#Haiku: Fruit
Harvest is
Patience
Alchemized Joy-
Take Delight
In the world’s wedding.
Category: #GoddessFreedom
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The Book of You – Haiku Diary by Alysse Aallyn
#Haiku: Planets & Stars
Floating
Glass Balloons
De-fracking
Sacred Future
From our
Hellish Past
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The Book of You – haiku diary by Alysse Aallyn
#Haiku: Metamorphosis
Patterns fortify
Inchoate beings
Pollinize, spread
Light-filled
Tales
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The Book of You – Haiku Diary by Alysse Aallyn
#Haiku: Aspiration
Born
Reaching
We grasp,
Hoisted, we
Reconnoiter.
Freedom
Yearns –
Higher
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The Book of You – Haiku Diary by Alysse Aallyn
#Haiku: Chrysalis
Lyric stargazers
Blind –
Curled, coiled,
Enshrined.
Metamorphosis
Designed
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The Book of You – Haiku Diary by Alysse Aallyn
#Haiku: Dreams
While I snored
World enlarged;
I became you –
You were me.
And we were free.
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The Book of You – Haiku Diary by Alysse Aallyn
#Haiku: Danger
Disarm risk :
Mantra breathing
Hampers fear:
Foils multi-clawed
Attacker
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Haiku Diary
#Haiku: The Goddess: Power Incarnate
Your
Brave,
Burnished; brutalized
Carapace.
Manifest.
Gaze. Accept.
Love.
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Inspired Pleasure – the dance diaries of Alysse Aallyn
Wed Mar 22 78 – 4:15 PM
Waiting for cocktails, I discover a flaw in the divine Miss Elizabeth Bowen. She doesn’t like to admit that she is of the same clay as her characters. Those creatures based on the Mosleys she repudiated utterly as if creatures from another planet. I’ve got news for her. Creatures from another planet are
not that interesting.
Last night was one of the most traumatic family
Evenings I have ever experienced – I think my eyes are still puffy. I heard we would be having Island People to dinner – he used to be a university president/professor so presumably would be good company – they met because somebody was the bridesmaid of somebody else’s bridesmaid so there is a connection. It started with me wearing a green silk shirt, my denim gauchos and hardly any makeup (yes I wore eyeshadow) and being told by Mom that my “get-up” was “more suitable for a bar.” (All of a sudden she’s an expert on bars.)
Harvey and Edna turned out to have “heard of my job” –I gather in some commiseration session on Incredibly Unsatisfactory Children – however they refuse to accept that there is any difference between being an exotic dancer and being a stripper (hello! I don’t strip) and somehow Harvey
segued from castigating “exotic dancers who try to feel superior to strippers” to criticisms of “ total sexual freedom” which apparently means that “everybody should jump on everybody.”
I tried to dignify this mess by explaining that it is actually the reverse – in the “old days” under the “ancien regime sexuelle” a dancer could expect to be “jumped on” by “anybody” because of her job (like poor old Degas’ ladies) but that actual freedom for women would mean a world in which one could be a barely clothed dancer (I would think anyone would admit nudity is at least an equally valid way of expressing the art of muscle –
line and form as heavily costumed artificial approximations) without it becoming some sexual signal that one has “lost caste” and therefore privacy and choice. I recommended Susan Brownmiller’s book to this painfully ignorant male (God knows what he taught – he had never heard of Brownmiller – seems to have her confused with Ti-Grace Atkinson assuming she mustwrite books no self-respecting intellectual would read (maybe he was the type of university president who just brings in wads of cash).
He challenged my premise that the ultimate societal freedom would be for unattached females to not to be under the threat of rape every minute. Harvey insisted – with a perfect straight face that women rape men every bit as much as the reverse – “psychologically of course” which he says is just as terrible – and in fact probably even more so since we all know the “physical thing is no big deal” and often does people a “favor”.
I must say this does not reflect very well on his wife Edna but she was smiling smugly so I think she may have just been too obtuse to follow any of the arguments.
I really could not cope with this free-for-all avalanche of idiocy especially when my parents played their trump card – if bars where women sit in front of a drink and watch barely clothed men cavorting don’t exist, therefore this is an antifeminist exercise and my claim to be a feminist is a
sham. I think it was at that point that I burst into tears. Which of course was
totally demeaning. I sorely missed Avril’s assistance – she refused to jump in
but made peacemaking noises like “you both have a point” (untrue – their “points” are a disgrace). Ugly Harvey apologized – what a monster! but there could be no satisfaction in it for me at that point. Avril went walking with me until they left.
Alas, waiting till they were gone did not end the discussion. Mom and Dad pounced on us to drive home their point that the male animal is a violent dangerous creature barely contained by the civilizing influence of the female. (Guess they can’t get behind Harvey’s “female rapist” idea.) Of course they are going to rape any female who lets down
her guard for a second and it will all be her fault. (Didn’t Ryder make this case?
I’m ashamed to share a world with these people.) Any kind of a sexual display (I guess the beach would certainly qualify) is a declaration of :
“Jump in boys! It’s free today!” At least they recognized Harvey’s
behavior as extreme (“Two drinks and he’s lost” was Dad’s comment.)
Basically, as long as I work at “that bar” I’m the
“lost cause” and if any decent male finds out about it our relationship will be over in a trice. This kind of thing makes me wonder why I bother to visit them. Fortunately, I’m escaping soon, but the whole ferry reservation problem means one loses the right to fight irretrievably with one’s hosts on this island. Dad’s big mistake was giving me an example of a good marriage as Lillian Hellman and Dashiell Hammett!
Did I blow my top! He probably thought I’d listen to him if he produced a literary example. He wasn’t aware that not only were they not married but Mr. Hammett was married to someone else and cheated on poor Hellman whenever he could manage to stay stiff long enough. (I really didn’t want to “get in” to the alcoholism problem. Lillian tried to make him seem like a “mentor” but honestly she was just his keeper and bail bondsman.)
11:30 AM Friday, 24 March 78
Staggering down for my first cup of coffee when I heard Harvey’s voice in the kitchen. Thank God I heard it in time – if he had seen me in my baby doll nighty I guess he would have considered himself justified in pinning me immediately to the floor. He brought me a hibiscus flower as a peace offering.
A more significant peace offering came from Mom and Dad who gave us each 100 more shares of stock. I tried to refuse it– they insisted. I warned them I’ll only sell it. Maybe I’ll be able to buy a new car when I get back. I could use it.
Spent last night trying to read Welty’s Bride of Innisfallen, couldn’t get my mind around it. Read Faithful Are the Wounds instead.
Very like a stage play – which isn’t necessarily a bad thing.
Powder Mill Road – home – 8:30 PM Sun 26 March 78
Can’t describe the ecstasy of being in my own
place. On the island I am hideous – here I am beautiful. The loss of confidence there is so severe as to actually induce delusions. Now that I am back I am ready to tackle my existence brilliantly. As always.
We got in last night in the pouring rain – 11:30 PM
– Avril had coffee and left. I read a soppy love story and slept in my Own Bed.
Today we did laundry, went to see a bad movie – actors working madly away to no effect. Tomorrow I get mail – hope there’s lots of it.
Did get a beautiful poem out of the island –
Peacock Pavement: The Poet on her walk – submit to Denver
Quarterly – which has been very polite about me lately. They’ve shown an interest in my stuff though nothing has ever been exactly “right.
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Inspired Pleasure – the dance diaries of Alysse Aallyn
1 July 77
Today I should start my new novel – always the worst
part. Lauren called to APOLOGIZE for our dinner. I said nothing
to apologize for I had a wonderful time. She said she had an
“off” night and they are upping my print run from 100,000 to
110,000.. So I guess I’m “on” again in case I write another Eng
gothic historical paperback they like (don’t hold your breath).
Threw aside Berckman’s Crown Estate suddenly can’t stand
other people’s writing.
Very disllusioning dinner with Chuck Kornowitz. My
piece de resistance crab manicotti in Newburg sauce turned out
exquisitely but he only cared about the booze. When I mentioned The Great American novel he said it’s been written and offered to send it to me. He edited it! He only laughed at one thing I said –
he called Athenaeum a “very, very small publishing house” and I
said, “More of a hut, really”. He obviously thought I was going to
have sex with him so that he would read my book. I turned him
down but offered to make up a bed for him on sofa (he really seemed incapacitated by drink but he blamed it on jetlag.) He insisted on leaving, looking very cranky. He did wonder aloud who the hell I think I am? What’s a little sex between “friends” (or supplicants & donors?)
Letter from Devon (I needed it) cheered me up extraordinarily.
Just in the nick of time. I’m a loner, he’s a loner too – do two loners
make a party? Having a hard time feeling beautiful when I am not
dancing and 50 situps a day and one filthy bike ride are no substitute.
But this seminarian writes a mean letter. Loved my novel. Looks
forward to servicing – er surveying Boston in my company. Four
hours on novel produces 8 bad pages. It’s a start.
Ms. MacManus foisting her probate lawyer nephew
Henry on me. He came over to invite me to the beach
(and help me walk the dogs.) He’s a pale,
pale Ryder (he’d have to be Peter Frampton to arouse me at
this stage) and I feared he’d get sunstroke but I said yes. Saw
Jabberwocky – very Monty Python.
Wrote a long wailing, complaining letter to Avril. Try to
read Women & Madness but it’s too poorly written and repels
every attempt. Norah Lofts White Hell of Pity – very depressing.
But you’re pretty much asking for it if you pick up a book with that title.
11:00 AM Sun 3 July 77
Had to walk Genevieve’s dogs all the way to Columbus
& Ninth to find NY Times. Henry cancelled – I didn’t know why till
Ms MacManus told me he found out I wasn’t Jewish! Now she tells
me! (She’s not Jewish either.) Reading First Person Singular –
actually some helpful dating advice. Is it too crass to count on
having sex with Devon July 20? (That’s as long a wait as I think
I can stand.)
12:45 PM Mon 4 July 77
Almost strangled the dogs today. Sam rolled in horseshit
in the park. Had to wash them both. Then they bothered me so much
during my exercises I had to lock them up. They howled. Penance all around. Ms. McManus invited me to see New York, New York
. We enjoyed Unsung Cole last night – and she is going to Martha’s Vineyard so won’t be around to make me her new chew toy.
11:25 PM Wish I could read the future. New York,
New York none too reassuring about male/female relationships.
Reading Leonard Woolf’s depressing Downhill All the Way.
His mind so different from Virginia’s you could call it “antithetical”.
Tomorrow’s excitement – double feature of Shame and The
Passion of Anna.
12:25 AM 9 July 77
Ryder’s divorce final. His relationship with me? Still in
“separation” phase. Trying to hate him but it’s not working. Pity
the petty man who revels in bondage. Feeling sorry for all his
future lovers is the best I can do. He would respect me more if I
was less sexually excitable, and that’s the ugly truth. Totally
resigned that Harcourt will reject Secaire. Went to Patti Smith
concert with Brett’s brother. Kind of fun the way she barks out
her poetry; but little too butch for me. He is an incipient pedophile
remarking on every thirteen-year old he saw (or possibly he was
just trying to annoy me.)
11:45 PM Sun 10 July 77
Loved Rhoda Lerman’s The Girl That He Marries
– never were reviews so misleading!
July 14, 1977
Power out in the whole city! Living by candles. No
elevator doesn’t affect us readers. Doorman up and down the
stairs with flashlights looking for old people. Dogs poop on
balcony. I seize any excuse not to write.
9 PM Fri 22 July 1977 – Mrs. McManus’ condo
Pevensey Old Farms
New deal: all I have to do for luxe pad is write an
article for Mrs. McManus’ real estate mag. I think rich people
are masters of bait and switch – I was supposed to be doing HER a favor – but of course I say yes. Contemplate novel about homicidal house-sitter called Other
People’s Houses but I see from Books In Print it’s been taken.
Lying here making new breakthroughs in the art of
writing sideways; disinfecting my ear from swimming. Wanted
to write about Monica Dickens’ Man Overboard or N Ephron’s
Crazy Salad or at the very least make a New Plan for My Novel
but find I can’t. Was very “good” today – swam, bicycled, some
writing. Allowed to eat anything here luckily her food is not too
outrageous – hamburger and zucchini salad. Marinated artichoke
hearts.
Refuse to shred my nerves further by hating myself.
My body’s not perfect but I do feel on the home stretch to self-control.
Give me six weeks and I’ll be flying. Emotionally, I’m a mess.
Devon brought up marriage and I am smotheringly certain that I
can’t live up to either of our expectations as a parson’s wife.
Might be fun to try – but that’s not the point. I fear the idiot side of me that just keeps coming out. Can’t seem self-assured, playfully
grave instead sexually voracious and maniacally ridiculous.
Anyway Intuition told me he would call tonight between
8-10.
He called at 8:30. I cracked too many jokes – conversation
painfully bizarre. He seemed calm and unfreaked. He got a new
job that gives him more “room” (he’s a waiter- he’s sick of teaching
people) asked when he could “show up” and suggested tomorrow.
Moving a lot faster than I expected from my memories of
Shy Boy. Do I want to have my fantasies played fast and loose with in this way? (Am I over Ryder?) Do I want to get over him? Or are mismatches of Time & Desire my Fate?
I am certainly NOT turning down D’s offer to see what
there can be for us. Companion? Lover? Second self? Brother?
Alas he is too blindingly handsome for me to be rational.
If he comes tomorrow there won’t be time for more than
necking (has to get to new job by 4.)
Forget “July 20”, entered on my calendar as S Day.
I WILL NOT MAKE LOVE TO A SCHEDULE. We have to have
a night alone to make things happen. I can be patient – can he?
Well, I can be honest. Best anyone can do.
10:45 PM Back from a walk, reliving my years as teenage
prowler. And peeper. These walks are very informational as I spy
couples hanging plants & merrimekkos, having fights and pouring wine.
Macramé is de rigueur. Try to imagine Devon & me in similar situations.
Maybe he won’t be a parson forever.
Celebrate my freedom from R. Nice to know I can go to parties without fearing R’s paranoia & restrictions mixed up in his exhibitionism & flamboyance. Freeing me maybe to be those things. Fantasize
pleasurably about long drives with D – my hand on his thigh – separate but equal thoughts unfolding with the journey. My emotions a difficult horse to ride.
11:50 PM
Interrupted by phone call from R.
Offered to send me money. What is wrong with him?
He said, “You were right the way you always are. When are you
coming back to me?” Loves me, misses me, wants me back. He’s
been sick – Emmys a complete bust – his TV show cancelled – 2
directors actually fired (25 people in total.) Today’s the first day he’s
been back to work, amazed not to get a pink slip. He’s taking a two
week unpaid leave to go to the Finger Lakes and find his soul. If
they fire him so what. He refuses to take out of town job.
He really worked me over – gave me a bird’s eye
view of what life with him would be like. For example, said, “his
place is my place.” If he means “move in” he knows I’ll say no
because his skyscraper doesn’t take dogs. He asked, “When
do you come down to get your furniture?” I don’t like him having
all this information. Thank God for D. Six weeks to decide
whether I even want to return to Washington. I write a poem for Devon.
Angel Clothes
You are like a ripe peach
Swollen in the summer of your life
And as the peach surrounds its stone
Your skeleton enwombs your soul
But thinly.
I often see it shining
Through the hollows in your cheeks.
I need your body
Need to know its shadows
Sound its pleasures
But as the stone
Though small at first
Must grow; feed off the dying peach
So your spirit must transhume your flesh
Disgorge it in
A thousand peaches a thousand summers a
Thousand eternities more beautiful than
You or i
Alysse Aallyn 