Cooking the Geography of Distance

Abstract

Bats are flapping their long lovely wings on the horizon line what does he care? Mother would know, call her & she ranges wide over thousands of topics, all except the main one. Say Mom I'm thinking of divorce, then I'll slap the kid in an orphanage, what do you think? Night's coming fast through the window, you can picture her tapping a perfect fingernail, a slick parade of taps like a waterfall -- In a pinch he's the right guy, can shovel you full of words in a pinch, then snacks. In a pinch makes enough money, pays the insurance, only a spoiled unlovely girl would complain. Now he's wearing an old Batman cape, a string of pearls, what a moustache! says everyone but you're begging him to shave. It's not the beard burn but what it does to my eyes. Also why should you get to disguise yourself -- That's it, says Mom, jealousy in a nutshell! I eat brownie mix raw from the bowl as we speak, it gives perspective, but oh my heart is full of pins. I say have some fucking pity but he says you're the wrong gal, I knew it then & now I'm finally coming, as if from a long drawn out faint, to. I'm up & around again (he says) my head for once set solid & now I see the light -- I dream this guy stands on a ladder & says to me bitch cut it out -- Mom says if it's not one guy it's another, think of them as interchangeable scrabble squares, a's and b's, if you get a q well then we'll cross that bridge later on, otherwise stay put, wait for the moon to cross the black window: you'll notice a white dot or two, that's the sign we want -- In an overcoat, fists in pockets he wants me to stop or go. This is a game, mother's right. The kid sits like a statue (how do you make people come to?) I feel this catch under the ribcage, call it a feeling. The kid & her sad glasses, a sad progeny. He strews briefcase contents across the rug & the kid rummages to find clippings. Any old news story, what's the point -- First things first. Ma, you tell her stop dreaming, get that head back on go, let's figure this thing out, my life's about to split open at the lips. But he's hovering again. Opens the fridge grabs tomatoes sprouts the mayo. Now what? says Mom who hears commotion, doors knocking, the bisected refrigerator hum, always did have a fine-tuned ear for machinery. I don't want a divorce, he says, but what good does that do if he can come & go as he pleases, gets to sleep with that girl Pat. Pat who? says Mom. All tits & no brain, I wish I could say, but in truth she's a peach, round & compassionate, a dewy accommodating tulip, too much competition for one wife, I say. I know what you mean, says Ma who on the other end has begun to pare her nails, you can hear the zz zz of the file as it slides over each precipitous archway -- Life is a cathedral, she says, whether it's Gothic or impressionistic, well that's just up to that great cacophoner in the sky. Shit, I say. Pat's at the door now & the kid's actually smiling, though it's politeness, & he's all nervous in the Batman cape. You hear Pat's tinkly little laugh like Spiderwoman's. Now I drive the suffocation blues through the phone wires on little psychic electrodes which sooner or later Ma's hip to -- Do I have to feed this woman, give her a dress? These days generosity knows no bounds, it's the feminists, you can't wear underwear, you can't clean a room without feeling like Miss Priss. Mother agrees, though of course with a giant disclaimer that cancels out the whole thing: You can't be up in the world without shooting yourself through a vein or two, she says. In the background he's already dishing up the property. I'll take the kid! he yells. You can see Pat's shiny tulip peach face wither at that. & the kid looks down, pushes her glasses up, a pathetic gesture. Do I know what comes next? no sir -- Think of Hamlet, Lear, (Mother likes this kind of supporting argument) think of poor Richard whichever one he was, all those tragedies, now's your turn. …