Indivisible (Native Agents)

289 Pages·2000·0.91 MB·English

by  Fanny Howe

indivisible cover 08/27/01 4:14 PM Page 1
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Indivisible
Fanny Howe
SEMIOTEXT(E) •NATIVE AGENTS
Copyright©2000 Fanny Howe
All Rights Reserved.
This is a work of fiction.Names,characters,places,and incidents
either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used
ficticiously,and any resemblance to actual persons,living or dead,
events,or locales is entirely coincidental.
ISBN:1-58435-009-1
Semiotext(e) Editorial:
2571 W.Fifth Street
Los Angeles,Ca.90057
Semiotext(e) Distribution:
Fax:[phone]
email:[email protected]
We gratefully acknowledge financial assistance in the publication
of this book from the California State Arts Council.
Design:TK
Illustrations:Peter Kim
Back Cover Photo:Susan Moon
distributed by:The MIT Press,Cambridge,Mass,and London,England
T A B L E O F C O N T E N T S
In The White Winter Sun 07
Through The Eyes Of The Other 28
A Crackle Of Static 40
Sewing Wings For Swans 62
The Hindu Orange Of The Fruit 78
Two Sides Of A Crib 98
The Light Over The Heavy Door 120
A Vault With A Red Stain 138
Wishing Around The Edges 166
The Glass That Grew 190
None Can Go Beyond 212
Tense 248
Sneak Away To Meditate 262

I N T H E WH IT E W I NT E R S U N
I N T H E W H I T E W I N T E R S U N
I N D I V I S I B L E
1-0
I locked my husband in a closet one fine winter morning.
It was not a large modern closet,but a little stuffy one in a
century old brick building.Inside that space with him were
two pairs of shoes,a warm coat,a chamber pot,a bottle of
water, peanut butter and a box of crackers.The lock was
strong but the keyhole was the kind you can both peek
through and pick.We had already looked simultaneously,
our eyes darkening to the point of blindness as they fastened
on each other,separated by only two inches of wood.Now
I would not want to try peeking again.My eyes meeting his
eyes was more disturbing than the naked encounter of our
two whole faces in the light of day.It reminded me that no
one knew what I had done except for the person I had done
it with.And you God.
07
I N T H E W H I T E W I N T E R S U N
1-1
A gold and oily sun lay on the city three days later.
Remember how coldly it shone on the faces of the blind
children.They stayed on that stoop where the beam fell the
warmest. I wasn’t alone. My religious friend came up
behind me and put his arm across my shoulder.
“We have to say goodbye,”he murmured.
I meant to say,“Now?”but said,“No.”
I had seen I'm nobody written on my ceiling only that
morning.
Brick extended on either side.The river lay at the end.Its
opposite bank showed a trail of leafless trees.My friend was
tall,aristocratic in his gestures – that is,without greed.He
said the holy spirit was everywhere if you paid attention.
Not as a rewarded prayer but as an atmosphere that threw
your body wide open.I said I hoped this was true.He was
very intelligent and well-read.He had sacrificed intimacy
and replaced it with intuition.
I wanted badly to believe like him that the air is a conscious
spirit.But my paranoia was suffusing the atmosphere,and
each passing person wore a steely aura.“Please God don’t
let it snow when I have to fly,”he said and slipped away.My
womanly body,heavy once productive,and the van for the
children,gunning its engine,seemed to be pounded into
one object. It was Dublin and it wasn’t.That is, the Irish
were all around in shops and restaurants,their voices too
soft for the raw American air and a haunt to me.“Come on.
08
I N D I V I S I B L E
Let’s walk and say goodbye,”he insisted.We walked towards
St.John the Evangelist.
“I’ve got to make a confession,” I told him.“Can’t I just
make it toyou? I mean,you’re almost a monk,for God’s
sake.”
“No,” said Tom. “The priest will hear you. Go on.”
Obediently I went inside.The old priest was not a Catholic.
He was as white as a lightbulb and as smooth.His fingers
tapered to pointed tips as if he wore a lizard’s lacy gloves.
It was cold inside his room.Outside – the river brown and
slow.A draft came under the door.
I think he knew that a dread of Catholicism was one reason
I was there. He kept muttering about Rome, and how it
wouldn’t tolerate what he would,as an Anglican.
Personally I think pride is a sin. But I said “a failure of
charity” was my reason for being there.This was not an
honest confession,but close enough.The priest told me to
pray for people who bothered me,using their given name
when I did.He said a name was assigned to a person before
birth,and therefore the human name was sacred.Then he
blessed me.Walking out,I felt I was dragging my skeleton
like a pack of branches.After all,a skeleton doesn’t clack
inside the skin,but is more like wood torn from a tree and
wrapped in cloth.
Outside Tom was waiting and we walked over the snow.“I
missed that flute of flame that burns between Arjuna and
09