to be rid of this persona,
this unicorn leaping miniature hedges,
browsing on meringues glaces and sugary tea?
Her face spills, spreading like honey,
settles into jowels, the nose curls up —
a corkscrew. Victoria Regina raises a lorgnette
with monarchial glee. An eyeblink later, one
views George Washington, stern above the chin,
cloudy in the lower echelons. Daily occurrences.
Is anyone home? Cells in flux, moths capriciously
circling a gas lamp. No one permanent.
3. Nacht Musik
How simple it is when men put on their
hats and promenade the luminous
evenings of summer. Cows dance over
moons, numismatic pockets quiver,
blood shivers in hidden veins,
private women peer between the blinds.
How simple it is when men meet in cafes.
(Only a skinny kicked cat complains.)
They wear their simple birthrights like
shiny gold watches on long gold chains.
Poppets and palmettoes, so ethereal,
stir the night air, and shadowy blues
and mangoes are also delicate,
while somewhere a cicada purrs,
I wish I wish I wish I wish,
persistent as the bliss of stars.
4. Pickling
For hours we painstakingly skin and bone
the herring. Tenderly we arrange them
in gallon jars, cover with vinegar
and pungent pickling spices. Now once more
we are friends, euphoric, performing this
kuchen rite. We bake zucchini bread. Bliss!
And unearth old albums. Our likenesses
are sprouting raised white spots. Nevertheless
we're recognizable. It's possible
our blemishes, like mosquito bites, will
heal and vanish. We will return to our
tufted youth. We kiss. It might be better
just to look. But looking is not enough.
Small fish, undone, turn to dust at our touch.
5. Nesting
Home is where we're free to be our
sickest, you and I, a permanent malaise,
mal à la tête, folie à deux, all of that
and more. You with your plumed straw
hat you wear in bed; I in my "layered"
outfit with leg-of-mutton sleeves,
bringing you nourishing tid-bits:
a cold fritter, a slice of pale gold
Swiss cheese with the rind removed,
a jar of Mister Mustard. We do get on!
I hear my No-CaI, a cricket in its
plastic cup, it sits on the back of
a writing pad, singing its little
fizzy song, telling me to drink
it up, quick, before it goes flat,
like you, under your cover of blue
all old and flat and stale, and only
the curled green feather sticking out.
6. Waving
You in your bed I in mine. Flip,
flip, the pages of our books are turning.
We are at another station, impatiently
waiting for the pulse of the machine to
begin ticking once more. Uncurl the toes?
Impossible! Blood backs in the brain
like the sea, foaming whitely; any move
will be the wrong one. Before us an empty
breadboard soon will be full, we will be
making sandwich after sandwich, always
too slowly, always more hands reaching.
We will be mashing butter into choppy
lumps, smearing it on wheat and rye.
Then the long, drunken trip through
careening cars, "Ham chicken or cheese!
Ham chicken or cheese!" New Orleans.
London. Buenos Aires. Eau Claire,
Wisconsin. All such imaginative places,
reeking of cindery books. Galsworthy
and Melville. Dreiser. Tarkington.
We read with half a mind.
The right half — somewhere else.
7. Keeping Time
If there are answers they do
not arrive on the first of May,
singing from your door knob,
pink heads, green grasses
sprouting up. If there are
answers they arrive when
the geraniums have lost all
color, ill from lack of water
and the exhaust. Nothing will
revive them. If there are
answers, Biscuit will find them
first. He will drag them outside.
When you open the door
bits of stuffing will rise
and whiten the blossoming plum.
8. September
September is a beginning, the steam of summer
rolling south. Much activity. All their lives
they have been preparing; now they speed up.
Drawers rattle. Closets are shoeless, floors
impeccable. The canary is given away,
carpets put in storage, the lawn mowed
one final time. Letitia moves to a small
apartment; she fills all 3 rooms with spindly
furniture and china figurines. When visitors
come she pours tea with lemon into thin cups
sprigged with flowers. She says, "In the blue
vase. I think. Daisies." Decomposing phrases,
as if she has lost some fundamental glue.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Visiting Rites by Phyllis Janowitz. Copyright © 1982 Princeton University Press. Excerpted by permission of PRINCETON UNIVERSITY PRESS.
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