I AM NOT NOR HAVE I EVER BEEN
Now (more or less)
The cell is torrid and moist, like the city in which I’ve resided, so foul
with the pungent smell of dead insects and fear, so petrifying, stultifying.
I lie flat on the stones, staring at the shit colored ceiling,
let my prison gown rise to expose my withered orchid.
The guards stare, salivate.
I am so chilled with fever, I tremble.
There is no air.
This is a cave. No, this is my city.
I hear screams, a multicultural diversity of screams, a linguistic ghoulash. Celebrate diversity, cacophony, Ash Wednesday, Bar Mitzvahs, Irish wakes, Christmas, weddings, Easter, and proms! They say one must celebrate diversity! Celebrate good times! Let’s all hold hands, clap, sing, shop, and give thanks.
The foreign cities are aflame, the fields cluttered with mines. Step on one and you’re lucky if only a non-essential part of you flies off. What matters is only the excruciating pain. Yes. Think about it. They say pain is a pre-requisite to pleasure, or a partner. That’s other people’s pain, of course.
Once, my city burned. I saw edifices disappear, smelled death for months. Even the cats wheezed. It was a conspiracy by them, whose name we dare not utter, yes it was, but nobody wants to hear that. No, it wasn’t, you’re correct. I’d have to be mad to believe any such thing, you’re right I’m wrong; forget I uttered the C word. I was being ridiculous.
I recall the day was a stunning Miro blue, clean as a new sheet, loud with sighs and gasps, no, one collective sigh, the gasp of millions. We lined up at hospitals, waiting to give our blood to the dead. There was nothing else we could do. I remember the flyers posted on the storefronts, the faces of the dead. Have you seen Marie, George, Michel, Ali? I memorized their faces. They come to me in nightmares, asking why? We could do nothing.
I will do anything to escape. Well, almost.
Flashbacks?
When they brought me to this city it was dark; I could not see through the black hood. But they forgot to put cotton in my ears and plug my nose, so I know I was brought to a camp by a sea or bay, could smell sea, hear waves. Camp --- oh, such a droll name, reminds me of summers in the Catskills when I was a child. There I was, gender delicate, so privileged to undergo summers of fun fun fun with the innocent sadists, those budding authoritarians in their early twenties, the counselors; and the kiddies like Tiny Tina, the little curled girls with their hierarchies of popularity. So I can drink in the smell of girlish talcum powder in my dreams, revive the Hallmark moments of childhood. Throw in a few extra cents if you want the distilled lilies, as in something that sounds like a dance and smells like ladies’ drawers. We Americans have so many accessories, don’t we; what a bore.
I remember Tiny Tina and Lucky Lulu and the rest of the flock, age 12. They tied the big, strange, quiet one to the bed, stripped her, showered her with milk and talcum powder, poked at her tender, chubby spots, tittered: ominous, girlish giggles. Too stunned to weep, the strange one covered her eyes with her hands. I learned later that her uncle had raped her. Repeatedly.
I think it was a camp on a bay. But it could be this city, here wherever I am.
As I was Saying
I am not nor have I ever been. But that’s wrong. There’s no neither for the nor, no either for the or – simply no choice, either ho or hum. I am not and I have never been. I am God’s little acre, passive soil. I dare you to cultivate me: come on, come on! The acid rain is falling.
Whether I’m in a camp or a city makes no difference. I could be diving in Belize. It is all the same in my cave.
But I’ll try anything to crawl my way out of here.
I will convince you:
I HAVE NEVER BEEN AN EXISTENTIALIST
That is why I’m here, isn’t it? I swear to God never. I am ruled by white candles, moved by divine destiny. I pledge allegiance to God, the all merciful, the All. I fight for prayers all over the place, vocal prayers in schools, banks, restaurants, libraries.
My God is sweet, despite the sin of my birth, nearly an abortion, but the doctor erred. She received a call and missed with the scalpel. My mother nearly bled to death. And so I’m on this planet but for His Grace, quite the Miracle, my mother said quite frequently, handing me the sponge-mop, Walmart special. There were so many things to clean; there are always so many things that are dirty. A woman’s work is never done. The hungry angler arises hours before dawn, before the early bird begins to catch worms. The rapacious angler catches many stupid fish, fish with mouths that won’t close. Of course, to be fair, they can’t close with all the shit in the oceans
But I have never been an existentialist, heavens forbid. Never ever even when I had a lover who placed his hand over my mouth so I wouldn’t utter a sound when I came. When I came, I said thank the Lord thank the Lord. He –the lover-- was an evil existentialist. He wouldn’t let me say it.
I can’t possibly make anything happen, but I will try, clandestinely, give it the old college try, but nothing upsetting or revolutionary, you understand. Don’t tell them, they’ll misinterpret. Always good to keep one’s mouth shut. Forget I said this. Better safe than sorry, have faith in the Lord.
My god is sweet. How about yours?
I HAVE NEVER BEEN A COMMUNIST
After hours of interrogation, I have nothing to confess, although it’s possible I have no memories left. Please believe me. I have no politics.
I’ve always loved foie gras, Grey Goose, Gucci Puccis, blue fox coats, fancy dishwashers, diamonds, and white limos as sleek as Arabian horses. I am not ashamed.
Even when daddy lost his big job and threw himself out, I loved the burgundy leather sofa and that ivory statuette of Cupid with the lampshade hat. I loved so many things in that house I stayed there much too long. I suppose I wanted more and more and more – more childhood, more gifts at Christmas, more champagne and caviar, you know the scoop. They teach you to want. Wanting is an art. How could I know that my father was sufficient? Give me his voice, the lullabies he sang, the adoration in his eyes. I want so much to go back, sentimental fool that I am. He is dead.
Of course, I was never a Communist. Mother never let me share my toys. I never give anything away. I can’t live without that Prada purse. They all have Prada purses.
Mother died in that house. She said the locks were broken; she couldn’t possibly open the doors. They found her in bed with the family gems scattered all over the bedclothes, sparkling like tears. Most of them were fake, it turned out. It usually happens that way.
I HAVE ALWAYS BEEN A LOYAL TEAM PLAYER
I tell you I swear I will not make waves, never made them. Those who accuse me are lying.
Proof:
Exhibit A
When M ravaged P in the ladies room, I was hiding in a stall and heard everything.
When P begged me to testify I said no, what are you thinking? I support the company. My testimony would hurt the company. M is not expendable; you are, I said. I said Sorry, life is tough, gotta take the bad with the good tomorrow is another day forget about it, life is short, gotta catch the worm catch the worm, bye and may God be with you.
Exhibit B
When the important news reporter wanted to interview me about financial discrepancies in the company’s auditing reports, I said B & Y are squeaky clean how can you suggest otherwise. Can you prove that B and Y are in hiding somewhere in South America? No, you can’t, I said the phone records have been cooked by the liberals, goodbye no further comments.
Exhibit C
When G & G could no longer sublet their apartment because of my co-ops’s new policy, they appealed to me, unemployed and broke, they claimed. I’m a good citizen, on the board, president for 16 years, a no nonsense type of person. One must take control to defend one’s property; one must be decisive. So the residents always elect me and I have my obligations. Accordingly, I said no way to G & G, we can’t have transients living here, have to control the comings and goings, too bad for you can always sell. There’s a real estate agent on our Board, you know. While we sympathize, we can’t possibly make an exception, when in Rome do as the Romans do make haste while the sun shines redo your resumes, tough luck. I am protecting my investment, mine all mine. I shall not waver. No exceptions.
Exhibit D
When they started coming for the foreigners, I closed my curtains. My neighbors and I shut our doors. We refused the children. They were crying. It was not for us to decide what was best for the community. We spoke in whispers and cooked big chickens. We played Frank Sinatra to snuff the irritating sound of the gunshots and wailing, wrote to our politicians to get rid of the local porn shop.
Exhibit E
When Billy said I want to fight for democracy, I didn’t think I’d be staring at a face without eyes, six months later. I said this is our team and you are right the President said so. Make us proud, Billy. Make us safe. I knew my duty. It is a mother’s lot to sacrifice everything for her children, and her children’s lot to defend their mothers from savages. That is what I know. That is what I was taught.
Now (more or less)
The streets are quiet in this cell. How odd. Snow falls, blood falls from the shit colored ceiling. Must be the blood of foreigners. They pierce the foreigners with daggers to extract confessions . . .
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I AM NOT WHO I THINK I AM OR IS IT WH0M
Naturally, I was eventually banished from the breakfast table. When I appeared, to my surprise as gender female – as was my custom -- I was wearing, no doubt, a blank table of a visage, attempting exclamation points, but unable to even set it; could not find the proper tools to pas de deux lightly with the butter not margarine, no Better Than Butter and so on, perhaps blueberry jam or butternut squash, having lost all sense of grammatical decorum.
I was seemingly a sloth to he, the inspector, my mari, who expected everything in its place, I mean to him; yet he unexpectedly turned patient and even registered modest alarm. It was endearing that he cared somewhat that I might have lost something -- that was apparent. He asked what is it, Madeleine? but my tongue was shaking. I think I referred to “everything their in places,” which was a double faux pas, though in truth, I couldn’t even have spelled “faux pas!” I just kept on saying something that sounded like phoo pa. And I had so wanted to pronounce it according to Parisian French, but then emerged in my muddied mind’s eye the natives of Martinique overwhelmed by colonists, and all sorts of patois and langitudinal nightmares of English, as well, and I kept on thinking without any point. Clearly, the horse had no saddle. Yes, I was thinking of my mother, ma mere, long dead, I think it’s true, but I didn’t realize it at the time, as or since I had no objects in mind, as I’ve attempted to point out ever since, as I’d always wanted to point out: ever since nativity, I’ve been lusting for the point. And I was famished. I desired a muffin, but there was or were none in sight even amongst the bagels in the bread basket. I wanted the muffin man, not the bucket under the mare to go with the Better Than Butter.
I may even have wanted the memory or mammary land of my mother had I even possessed a sense of ownership, but I sank and elapsed; the futile body moved outside the interior, outside the interior awaited The Muffin Man truck, meant to alight on the corner where I whoever grew up, no, had grown up, but I was truth at a loss to recall where I was, where in the syntax of the global map or even the county diagram. I expected the truck, but it wasn’t coming that day, the postmistress said, clicking her tongue. Maybe I was abed. Was it my fault? Undoubtedly, without doubt, I was delirious wanting so to be carried away . . .
In mid-afternoon, spent of desire and despair and without metaphors in which to take modest comfort, I lay in his arms, I think his arms, perhaps more than he, not seeing his hands open palms seeking out mine, it was hard to tell -- he could have been dreaming of her: Isabella, perhaps. There could have been many of us there. At some point, I imagined Harold. I lay in his arms, awake in a dream without discernable forms. Intimacy was my only way back to language or vice versa, but it was a slippery concept. I could not find you, your flesh was remote under the feathers of a thousand ducks, could not speak to be heard and when I did or tried, as I’ve said, I I I I went on and on, so in time nobody listened, not even, especially he or him; well, he didn’t listen and in time nobody else did. So Reginald slapped me as though or as if I were no was a wasp about to enter his ear; I was a wasp, he was asleep; no fault.
The two of them arrived at dinner time, some dinner time, no time unannounced. Here was Uncle, with his ermine coat and peacock on Zirconium leash, oh Uncle was is he is always so gaudy and gauche, had been from infancy with his arched eyebrows, as if he were is always on the point of bringing the house down with one blow of his wickedly forked tongue but with witty elegance or elegant wit, I can’t recall which.
And she, Auntie the Fifth, in tender baby pink with white bunny slippers, she Ich Ich with her suffocating Shalimar perfume that makes me swoon sick, her with the pointless adjectives all in a row: darling lovely enchanting charming pretty dainty adorable meaningful merry interesting. Would go on go on about Burberry bonbons, love my bonbons, do you not, she would not ask giddily to nobody in particular, but in a throaty staccato, in her cups or into her cups, size 40 something triple EEE like monsignor’s shoes; what a pair, she would whisper endearments; she would coo to the petulant peacock as it crapped on my dear one’s great-great grandfather’s burgundy and teal prayer rug. Monsignor and Auntie 5 would quaff Chardonnay, ceaselessly Chardonnay from southern somewhere I could not tell and did not care.
It appeared that I would have to entertain, attempting not to talk for fear of not being able to stop myself, pouring wine without any conception of the table on which the cups were resting, no regard or recognition of place could I have or have had. My hands trembled, thinking of turkeys. I could not go on like a venerable clarinet with cracked cork under its keys, made tinny sounds. Reginald took me away, as the essential guests were horrified so much -- she clasped the peacock to her bosom and it bit her lip. Drops of blood fell into the Chardonnay. Whoopsy, I screamed, without a voice, as he dragged me up the Spiral Staircase. I thought I heard Uncle refer to “poor Madeleine’s detention in the death camp,” but was it death or deaf?
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