Alysse Aallyn

Tag: Memoir

  • Inspired Pleasure – the dance diaries of Alysse Aallyn

    6:30 PM 9 Aug 76 – Shalimar

                     Writing carefully so as not to mess up my fresh 

    polish.  Got here early – Fessenden bus much better.  Rick 

    Marl in tonight talking about R’s divorce.  Said I should hear 

    his wife’s side of the story. (He’s met her.) I don’t want to hear 

    his wife’s side of the story – what would I do if I did know it. 

                    Sounds like they should get a divorce – she’s not resisting so 

    obviously she had as many problems with him as he had with her. 

    The fact that he spent so much time here is bad news for any marriage.

                     I was very impressed by his job – a TV news director 

    is a king – he sits in a the control booth with all the camera angles 

    in front of him and tells everyone what to do. I said nothing, but I 

    enjoyed the way they looked at me – very admiringly – where did 

    SHE come from. Little do they know – R won’t tell them. If they 

    dine at the Shalimar, they’ll find out. Fortunately, they’re all good 

    family men – eat lunch out of a cooler then rush home to fix the 

    automatic garage door opener and read a bedtime story to the 

    little ones. 

                     Reading Mortal Wounds and loving it. Fun to compare

     the George Sand period to the Notorious Woman TV series last year. 

    Went on a picnic with R. then saw Robert Shaw in Swashbuckler.

    Ghastly flick. I wasn’t too rude because R liked it. Told him he should 

    have seen Anne of the Thousand Days.

            Sent out 12 poems. But I’m trying to force myself to stop writing 

    poetry and concentrate on novel. There’s no financial point to poetry

     – Alas.

    11:35 am Thurs 12 Aug 76

                     I’d like to write but I must pack for the trip and it junks up my

     head. Mss, 2 ribbons (in case) correctype, The Romantic Egoists, 

    Zelda and Scott Fitzgerald’s Scrapbooks, and the wonderful 

    portrait by Julia Cameron of the two little girls clutching each other 

    which I see as the cover of my book. Sad to see the way Fitzgerald

     tried to force his wishes on the universe – force it to see things – 

    to be – his way.  No wonder he admired the rich – they’re the only 

    ones who sometimes – very infrequently –  get away with that. But 

    they are not enviable nevertheless – it’s always a naked emperor 

    situation.  Zelda’ s constant references to “not having a past” interest 

    me exceedingly – that way madness most definitely lies.  This is what 

    happens to people who insist on “living in the present”; they become amnesiacs.  Idea for a poem.

    F. SCOTT FITZGERALD:

    “To the Spoils Belong the Victor”

    The butler’s name is Gin;

    He never gets the girl.

    The Heart’s Café is terraced –

    Cantilevered exits exalt

    No core. At the Pony Bar

    Payment is upfront;

    Robert Service and Booth Tarkington

    Left prints on ice;

    The service is bad but

    There’s a reason for everything.

    Back at the Alhambra someone who might be Ernest

    Puts the moves on someone

    Who looks like Zelda or possibly it was

    The other way around.

    They never get these stories straight.

    Here’s the one they played last year:

    Sole is déclassé but at least

    There’s always caviar.

    Look on, look down, look it up or read

    The menu.

    Floorshow Tonight: Van Wyck Brooks &

    Edmund Wilson Debate:

    Artist = Self-destructive Sport?

    Or Fad? Or Fate?

                      I guess I’ll need  clothes – so I must do laundry.  I also should 

    clean house for poor A – it’s only fair.  No writing; circumstances militate. 

                     R working very hard to get to the point where he can take a 

    vacation – he didn’t get in till 2:45 AM.

    Shalimar – 3:30 PM –13 Aug 76

                     Was sitting on a box of Lite Beer sipping coffee and 

    reading Miss Read when Carmen warned me that the boss 

    might fire me for reading. Apparently writing he doesn’t mind 

    so much, probably because he can’t imagine anyone keeping 

    it up longer than 10 mins at a time. R. will be here soon, then 

    we hit the bank, pick up my stuff and we’re on the road for the 

    Finger Lakes.  Five hours alone in the car.  I find I have a lot 

    of inhibitions against voicing boundaries in our relationship – 

    mainly because I don’t want to be lied to.  I want to find out 

    how things really are. For example, he spent last night in 

    Gaithersburg with his wife. Now her I’m jealous of, because

     he used to love her, used to think she was a “catch” and 

    was surprised and gratified that she “descended” into 

    marriage with him.  

                     I probably won’t ask him if they had sex because 

    it would be making too much of it. He’s said before he wouldn’t,

     and she definitely wouldn’t. But I can’t believe a woman who 

    knows she’s losing a man might not change in her feelings – 

    just to see what power she has left. I would, if he wanted the 

    divorce and I didn’t. Will I be able to tell just by looking at him? 

    R feels the right to be jealous and possessive over me, which

     I don’t grudge him since I’m naturally monogamous. He feels 

    no discomfort making rules for me. But he should.

    6:00 PM Saturday 14 Aug 76 Finger Lakes

                     Lying on the bed in our tiny TINY two room cabin – 

    with just a curtain separating the rooms – I was going to write 

    here about how much I love my job (I really miss dancing so 

    much when I’m away from it – the ideal thing would be three 

    sets a day for life) – when R came in, threw himself on me,

     tore my clothes off, began kissing my breasts and exploring 

    my tan lines and pressing his beautiful valued body hard hard

     hard into mine – and you know what happened next.  If he turns 

    the fan on high I don’t think the other campers can hear our little 

    yips and screams.  At least I hope not. We spent last night in his

     grandmother’s house in Binghamton, New York. 

                     She bedded us down in separate rooms – he gave me a

     long lecture about how you have to respect the house rules of 

    whoever you’re staying with – and then who do you think showed 

    up in the middle of the night saying he couldn’t sleep. It is ecstatic 

    to have sex almost without moving – this must be what Tantra is like. 

    We were directly over her and the bed creaked so we didn’t move a 

    muscle – absorbed and shed each other like snakes. Wonderful.

                     Next stop was R’s cousins who own the cabins. I don’t know 

    what to say about them – plastic flowers and Sonny James. My state 

    of deep shock probably resembled mental retardation. Some people’s 

    houses are frighteningly ugly. Their clock has eyes,  they keep the 

    plastic on the lampshades. I just sat there while the ethnic and sex 

    jokes filtered around me.  Who could blame R’s first wife for 

    shunning this bunch? 

                     I would not choose them for buddies either. And the fact

     that they are renting us a cabin doesn’t appear to mean we will 

    also get privacy – so I have taken to wearing my glasses. Number 

    one – I don’t see as well – number two – it creates a kind of screen 

    between me and them.

                     The Lake is beautiful – but I don’t need to go in more than 

    twice a day – I also don’t have the patience for the fish-a-thons that 

    absorb the rest of them, dawn till dusk. 

                     Plus one time waterskiing was plenty.  Since dinner is a 

    vast barbecue down at the beach every night and we only have 

    sandwiches for lunch and cereal for breakfast there is not that 

    much to do, thank God. Sadly the dinners are followed by 

    hours of dancing, drinking and fighting.  I go to bed early to read 

    but R stays and plays “peacemaker”. Tonight he says he’s going 

    to let them kill each other and join me. Therefore I can set up my 

    typewriter on the kitchen table and get right to it. People keep 

    coming to bring me coffee and cookies – I think they really 

    want to see a writer “in action” – at the end of this trip I MAY 

    be 20 lbs heavier. The rest of my time is spent sunning and reading.  

                     Unfortunately St. Secaire going VERY badly. Complete

     horseshit, alas.

             I’ve started it four separate times. I think at this point I just 

    have to keep going and hope it’s possible to clean up the mess later.

                       Tuesday 17 Aug 76 7:30 PM

                     Outside a fair number of people, all high as kites, 

    revving their engines and swearing they’re leaving and never 

    coming back. I don’t know if anybody’s actually going to GO 

    or not but I wish they would.  No wonder R had nothing to do 

    with these people for four years – he may conveniently blame 

    his wife but the truth is none of them can stand each other. 

    Pack of wolverines. I’ve been left totally alone and am well 

    out of it – they may have forgotten I am even here. Last night R 

    was so depressed he just lay on the bed exhausted by them. I 

    tried to explain to him about resentment and the resulting succubae 

    and incubi thus created. (Subject of my novel, in fact.) 

                     He said something about “our next 25 years” that just 

    floored me. Even my husband didn’t talk like that.  Remember 

    saying to my father – I would be fine if I could only find a man who

     treated me as well as I treated him. Dad – so ready to take 

    anybody’s part over mine,  said, Has it ever occurred to you at 

    you might be hard to live with?  Such a typical Daddy remark – 

    the more you think about it the worse it gets.  

                     Well, R treats me better than anyone else so far. 

    He’s almost talked me into looking for a new job when I get back – 

    and that’s a lot. But if he wants to introduce me around, can’t lie 

    about what I do, etc etc. (This group – doesn’t know about my job –

     he says they’d eat me – and him – alive. I can scarcely believe 

    they would take the moral high ground with me but I suppose 

    anything’s possible.) 

                  Tried to read a Redbook someone brought – 

    shouldn’t do it.  So depressing.  Could never write like that or 

    be like that. If that’s the standard this whole thing is hopeless. 

    Then I picked up a book by Grace Livingston Hill.  I’m going to 

    include her in my article on female pornographers.

                       R told me he had the impression that if I didn’t have my 

    novel to write I would probably go bananas. I said probably. I tried 

    to prepare him for the very different kind of vacation he’s going to 

    get in Maine – where people very deliberately leave each other alone.

     If somebody sets off down the beach and you wanted also to walk 

    on the beach – you’d turn and go the opposite way. R says in his 

    family that would be grounds for a six-year grudge punctuated by 

    sobbing, screaming and threats of suicide.

    12:10 am

                       Went night fishing with R because he wanted me to.

     Wrote a wonderful poem about Coleridge – just came to me in 

    one piece. Couldn’t really share with R – he doesn’t know who 

    Coleridge is. So I showed him – Haunted Wedding. 

    HAUNTED WEDDING

    The pregnant car disgorges

    Only us. It’s winter.

    Drunk as silver fish

    We beat our gills as light

    As hummingbirds.

    In an amethyst ring

    Of drypoint trees 

    The half-built house

    Gapes and swells

    Its timbers stink of sap.

    Windrill fields occlude

    Our crossing, so you carry me

    High above the thorny osiers.

    We sleep aloft for safety

    Locked and levitating

    In this space of air 

    One season only,

    Unseen by angry outriders;

    Bloodless in our wedding robes

    Like the doubled membranes

    Of the frozen flowers

                     This triggered a fight because he says it wasn’t written 

    for him.  (If he jealously searches my work for other lovers 

    madness is assured.)  He almost talked me into thinking it a 

    bad poem.

                       I feel my mother’s disapproving stare on all of this – “

    don’t ruin what you have by trying to get something else” – as 

    if showing R this poem would  be a deliberate way of hurting him 

    by making him feel inferior – part of her larger accusation that I 

    channel so much energy into writing I’m no good with people and 

    that’s why my relationships suffer.  All I can say is, thank God for 

    my diary.  

                       Writing now with my feet in R’s lap while he plays cards. 

    He strokes my toes from time to time, as if I were a cat. We came in

     from fishing and he just took my pants down – such earthy 

    sexuality has never existed for him. He told me he’s never 

    been so happy.  And as for me? One side of my multi-prismed 

    personality is happy, but some of the other sides are complaining. 

    Difficult to contemplate an existence where I am not mentally alone 

    six hours a day. 

                       One of the reasons I like my job is that it leaves that part 

    of me remarkably intact – dancing is a lot like sleepwalking. If I get 

    another job there’s a strong chance I’ll have to interact with humans. 

    Hell. And we both know how humans can be. Then I might be too 

    exhausted emotionally and battered psychologically to have the 

    energy to write – it’s a serious risk.  Those architects ran roughshod 

    over me. 

  • Inspired Pleasure – the dance diaries of Alysse Aallyn

        9:45 AM Wed July 28 76

                                Anniversary of Toss Sheffield relieving me of 

    my impacted virginity (as I relieved him of his.)  R came yesterday at 2 – 

    left at 3 – came back at 5.  Another watershed in our relationship – Fears. 

    He’s afraid to lose the hearing in his good ear. He speaks sign 

    language but doesn’t want to live in a world without sound. I made 

    him promise to go the doctor. He agreed to make an appointment no 

    later than Weds. 

                       Reading Christina Stead’s wonderful Dark Places of 

    the Heart. Considered inviting Ryder to live with us – rejected 

    the idea. I need too much alone time. So important to establish 

    amour proper. I am so impoverished from setting up the house 

    (though I’ve made enough in tips to pay my taxi ride home tonight) 

    I am barely going to make the rent. Need a windfall.

                       Sweaty and smelly. I think I’ve boogie –oogie-oogied 

    till I just can’t boogie no more.  

                       Club Shalimar– 30 July 76

                     Cookout at Ryder’s parents – I met his folks – two 

    roly-poly people who are nothing like him –  one sister who is

     a lot younger. 

                     We had glorious talks on our way there and back – 

    about having our own space – (we agreed he needs to live alone);  

    our hopes and dreams (he used to write music, wants to do that 

    again someday – I told him I have an agent shopping a novel around) 

     first impressions (I discovered he was in the bar when I auditioned! 

    Horrors!) He said what intrigues him most about me is that he 

    can’t figure me out – still can’t – everything about me is a surprise. 

    I guess I could say the same about him.  

                     Wonderful abandoned sex – just crazy stuff – I came and 

    came.  He told me he spent last night at his old house – he and 

    his wife had to have a “meeting”.   I was jealous until he told me 

    that his wife is sexually dead – and always has been. He didn’t 

    understand it when they married, assuming it was something you 

    get over.  I suggested she was probably molested as a child – 

    he didn’t want to believe it. He thinks some people are sexually

     just asexual. I thought – but didn’t say – there’s a self-protective 

    concept. He doesn’t want to think she is turned off of him but in

     my experience – such as it is – chemistry is a completely 

    mysterious yet crucial factor women have a tendency to discount 

    it when choosing a life partner.  So they end up married to the 

    “perfect” person, except they’re not sexually stirred. 

                     2:00 AM. He tucked me in – kissed me – left – then 

    I was wakened with his hands all over me. When he got to his 

    car he realized our clock had stopped and he didn’t have time 

    to go home before work. So he snuck back in the sliding door.

     We had sex again, and the whole night became a snake

     eating its own tail. This morning got a wonderful poem: 

    Love, the Magician.

    The Magician is a Capricorn

    Bleeding cock’s milk from nipples

    Pale like mine but

    Maler.

    Illusion, he says is memory

    Of things that should have been.

    Doves and rabbits he entices

    From sacred groves between my legs

    Placed by ruse, and freed by art.

    When he dies, passion turns his eyes

    To quarters.

    He hears the world but faintly

    Through his one good ear.

    The other turns to me,

    Safecracker’s daughter.

    Trust the magician, voices tell me

    He knows when to drop the dice.

    31 July 76 Shalimar

                       R came in but I managed to get rid of him. Sandy 

    brought in a huge bag of string beans, squash and tomatoes 

    from her garden – I told Ryder to take them home and cook them. 

    My job is turning into a source of tremendous conflict – he is the 

    snake in his own paradise.  Plus, tips really fall off when he is 

    here. I am already looking at a very tough month financially – 

    trying to take so much time off.  He said he’ll be back at the end 

    of the night to pick me up – he’s hurt when I’m “in need” and 

    don’t call him. So that saves cab fare anyhow.  

                       We took a walk between sets and talked about his 

    parents – second generation immigrants,  lifelong Army. He doesn’t 

    tell them anything (they obviously know his marriage broke up 

    and now he’s with me – but they don’t know about his deafness, 

    for example or about his classes at Gallaudet.)  He said to me, 

    can you believe I’ve only seen these people twice in the past 

    four years? And we live in the same state.  Wait till he meets 

    my parents – shudder. I’ll put it off as long as I possibly can.

                       Dancing tonight with Alicia. Poor Alicia. She’s a 

    “dripper” (constantly leaking pee) but blames it on hypoglycemia. 

    She hates dancing when there are so few people in here. 

    It’s kind of interesting.  She sort of has a whorish appearance and 

    doesn’t realize she’s trapped in a vicious cycle – audience thinks 

    she’s a loose woman, she thinks they’re perverts.

                     I’m trying not to fall into the super-loving, super-giving

     trap but Ryder is the first guy I’ve ever met who would obviously 

    be a wonderful father. Rare among men under thirty?  Or something.

                     Talked to Avril on the phone – she was bored to tears at home

     so I suggested she come in. We shared a burger basket and she 

    saw me dance for the first time. She wasn’t grossed out at all by 

    the semi-nudity – which is good – told me I’m a great dancer and 

    she really envies me my pelvic wiggle.  

                     Also told me I have a terrific body – which really cheered 

    me up because I still feel too hefty around Ryder.  (At his parents’ house 

    we went over his old scrapbooks – he was the star quarterback in 

    high school football.  They described him as 5’4”!  That’s a lot 

    shorter than he admits to these days. His boots have at least two

     inch heels.)  A left after one set because all the guys of course 

    came on to her. Obvious losers, alas, including the one who insists

     he’s a hitman for the CIA and another who claims to be giving 

    away government jobs. 

                     Unfortunately I’m dependent on the tips of these characters.  

    Ryder has been telling them all that I’m a writer (instead of a call girl,

     presumably) which gives me a lot of explaining to do.  

                     I wish I had money to buy things the house needs – 

    flashlights and fuses and drainers and shelving and all that stuff – 

    but I’m saving every bit for our trip to the Finger Lakes. Aug 5 will 

    mark one month in the house and six months since I quit the 

    architects. Seems like much longer than that. Where will I be 

    six months from now? 

                       Hope my gothic novel sells – I need an immediate 

    hundred grand. I really can’t write with R sucking up all my free time. 

    I’ve been struggling with another poem about him – even that isn’t 

    coming. Hopefully we’ll settle down into being able to work side 

    by side quietly – maybe after our vacation.

    6:00 PM, Chevy Chase Tyler St, 2 Aug 76

                     Across the street Shoulders, dressed in a skimpy football 

    undershirt, is mowing his lawn. He is a sight to behold.

                     Sitting over my repaired typewriter with a cup of hot tea 

    and a case of writer’s block. I could write a poem about Shoulders – 

    already R is interfering with my life. Beautiful day – a little chilly – 

    a little Maine edge to it.

                     Finished Stead’s Dark Places – which I adored – absolutely 

    one of a kind.  Another bothersome thing about R – he really doesn’t 

    read. He’s been dragging around a sleazy paperback “heist comedy”  

    he pretends to read from time to time. At this rate it will take him six 

    months.  I am struggling with All Authors are Equal but I may give 

    up on it and read Famous Washington Ghosts which R picked up 

    for me to add to my considerable collection of ghost stories (I must 

    have 50 vols.)

                       On the phone with Maeve my old Baltimore buddy – 

    she is behind in her rent but looking for a new job. In the meantime 

    borrowing from boyfriends.   I take a perverse pleasure that anyone

     is managing worse than me.

                       Shalimar – 10:20 PM

                     Called in tonight to replace another girl – great – that 

    means I work 5 times this week.  Just that small amount makes a 

    big difference. A is in the chips right now and I could owe her 

    but don’t want to.

                     When I came in they told me R had been in 30 mins

     before. That was a little unsettling – I didn’t realize he would come in 

    if I weren’t here. Of course it is really close to his job – but equally

     of course the food is more expensive here than just about 

    anywhere else he could choose.  I look at who was dancing 

    to see whether he would think she was in any way better than me –

     luckily it was the pisser Alicia instead of potentially scary 

    competition like, say, Gloria. He didn’t know I was coming in, 

    because Carmen didn’t tell him.  Reading the Ghosts of 

    Washington. Wonderful poem potential. 

    Shalimar Thurs 5 Aug 76

                     R dearer every day, in spite of the fact that he’s 

    been checking up on me. Called and called last night – wondered 

    where I was – I wasn’t too sure how to tell him A and I were 

    over at Shoulders’ drinking, so I just said we were visiting 

    the neighbors.  Standing in their yard, which wasn’t true. He is 

    jealous of Shoulders and I don’t blame him – such lush male 

    beauty makes women helpless. A is a complete mess over him. 

    He frequently wanders around the house in nothing but his 

    boxers –  we call them as his “huppa”.

                       R. finally got an apt and can stop “crashing” with

     friends –  one bedroom at the top of a Rockville skyscraper. 

    Sounds crazy expensive to me.  Wrote a good poem – 

    capitol ghosts – today from the book R gave me. 

    Trying to think where to send it. Tomorrow’s my day off – 

    R coming over at 2.

    CAPITOL GHOSTS

    Pale Guiteau

    slants his disappointed child’s face

    downwards; the better to study bloodstains left

    by assassins more accomplished than himself

    who required benefit of anonymous surgeons 

    specially qualified for skewering

    the muscles of the mighty.

    The guard who saw him

    claimed also to hear demon cats

    and could not be relied upon.

    these portents once were matters of

    congressional dispute; now

    no matter; caught within the marbled lurch

    of history, victims

    of the uninspired mad; 

    those who pursue the corpse from whom

    the ghost escaped. He haunts our history

    like the villainous barber who sings as he slits

    both throats and wombs, a pure tune

    some say, picked clean of tragedy

                                   which only the dying hear.

    Shalimar 7 Aug 76

                     Sitting here in a stupor of exhaustion. We had an 

    Al Green fan in here tonight – kept playing same song over 

    and over. Presumably working through some kind of 

    relationship crisis. They don’t realize coming here and blowing 

    their money kills any relationship – and I am not going to tell 

    them. Anyway I hate Al Green.  Missed my bus this AM so 

    took the Fessenden bus and walked across. A better way to go – 

    I like the walk – to hell with this transfer business. 

                     I have to admit R doesn’t seem to understand 

    poetry. He’s very suspicious of all ease, elegance, lightness. 

    Too much Nature!  “Work” should make you grit your teeth, 

    groan and bulge your forehead veins.   The easier it comes, 

    the less valuable it MUST be.  (He would hate Picasso’s very 

    best stuff!)  I’ve tried getting him to understand by comparing 

    art to athletics – it only looks easy – it’s the training beforehand 

    that’s so hard. The trick is to render training invisible. But he 

    seems to think modern poetry is a plot to make him look stupid. 

                     Really worried about money lately – everything at 

    Unibank is bouncing.  It doesn’t take much to set off a chain 

    reaction.  Guess I’ll have to borrow from Avril after all.

                     How true it is that before you can love you must 

    love yourself. My love for myself is wavering.  Just finished 

    Sean Stiles’ Occam’s Razor. I hate to see a good idea wasted. 

    Mostly I am depressed by the poor quality of the stories in 

    the Times Detective Story competition anthology.  This is 

    something I should aspire to?  I’m on a wonderful streak 

    of poetry – keep piling them up – got ophelia and 

    haunted house this eve.

    OPHELIA WAS A MAN

    The best revenge is growing up.

    Behold a street of suicides –

    Fringed lampshades &

    Mullioned windows where

    The dentist’s son grew dope

    From seed (they had eight bathrooms and

    The dentist couldn’t be everywhere)

    His wife was nowhere; we saw her leave

    With the cat in a suitcase clawing to get out.

    “Crazier than thou” averred my aunt.

    That boy blew the fruits of orthodontal science until

    The day he blew his mind –

    We traced the hissing-pissing-noise

    To the garage of the stockbroker’s son; he’s

    The one who stayed home from Yale to rewrite Hamlet

    (Made it better – put in people you could recognize)

    Type-cast himself – since he saw ghosts.

    Two fine boys married to each other

    Rosy-cheeked and sightless

    In their parents’ wedding clothes.

                     Tomorrow R is taking me on a tour of the television 

    station and out to lunch. This is a biggie – see where he works.  

                      So I had to buy a gorgeous black linen jumpsuit (size 5!) Should 

    be worn with high red heels – but needless to say, can’t around 

    R. So instead, flat sandals. Fortunately everything is on sale.  

     A and I have decided to ask Maeve to move in with us – we can’t 

    seem to manage alone and we do have three bedrooms, but 

    she’ll have to hide from the landlord. I hate to do it.  Letter from 

    D today – he’s in love with the 18 yr old virgin daughter of his minister. 

    Didn’t do a thing to me. God bless ‘em.

                     Rick the gambler in tonight. He’s a friend of R’s – cheered 

    me up by telling me I’ve done so much for R who was really “hurting” 

    over his divorce.

                     Ryder – I love you – but I don’t really know who you are.  Hope you are who you pretend to be. 

  • Inspired Pleasure – The Dance Diary of Alysse Aallyn

                     Fri 16 July 76 – Club Shalimar

                       A & I hung living room paintings today, and the last piece 

    was moved in. Half an hour till my date with Ryder. Will his 

    name mean anything to me in twenty years?  Brought blow dryer,

     change of clothes and unguents sufficient to slap me back into shape 

    after 7 hrs dancing. Idly listening to gossip of Randy 

    (bouncer), Jinx (dancer) and Bobbi (bartender).

                     A and I had pleasant evening last night – wild storm 

    and the power failed. So we went out walking afterwards with 

    dogs & flashlights. Fun looking into people’s houses, seeing 

    them move about with candles. What does the future hold? 

     I worry both that Ryder will be there and that he won’t be there.

     Margery Sharp’s The Faithful Servants has a lot of sweetness.

                       17 July 76

                      Interesting date. I want to write about it but first I have 

    to say today has been a TERRIBLE day – I had to follow ex-stripper 

    named Edie who wore a black lace corset and gloves and carried

     a whip onstage – everything but the donkey, as one of the other 

    dancers remarked. Then I had to listen to loud speculation on 

    how I got the bruise on my ass when it was my turn.

                     But Ryder Arlen. We had a wonderful dinner. He 

    ordered in Italian.  The weirdest thing about him is that he 

    doesn’t like mushrooms. Long dinner, then over to the Gangplank 

    for Irish coffee. He insisted upon carrying me across two puddles – 

    he’s not very big and I was sure he’d get a hernia – but he made it.

                     We got back to Chevy Chase the house looked wonderful – 

    A had obviously slaved for hours. We had her down for a glass of 

    wine, then she went back upstairs. We ended up reading my poetry 

    I didn’t show him the erotic stuff because I didn’t feel the time was right.

     He liked valentine the best – 

    Valentine

    I sent myself in a letter

    Heart-creased

    Like a glove

    Too much folded

    An anecdote

    Too much told

    Dear stranger don’t

    Lose me

    I forgot the rule

    (Hold back a copy)

                       Then we made out for hours. He was deliciously 

    passionate. I said, “You don’t want to end up in bed on the 

    first date, do you?” He said, “You pick the time and the place 

    but I hope it’s inevitable.”

                       I said it was certainly feeling that way but I’d have 

    to get to know him better. I wouldn’t let him take down the 

    top of my dress either.  He left at 2:45 AM. He seems to 

    really care for me – so my worry that I’m just a first experiment 

    after leaving wife seems baseless. He invited me to go crabbing

     tomorrow, then on a four-day cruise sometime in August.

                       Fri 23 July 76 – Tyler St, Chevy Chase, Maryland 

                       R and I have seen each other every day since Fri – 

    I think he’s in love. I could fall if I let myself but something holds me back. 

     I like our relationship now – he drops by the house after work 

    and we’re both in jeans. I think tonight’s the night for sex – 

    first time – I’m nervous but since I love his body I expect 

    to be all right.

                      Adore these slow working mornings. I get up 

    with A (depending on when her first run is – she’s now 

    working courier) to have time to set my hair before leaving 

    at 10. Beautiful walks up Tyler St. Early AM at the Shalimar 

    such a pleasure  – sitting at the bar with my diary balanced 

    on my hipbones, watching the barmaids get ready,  feeling 

    like a character out of Toulouse Lautrec. 

                     Yesterday we met across the street neighbors – 

    one of them is a gorgeous guy named Larry getting a degree

     in Hospital Administration.  Among ourselves we call him 

    “Shoulders” because he has such a gorgeous pair. To see 

    them dimpled with sweat on his way back from a run is to be

     in heaven.  Invited Larry and roommates Garrett and Opal to 

    dinner tomorrow night – if they can come.

    Thurs 22 July 76 – 9:25 Pm

                       God I’m in love. I love his fragile, tense blond body – 

    love holding it. Love looking at his Lorenzo diMedici face. 

    Those blond Italians!  He wouldn’t like to hear me say it – 

    he has a black belt in karate and thinks he’s so tough – but 

    he probably only outweighs me by 20 lbs. Made love all afternoon – 

    he is very skilful – obsessed with my pleasure. Says he doesn’t 

    care if he ever comes – wants to see what gives a woman joy.  

    We fit together exactly  – interlocking puzzle pieces even 

    upside down.  I can feel his feet with my feet – his knees 

    with my knees – it’s like having a mirror body – only with a 

    hard chest and penis. After the first time the relief of the orgasm 

    was so great I wept.  I fell asleep with him inside me.  Wrote 

    a poem about him but don’t know if I want to show him.  If I 

    learned anything from Bruce it’s that people misrepresent. 

    He could be shockable and its early days yet. Today I want 

    to buy a bookcase.

                       Love equals, unfortunately, anxiety attacks – could 

    he possibly love me as much as I love him?  Yesterday walking 

    in the park I expressed fear about him going straight from one 

    serious relationship right into another – but he says he refuses to 

    limit the experience.  Which of course was exactly the right answer.

    The worst part is his trouble with my job. 

                       He says he knows he can’t ask me to quit because

     he can’t support me – I pointed out he wants me to go on the Divers 

    World expedition, and then to Cozumel, and I want to take him to Maine,

     all of which would be impossible if I had a regular job. He says he 

    can deal with it only by avoiding the Shalimar – OK by me as long as 

    I see him outside. He came in today – I got rid of him after a half hour, 

    before my set.

    11:05 AM – Shalimar Tues 27 July 76

                     Feel like throwing out all my diaries. Driveling gush broken 

    up by gushing drivel. But I go right ahead and produce some more.  

    Randy throwing ice and cases of beer, Bobbi cleaning trays, Carmen 

    checking paper towels and me writing. Perfect.

                     We were lying in bed – me and Ryder – I have to lie on his 

    right side because he only has one good ear – and he told me a long 

    purposeless allegory about bullfighting. Can’t tell which of us is the 

    supposed to be the matador. I’m the only one with a poetic license 

    in this relationship.) He said I should just write, and he’s going 

    to see to it.  I said fine by me. I love this job but not as much 

    as writing, love and freedom. Then he said, I love you. 

  • Inspired Pleasure – The Dance Diaries of Alysse Aallyn

    Fri. 16 April 1976 – 2 PM – Train to Philly – a zombified
    redhead in suede coat, oversized purse & glasses.
    Lacking mirrors, we lose our faces. Got to get my emotional
    house in order but I can’t think how. I used to have a
    roadmap and none of this was on it. What am I? An idiot?
    No. Just an addict of spiritually orgasmic livnig. Still, all is
    grist for the art mill.


    Reading The Fortunate Miss East, a charming,
    charming little novel. Aunt Fred picking me up – I’m scheduled
    to read my poetry at Baldwin School.

        Zevin Towers – Wash DC 9:30 AM Wed 21 Apr 76
    Baby sis Avril and I are totally broke. We are eating

    our way thru Mom & Dad’s supplies. The grapenuts went first
    then the soup. Now we are on sauerkraut and spinach.
    Playing Fleetwood Mac & Jimmy Spheeris while sitting on
    the balcony looking over Rock Creek Park. You don’t see one
    building; Washington DC masquerades as a virgin world. I
    need a job by next Mon. Something tells me I can’t finish my
    novel and sell it in time. I refuse to be a cubicle drudge again
    so what is there? Nude modeling sounds dangerous. Topless
    dancing?

    Avril admits she sits on a park bench instead of going
    to class as she told Mom! Uh oh. She says she just can’t “make
    herself” do things. What a relief to have someone worse off
    than me.


    How I wish I could fall in love with Marc Kramer. He’s longing to buy jewelry for someone! I could sell that rather than the contents of this old folks’ apartment. But he’s too sane if anything andwears funny old man lace-up shoes.

    Plus he’s covered in a thick mat of dark fur. And there’s his endless talk about shorts,hedges, futures. PARALYZINGLY DULL. Raining outside.


    Isn’t life rotten?

        10:50 AM Sun 2 May 76
    Answered an ad for “go-go girl”.  You wear fringed

    bikinis and go-go boots and dance for the troops! No
    more than 2 gigs a day (gotta drive there) and
    each one only lasts an hour so $60 seems very generous.


    She asked for my “experience” – I said I used to be a Maxim’s
    dancer! (I didn’t say it was for the nuns’ THEATRE
    SCHOOL in Minnesota!)


    DeeDee is giving me my schedule tomorrow.


    Tips are welcome because I don’t get paid till the 15th. Have
    to clean this apt and I don’t want to at all. Dad says apt
    lease up in two months so I’ll have to find somewhere else
    to live (Mom refuses to live here because 16th floor.) Dad
    says men are put off by us because Avril and I are too
    “masculine” by which he means determined, decisive and
    pleasure seeking. (A. very disappointed because she’s had
    two dates with Paul and no sex yet.) Reading
    Spink’s Hans Christian Andersen and his World – what
    a painful ugly duckling story!

        Tues. 4 May 76 9:45 pm
    Totally exhausted. Had to dance 2 hrs at Andrews

    AFB because my partner didn’t show up (but it’s double the
    money.) Jefferson Starship’s Miracles my favorite song to
    dance to. Soldiers always want to play I’m A Man and
    that’s no fun. Of course I have seen Spencer Davis’ dark side up
    close while I was trailing around dragging an echo-plex after
    rockstar husband Bruce. Would be reading The Place at
    Whitton     by Thos Keneally if I could keep my eyes open.

        11:20 AM Sat 8 May 76
    No word from Beautiful Faraway Perfect Man

    Devon about whether he will ever visit, but speaking of
    attractive young men I had a “conversion experience” at
    the Ft. Myers’ officers club yesterday. I was registering
    at the front desk when this young man with dark curly
    hair and the face of an angel asked me who I was and
    what I was up to. I was wearing my go-go outfit plus
    military-style jacket so I did stand out. He wore a sweatband
    around his head and was all set for running but his plans
    changed in a flash. He would rather watch me dance instead.


    His name is Frank and something Italian. Took me down to
    the dark Hideaway Club and watched me the whole time –
    playing and replaying the Pointer Sisters’ Chick on the Side.
    I gave him my number and he gave me a $20 tip. Does he
    represent a break from lonely masturbation? At this stage
    of my relationship with Devon I can hardly be unfaithful.
    We shall see.


    Marc Kramer called offering to fly me to the island
    and back for Memorial Day weekend. I have $266 in the bank.
    Should I take him up on it? Just doesn’t feel right.
    Wouldn’t be able to get rid of him when I wanted to.
    I hate feeling “beholden.” Reading Norah Lofts’ Hauntings
    to help me with my ghost stories.

        2:15 PM – Sun 9 May 76
    Lying in bed surrounded by Sun papers. Have decided

    to get tix for me and Avril to Royal Danish Ballet’s Triumph of Death,


    Royal Ballet’s Romeo and Juliet and All’s Well That Ends Well
    at the Folger Shakespeare Library. So glorious having money.

        Tues. 2:30 pm 18 May 76
    Guy came forward at the Army Navy Yard, offered

    me his card and said I could make a whole lot more money
    dancing at his club. I have to admit this rushing around in a
    car is getting old – our Gremlin AKA the “el Diablo” is acting up. ThinkI will go to his club, talk to the other dancers and see what
    the scoop is. It is “topless”, but so what if you aren’t supposed
    to (or expected to) “fraternize’ with the audience. There is a stage.


    Went to look at a townhouse off Dupont Circle –
    2 bedroom, $435 a month but no place for dogs. Can’t live without my dogs forever.

    Jeannie and I perform at a private party in
    Annandale. I am nervous but she is completely cool and they
    are content to look. Avril has a new man – Jack.

        Wed 26 May 1976 – The Parkway East
    Waiting my turn to go on. Thought I was going to have

    dance alone but thank God Darby finally showed up – fucked up,
    but she can dance. (Her boyfriend brought her.) Phoned Devon –
    boy that was stupid – to see if he wanted to go to the island for
    Mem Day Weekend. He is playing in a tennis tournament and not
    “available”. Every time I reach out to him I feel like a sap.
    Never know whether his mysterious “tides” are “in” or “out”.
    He did his best to sound warm and affectionate but he is obviously very stressed – he was actually panting! Now he’ll have to meditate for a week. Must let this man go.

    When I wail about him, Avril
    makes me laugh by saying, “He’s GAY! He just won’t admit it!”
    But I have to say in the sack he didn’t seem gay to me.
    Genevieve invites us to NYC for Mem Day weekend.
    She has filed for divorce and fallen in love with someone else.
    Ex Kent doesn’t know but she warns us he is calling everyone in
    the family begging us to intervene.

        2 PM – 9 June 76
    Sun night I invited Frank and his roommate to dinner.

    Horrible. They were 45 mins late and my blintzes were ruined.
    Avril & roommate took against each other immediately. They
    brought Thai sticks, we refused to smoke. On an up note I
    took a cab to the Club Shalimar (Gremlin in shop) and the taxi
    driver was so excited about having a poet in his car he didn’t
    charge me. Said he had never met a poet before. (Gave him
    a poem on the spot.) Shalimar seems possible – other dancers
    like it but constant turnover; no one has been there long.
    Bouncer very nice, and I can take a bus there so A. can have car.
    Tempted to risk it.


    11:05 PM – waiting for Jeannie in the empty Bethesda
    Naval Officers Club. She is giving me a ride home. She is an
    interesting person – has done a lot of nude modeling – showed
    me her portfolio. Very Playboy. Officers keep marching through
    in their whites. They are very polite.

        Fri. 11 June 76 8:15 PM - 
    Things could hardly be worse.  Got my hair cut the

    other day – I only wanted a trim – he absolutely butchered me.
    It is barely shoulder length and it looks like a cow slept in it.
    I hate all hairdressers, gynecologists and dentists – you’re just
    completely helpless in their hands. Plus I got another piercing
    in each ear and the left one seems infected. Now my face looks
    crooked. Also having my period so I am swollen up like I’m
    pregnant. Avril has a college friend (male) coming for the
    weekend and she is beating herself up – “Why did I say yes?”
    She would call and cancel if only he had a phone.


    On the plus side, tips at the Shalimar are really
    good and the dancing is as energetic as you feel like –
    which means standing there swaying is Just Fine. You
    can rock yourself to sleep if you want to. Of course my
    ego won’t allow too much relaxation.


    Piece of good news – agent loves my gothic novel!
    Reading The Royal Victorians. Gremlin seems stabilized
    so Avril applied for a job as a driver with a messenger service.

        Fri. 18 June 76 ll:00 Am
    A’s friend a complete bozo.  Fortunately he has other

    places to be so we hardly see him. Huge sigh of relief and
    lesson learned. Let’s just hope he doesn’t steal the silver.
    DeeDee and I come to a Sad Parting of the Ways – her
    money too small, gas costs, etc.


    A and I got a wonderful 3 bedroom in Chevy Chase
    on a charming little side street but the landlord very snooty
    about only 2 tenants. We said OK, OK. Big yard. I can
    have my dogs! Moving in July 5. Struggling with Christina
    Stead’s Puzzleheaded Girl. She is overrated. Maybe I can’t
    read fiction any more.

        Fri 25 June 76 – Club Shalimar 
    Eating free scrambled eggs the cook gave me:

    “Somebody’s got to eat them” while waiting to go on. A lot
    of interesting men come into this place. None perfect obviously
    – and unfortunately I need more than perfection. I need
    mysticism, competence and money-earning capabilities. Shalimar owner seems to be something of a gangster.


    I got 2 standing ovations today.


    The job is actually enjoyable. I am really getting
    into it – dancing for pleasure – for the connection with
    the audience. They stare spellbound like deer in the
    headlights. Feel like I’m living in a Simenon novel as
    I learn the ins and outs.


    Avril loves her new job – thank God – they
    want her to do dispatch (no wear and tear on fragile Gremlin)
    and the drivers are all foreigners who don’t know the city.
    She’s always yelling at them to “Look out the car window
    and tell me what you see.”


    Met the most charming little man – a TV director
    at a local station – speaks sign language, is a magician
    and a karate black belt, he’s just so full of joie de vivre.
    His name is Ryder and his excitement about me puts
    my non-relationship with Devon in a new light. Reading
    Meyer’s Ibsen.

        1:15 AM – Sat 3 July 76
    We’re supposed to “wait” in the dressing room

    but they don’t seem to care if you don’t so I spend all my
    time talking to Ryder. He says he’s just separating from
    his wife and it’s extremely traumatic. They have been
    together since high school. He’s a tad hyper – always on
    the go, but very entertaining. He usually brings me gifts –
    flowers, magazines, stuffed toys and cards. Also he’s a
    diver and underwater photog. Today he brought pink roses.


    Avril warns me not to fall in love. Just date.
    Easy to say! I want security, privacy, ecstasy, exclusivity…
    and love. It’s a problem!


    The oilman came to the house today says he’s
    shocked we have no credit references and will have to pay
    COD! Fortunately, I had just got off work and I had the cash
    on me but I don’t like it at all. Guess we won’t need
    much oil till winter. Let’s hope.


    Ryder gave me a long spiel about how he
    gave another dancer a ride home (Darlene) and she
    expected him to go to bed with her and he said, I don’t do
    that. I could tell he was sounding me out! I said,
    I don’t either! No sex, ever! Sex, bad. He laughed till
    it hurt and he begged for mercy.

    Poor Avril had a long hard
    day – 7:30 AM to 6:30! I promised to take her out to eat at
    Steak & Egg if she picks me up. She said make it Bob’s
    and it’s a deal.

    Sat 10 July 76 – 9 pm – Shalimar
    7 hours packing at Zevin Towers before I showed up here.

    10:30 AM Tues 6 July 76
    Sitting on a mattress on the floor of my Tyler St

    bedroom surrounded by a jumble of stuff. So exciting
    starting a New Life. This time I am waiting for the gasman
    – if he doesn’t come by 1 pm I have to leave.


    9:25 PM – sitting in the Shalimar dressing room
    eating a plum. Last night A and I saw Antonioni’s The
    Passenger.     Goes down with La Prisonniere, Persona,
    Pierrot Le Fou     and Weekend as one of my favorite all-time
    films. So perfectly constructed it was like a series of Canalettos.
    Ryder just asked me if I wanted to go to dinner some-
    time. I said sure. He asked me about a lot of Italian food I
    didn’t recognize – I said I like everything. Covered with sweat
    from dancing to ”No one knows what its like to be the bad man…”
    have to take it really slow, freezing in a series of poses. Then
    suddenly I meet someone’s eyes and he drops his drink.

    I hate packing. Getting to
    be a bit of a trial having Ryder in the bar all the time. His
    expressions embarrass me to dance around him. I said I
    thought this place was full of stories. He said, don’t stay
    here just to pick up stories. He said he would “subsidize”
    me to keep me from “doing this.” Hmmmm. Right after
    talking about how little money he’ll have when he splits
    with his wife!


    He’s been offered a job in Detroit for a lot more
    money – that’s how they get ahead in his business –
    jump from station to station. I told him he should take it –
    turned out that was the “wrong thing” because he hoped
    I’d want him here. But I told him, I’m a citizen of the world.
    I can go anywhere. Fear only empty experiences. So he says,
    why are you doing this? I said, to meet you.
    Otherwise he is perfect. So charming, smart and
    funny, with so much ambition, spirituality and humility.


    4 sets left – then 2 days off. Just bought 3 costumes from
    Sunny for $30. Feeling personally confident in a way I
    haven’t for years. R invites me out to dinner next week.
    Have to buy special shoes so I won’t be too tall and tower
    over him. Today marks year and a half since my separation from Bruce.

  • Butterfly Language for Caterpillars – walking the path of attachment with Alysse Aallyn

    Recovery = REBIRTH “In the Hour of Our Death”

    “If you don’t have a loving relationship with yourself, no one else will.”

    Several times on your path you will feel the need to “re-boot” and start over. “Rebirth” is available to us any time, following a period of reflection, retreat and re-centering.

    “Recovery” begins to happen we manage to repel a demonic force that kept us in thrall – addiction, illusion, corruption, compulsive behavior; even a poisonous culture. Sometimes, we were hostage to another human being who didn’t have our best interests at heart.

    What ARE our best interests? As our brains begin to clear we begin to understand. Ernest Hemingway used to say we are “stronger at the broken places” and Nietzsche expressed it as “what doesn’t kill me makes me stronger” but obviously these maxims only hold true if a complete healing has taken place.

    Complete healing provides peace as well as joy. We give thanks that we have started on the journey.


    Second Chances – Expect to stumble. Watching toddlers try to “rise and walk” we must consider what a good thing it is that they don’t mind being laughed at. (In fact, they love it.) It takes them quite awhile to figure out this new challenge. Like beginning skiers, they cling to objects, sway exaggeratedly back and forth, slam into others, and plop down SPLAT; not just once or twice but over and over. In fact the toddler hasn’t been born who suddenly vaults up suavely and starts swanning around in a sophisticated manner.

    And those are the ones with no impediment to walking – watched hungrily by the less fortunate who only wish they could be blessed with this magical opportunity to make public fools of themselves.

    Once we take in the meaning of these facts we embrace the last step of Recovery: “Expect to go splat.” Of course we don’t WANT to – fingers crossed – it’s dangerous and bruising. We’d better arrange to have someone around – just in case. But you don’t fail unless you refuse to rise again. Don’t even bother counting the times you were “brave”. It’s only the “getting back up” that counts. As long as you’re doing that, you’re a true winner.

    As we study ourselves with a desire to put our best foot forward we are increasingly overwhelmed with despair. This old self won’t do. We are the club no one wants to join; us included.

    We have to ask ourselves if part of our desire for the Other is a longing to be rid of Self. But how is this to be accomplished, when we know that any relationship built on fakery must surely fail. How can a New Self be the Real One?

    Fortunately, there is a model for this in the recovery movement – legions of people giving up self-destructive habits and birthing a fresh new self. They say the relief is glorious, everything is more meaningful as their confidence grows. We want some of that. We must abjure all the behavior that have caused us suffering in the past. What are they, exactly? Let’s identify and enhance the wonderful things about us, the self we want to keep.

    And in the Hour of Our Death

    I am wind sucked
    The tempest starts without me
    Scuttled like a leaf


    I loose your hand
    My words come fire
    My blood blasts forth


    And vomits out
    This darkness
    Some god commands


    I push
    I flee – I won’t be born –
    I push


    And then relax.
    It can’t happen all at once.
    The corpses dance


    The trees devour their own roots
    I’m spat like pulp
    I push –


    I’ve gone too far
    To get back now.
    I’ve lost your cord


    Threaded in the frenzy
    That is life.
    My lips are ceremonies


    My hips are burial grounds.
    Silence rushes in to bear me up and I explode
    To atoms.


    What is this new lightness?
    Into this furnace of stars
    I collapse my burdens like


    A house of cards, I soar, I flirt
    My strength
    Is limitless


    My soul, my life
    An infinite caress.

  • The Language of Butterflies – for caterpillars or; Walking the Path of Attachment with Alysse Aallyn

    The Sun=LIGHT&TRUTH “Sunbather”

    “Turning on the heat”

    We are all Sun Worshippers. It is easy to understand how this star became a deity to the ancients considering it warms and replenishes us into activity and strength. Turns out, all of us are batteried by solar power, just like the reptiles. Our doctors and cosmetologists tell us to “stay out of the sun” and get our Vitamin D in a pill but we ignore them, drawn by the need to sun ourselves on the nearest rock, eyes closed into seeming vulnerability while our planet perpetually circles this fiery blaze. The Sun therefore represents in our lives a nourishing force which could make us stupid should we over-indulge.


    Light defeats darkness. To understand what this means we need to shed any “nocturnal prejudices” we may have and concentrate on light as the necessary enabler of Sight. In total darkness, we are at a loss; we see nothing. To “shed light” on a problem means to finally “see” it for what it is. Light, in other words, is knowledge. Understanding. We finally get it! It’s the “forehead clapping” moment when the “magic picture” resolves itself into shapes that make sense. Without this basic road map we are unmoored – can make no meaningful plans.


    Light, then is the Beginning of Intelligence. Light is Truth. It helps us to see each other for what we really are so we can forge meaningful connections, create meaningful plans and map out shared goals. Even the blind can make important use of Light – and all of us are partially blind in one way or another. But it is what we can “see” –and share – that matters.


    If Truth is so important, why do we all lie? The religion of advertising is both ethos and atmosphere in American life. A policy of presenting yourself in “your best light” becomes researching other people’s needs and weaknesses to find out what they can’t resist and pretending you’re that thing. This is no way to locate a Soulmate.

    The anger, suspicion and mistrust, the contempt, derision and manipulation behind these ideas does not magically go away. Therefore, we hate others for forcing us to be fake, and they hate us for not accepting their real selves. It’s a perfect storm of secret rage that torpedoes any possibility of authentic relationships.

    The way out is to commit to a different “religion” – that of honesty and sharing. But honesty requires knowing oneself, and we’ve discussed how difficult (and discouraging) that can be. Still, there’s no other way. We are who we’ve BEEN, who we ARE, but also who we WANT to be. And we need to want to be that person for a better reason than it looks good on TikTok or it might exert appeal over someone who turns us on.

    Fearful that you’ll be lonely forever? Au contraire! It turns out all of us have been yearning to bask in the comfort, the promise, the safety of reality, a place where growing things can freely evolve and connect, in peace.

    SUNBATHER

    Poor periwinkle hides
    within the final
    spiny spiral of his shell, no
    stronghold that from
    hungry file-worms’ whippet tongues nor
    sun-mad amateur biologists nor
    ten year olds; while I
    more evolved, lie
    among the oval-jointed shells, the
    sheepswool sponges, camouflage
    my breasts as comb-jellies, my hair
    as seaweed, fooling none yet
    impressing those
    I can’t deceive.

  • Becoming a Goddess – claiming your Superpower by Alysse Aallyn

    Summer – Relax

      Can Goddesses afford to relax? Seems counterintuitive, doesn’t it? Well, Lesson #1 is that being a goddess is Counterintuitive. Other people rush away from the burning building – planning on being EVEN MORE SCARED the next time. Well, we are going to master our fear. We are going in.

      Everybody Panics  – I had a panic attack at age 5 (I  got lost outside a movie theatre) and another at age 11 when I descended deep, deep, deep into a cave. (I think the guide was deliberately trying to scare us.) I didn’t know at the time what these episodes were – my parents and sisters saw them as embarrassing annoyances – but looking back it’s clear what was happening to me physically as a result of what was happening to me mentally.

      Relaxation In the Face of Panic – Learning to tolerate psychic dissonance, to be interested in it and challenged by it is what we’re all about. It’s a sign that we’re in the presence of the Deep Stuff – the things that galvanize our deep subconscious and if we can just seize control of that, we’ll access our true power.

      Learn Relaxation Techniques – There are so many and you should experiment with all of them! Learn what works for you and – key – what you enjoy. You will find yourselves using these techniques all the time. To get to sleep, to get through difficult experiences or just to access your subconscious when you have a question.

      Breathe Deeply – The very first thing is mastering control of the breath. Pregnant women learn all kinds of helpful breathing techniques in Lamaze; panting, counting; deliberately slowing down and speeding up your breathing. In yoga you will learn Lion Breaths to make you feel powerful. They are very similar to the gasps and shouts in martial arts and will affect your opponents. Watch the Maori war dance on YouTube.

      Get Out Your Training Journal – write down the techniques and your reactions. Appoint a time to practice these every day. Your breath connects you to the universe and all living things.

      Models & Mentors: “The first thing to learn is the breath.” – Confucius

      ‘Breathe In. Let Go. And remind yourself that this very moment is the only one you know you have for sure, and give thanks for that.”

      – Oprah Winfrey

      ‘Feelings come and go like clouds in a windy sky. Conscious breathing is my anchor” –

      Thich Nhat Hanh

      “While we breathe, we hope” – Barack Obama

      #Haiku: Every Breath You Take

      Life isn’t numbered

      By breaths you take but

      Moments

      That take breath

      Away

    1. The Dalingridge Horror – a play by Alysse Aallyn

      (Scene 4. The conservatory. VIRGINIA sits unmoving before a tea-table. Enter LEONARD.)

      LEONARD
      I see I am in time for tea. May I join you?

      VIRGINIA
      I can’t stop you.

      LEONARD

      (daringly pulls his chair to the table)

      How are you feeling?

      VIRGINIA
      Like a helpless baby on the shore of life, turning over pebbles. The ocean tosses me pebbles and I turn them over, one by one. I’m naked, a child, and no one helps me.

      LEONARD
      I want to help you. May I pour? Lovely cakes.

      (he pours two cups, carefully serves her a cake, takes one himself, munches and sips)

      Delicious. Sir George keeps an excellent cook.

      VIRGINIA
      His brain is in his stomach. Or rather, he has a stomach instead of a brain but no one’s noticed. I’m afraid the tea is cold. They won’t let me have a spirit lamp in case I set the place on fire, like mad Mrs. Rochester in Jane Eyre.

      LEONARD
      The tea is perfect. Oolong, I notice. May I sugar yours?

      VIRGINIA
      You’re certainly sugaring everything else. Why are you in such a good mood?

      LEONARD
      I’m happy to see you looking so well. What have you been thinking?

      VIRGINIA
      That I want to write a novel about silence. Depression interests me. One could make a game of assembling the fractured pieces, capturing the things people don’t say. How deeply they drive themselves into me, those things people daren’t say aloud! It seems everyone is in agreement that the truth of women must be suppressed. Repress, control. If I am going to write all this I will need a different word than novel or people won’t know what to expect. Elegy, perhaps?

      LEONARD
      You were born to write, Virginia. Your book is beautiful. I mean The Voyage Out.

      VIRGINIA
      My book? My poor sad, dull novel which shall certainly be abused? A whole made painfully from shivering fragments. “The spring, bare and bright like a virgin fierce in her chastity, scornful in her purity, was laid on fields entirely careless of beholders.” I tried to speak truth but I collapsed under the burden of my failure.

      LEONARD
      You can’t think how I envy you your spring of fantastic imagination.
      It’s beautifully written. But it’s so very sad. Tell me, why must Rachel die before the wedding?

      VIRGINIA
      Because the fiancé is based on Clive and who would ever want to marry him?

      LEONARD
      Nessa did.

      VIRGINIA
      He kept his real face very well hidden. The things he says about me to others! Adrian showed me the letters!

      LEONARD
      He’s angry because you refused him. Clive’s a monster. We’re in complete agreement. What if we eliminated monsters from your life? What would you write next?

      VIRGINIA
      It’s not possible to eliminate monsters. Look at this new war they’re brewing. War is a stupid, violent, hateful, idiotic, trifling, mean, ignoble display. Why should I dare to love you when you will only fight and die, trodden underfoot in some soggy foreign field?

      LEONARD

      You won’t get rid of me that easily. Dr. Craig has given me a dispensation because of my tremor.

      VIRGINIA

      So you’ve seen Dr. Craig. Is he as stupid as the others?

      LEONARD

      He thinks we need to design a healthy life. I think so too. And because your healthy life is writing, I want to hear about what you’ll write next.

      VIRGINIA
      (dreamily)

      I want to write about the islands of light swimming through the grass. I want to show the peace, the unity in the smallest flower – but whenever I try the great ugly beast on the beach stamps and snorts.

      LEONARD
      What beast?

      VIRGINIA
      He is chained, but he pulls at his chain. I’m so afraid – he might escape.

      LEONARD
      Is this a memory, Virginia?

      VIRGINIA
      What have we but memory? Women are the beggars of every family; memory is our only treasure, the only dowry we inherit. Tell the truth, said father. But mother said sometimes a lie is better than the truth, because of feelings. You must spare people’s feelings, but only if they have the right feelings. What if their feelings are false to begin with? My feelings were never the right ones. Father was my writing teacher, did I tell you that?

      LEONARD
      And what was his recipe?

      VIRGINIA
      He said only write the truth and say exactly what you mean.

      LEONARD
      If only that were possible! You saw how I botched my turn.

      VIRGINIA
      But the truth is that when father died, I hated him. I was so relieved to be free of the exacting tyrant, the histrionic, self-pitying, violent, deaf, alternately loved and hated father. We all were. We fled that house, from a crypt slimy with fungus, disgusting with mold, gushing a sour stench of decay.

      (A catch in her voice)

      How we rejoiced! But in truth we had graduated from a life of suppressed rage into one of perpetual mourning. In my fantasies, Father confesses and repents his crimes, asking my forgiveness. But he could never do that, really. Everyone saw him as the pinnacle of reason and privilege, yet he felt ill-used by everyone he knew, even by life itself. I wonder, was he haunted by a devil, by some demon? Was it not he, himself, but something sitting on his shoulder that pecked at us so fiercely?

      LEONARD
      Naturally he grieved when your mother died. He must have altered greatly then.

      VIRGINIA
      My mother’s death was the greatest disaster that could possibly have happened. Father sat through countless meals groaning aloud about how he wished to die. Do you know, it is my worst fear that I will become like him. It is a fate more to be feared than madness, to my mind. He is inexplicable. Extraordinarily gifted, godlike, yet somehow childlike. There was an infantile fixation! Bubbling up from some dark place, I suppose, below the level of conscious thought. But he was protected by society, as we were not. In the privacy of our home he seemed unbound by any of the laws of ordinary people. Yet he desired constant pity! We were the ones forced to be self-controlled and coolly analytical, plotting ways to get around him. But when he shouted at Nessa I hated him so much I could have killed him myself. Our punishment came when Thoby died. Violet and Vanessa also were stricken with typhoid but only the sheltered males perished.

      LEONARD
      Thoby’s death wasn’t punishment. Thoby died of a typhoid germ. If these men are fragile as you say, how could your father be the brute you dreamed of, stamping on the beach?

      VIRGINIA
      All you men are brutes, with your gaming, your competitions, your subjugation and your wars. Men use knives, to cut things, to sacrifice, while women use needle and thread, to sew them up. But nothing’s as good once it’s been repaired. When my father threw a fish into the bottom of the boat, I felt I suddenly was that fish, flopping, gasping, drowning in the very air all had sworn was safe to breathe. I had more in common with waves and seabirds than with that man.

      LEONARD
      Now Virginia, you mustn’t get excited.

      VIRGINIA
      The great secret is not to feel. Strong feelings create an abyss between oneself and others. No one ever says anything they really mean. I am bored by men and their silly violence and wars. I detest the masculine point of view. I am bored by heroism, virtue and honor. Men’s acquisitive instincts cause them to desire other people’s fields and goods, to make frontiers and flags, battleships and poison gas, to offer up their own lives and their children’s lives. Why should I submit to them, why endure a lifetime of unpaid service to their shoddy interests?

      LEONARD
      I agree we are a disgusting species. But man’s only locomotion is logic and reason. We must never give up.

    2. The Dalingridge Horror – a play by Alysse Aallyn

      (In the Conservatory at Dalingridge Hall)

      VIRGINIA
      Go away, Leonard. I can’t bear to hear you lie to me.

      LEONARD
      I’m not lying when I say I want you to get well more than anything I’ve ever wanted in my life.

      VIRGINIA
      Don’t bother making me feel guilty, I already know I’m wasting your life. If only I weren’t so stupid a Mandrill, so unworthy of her poor, virtuous outsider Mongoose who is so thin, who trembles so much and who tries so hard. You have headaches too, you suffer from recurring malaria. Why should you toil so that I can be idle? I know these doctors’ bills are crushing us. Nessa sold the silver, I sold the jewelry, Thoby sold the Thackeray letters. What’s left, Leonard? Will you scheme with them to isolate me until there’s nothing left?

      LEONARD
      I can earn money writing. I’ve proved that. You can earn money writing, you’ve proved that. But to get back in the fight we must be hardy and strong.

      VIRGINIA
      I should never have married you. What kind of a wife can I ever be? Save yourself, Leonard. It’s too late for me. Let the wind blow, let the poppy seed itself, let the carnation mate with the cabbage. Let the swallow build her nest in the drawing room where the thistle thrusts between the tiles. Let all civilization be like broken china tangled over with blackberries and grass.

      LEONARD
      That you demand so much of existence, still fighting as you sit among George’s flowers, shows you’re feeling better. What we must do is keep up the strengthening. A few more days, Virginia.

      VIRGINIA
      But how can I return to you? There’s the undisputed fact of my sexual cowardice. Perhaps it’s really nothing but my terror of real life that keeps me in this nunnery. I tried telling my parents but they didn’t want to hear. Parents have forgotten their own childhood. Or they don’t want to remember.

      LEONARD
      What did you try to tell them? You can say anything to me.

      VIRGINIA
      I saw the spirits of evil as soon as I could speak, but because I was a girl child I was not supposed to know. Each child hugs its vice, brooding over the swollen vein, the bruised flesh that was white and sweet but yesterday.

      LEONARD
      I told my parents that life is unquestionably vile and humanity’s nothing but an ant heap. Parents never want to hear that.

      VIRGINIA
      That’s what I love about you, Leonard. You at least will speak the truth. Sometimes.

      LEONARD
      It’s a fallacy to think that children are happy. They’re not. I never suffered so much as when I was a child. Children never forget injustice. But here is the heart of it, Virginia. What we write depends upon what we think. What “spirits of evil” did you see?

      VIRGINIA
      Going to practice Dr. Head’s talking cure on me, are you? Is that the plan? I could make up a dozen stories – I see a dozen pictures. But when I open my mouth I am locked up and shut away. What is my true story? Something lies deeply buried. Shall I grasp it or let it mortify in the depths of my mind? I want to describe the world seen without a self. But I am afraid that there is no future. There are no words.

      LEONARD
      There are words, and there is a future we shall make. Tell me. Tell me everything.

      VIRGINIA
      When I was young, I dug furiously to uncover myself. When I discovered that I was me and not anyone else it seemed a wonderful achievement. Once I sat beside my stepsister Stella on roots as hard as skeletons, and the next day she was a skeleton. It’s strange how the dead leap out on us at street corners or in dreams. Don’t you remember that morning at breakfast when I saw my mother? You said she wasn’t there.

      LEONARD
      I saw nothing.

      VIRGINIA
      Cambridge educated everything but your eyes. What is the hope of talking to you? That was the morning was when I first became aware of the enemies who change but are always present; the forces we must fight even though we suffer terribly becoming separate bodies. Don’t you recognize the enemy advancing against us, pawing at his pavement? It is death. Death is the enemy.

      LEONARD
      Marriage is the opposing force against death. A marriage of true minds can fight all enemies. Once upon a time we shared our thoughts, and fell in love. I needed someone who could hold her own, and there you were. You are the only wife I ever wanted, the only woman I have ever loved. Please, Virginia, I want you to come back to me.

      VIRGINIA

      (dazzled)

      Oh to be a wife, to be wanted, would be so complete! Is it possible, Leonard, after the terrors, the disgusting dangers we have seen?

      LEONARD
      If it isn’t I don’t want to live either.

      (She holds out a hand to him. They clutch hands briefly)

      VIRGINIA
      Sit down, Leonard. You look silly on your knees.

      (She looks away. LEONARD sits)

      VIRGINIA
      I used to make the family laugh. They thought me clever. But when I chased the evil spirits through a hole in the escallonia hedge, I resolved to tell the exact truth and write down the phenomena I’d seen. But no one believed me, and at that moment the laughter turned against me. I said, must not we find some way to get outside ourselves, to give our brains a wider scope? My parents declared God was dead and the world empty and meaningless. Father said to be weak is to be wretched. He said that Society is a ravenous appetite, and Nature is a state of war. You’ve laughed at me behind my back, I know you have. You, my own husband, want to get rid of me, to lock me up forever and steal my money.

      LEONARD
      I love you, Virginia. Maybe it’s a bad thing to love you as much as I do – it cuts me off from the outside world. But the outside world is worthless and your world is so rich. When I went away to school for the first time I was shocked and appalled by the horrifying corruption of dirty-minded schoolboys. It marked me. Then I realized all of humanity are mean, nasty, untruthful, cowardly, and cruel. Perhaps I’ve been searching for a world that doesn’t exist.

      VIRGINIA
      Perhaps we both have.

      LEONARD
      If you will care for your health – if you will allow me to care for your health – you’ll recover. As you’ve recovered before.

      VIRGINIA
      Nessa won’t rest till I’m brought low. When she was ill with typhoid Savage wanted to put her in a home but I backed her up! I told Savage I would care for her. Now look at what she’s done to me. You betrayed our secret, telling Nessa I’m a frigid failure as a wife. She told Clive and now everyone knows. They’re all laughing, jeering. plotting behind my back. You were sent to Ceylon to break the natives and now you’ve been sent to break me. I have been derided, insulted, sacrificed and betrayed, by all of you.

      LEONARD
      Virginia, I am on your side. My eyes were opened in Ceylon. I was an anti-imperialist wallowing in the fleshpots of imperialism. But I changed. Now I support the independence movement with all my heart. All problems can be solved by science and logic, Virginia. It was I who was a failure as a husband. It was my marital duty to arouse you but you seemed so afraid of me. At my wit’s end, I asked your older sister for help.

      VIRGINIA
      Does she offer lessons in humiliation? She knows how better than anyone. Is it my fault that I hate my legs being pried apart? I should never have married you, but I couldn’t bear to remain a spinster. I was struggling at everything, and you seemed so different. You said you liked women. You said you admired women’s minds.

      LEONARD
      It’s true. Women feel more deeply, think more deeply, talk more deeply.

      VIRGINIA
      Yet men demand obedience. You want me to obey you but I never will. You know nothing about me. Did you know that before I tried to die I read a book? Would you like to know which one?

      LEONARD
      Which book did you read?

      VIRGINIA
      It was your book. Your book that I read.

      LEONARD
      My book?

      VIRGINIA
      Your book about me.

      LEONARD
      (a gratified author, in spite of everything)

      You read The Wise Virgins? What did you think?

      VIRGINIA
      So you admit it’s about me!

      LEONARD
      Virginia, please. I’d love to discuss my book with you.

      (She hesitates, turning away her face, then facing him with rage)

      VIRGINIA

      You locked me away so I’d never find out!

      LEONARD
      You were ordered rest cures long before you met me! I don’t believe in guilt or blame. Honestly, I wanted you to read my book as soon as you were well.

      VIRGINIA
      I won’t be stamped and stereotyped. You have publicly lampooned me as a frozen, dowdy, fussy, futile woman.

      LEONARD
      Not true at all. I called you my Aspasia.

      VIRGINIA
      “Cold and snowy, like the rocks.” You said.

      LEONARD
      I’m a bad writer. I agree. I’ve got nothing of your genius. I can never explain what I really want to say. If it’s any comfort to you no one else likes or understands it either. Sales are awful. All I was attempting to do was contrast the world of a poor Jew from Putney with the rarified aristocratic Olympus for which he yearns.

      VIRGINIA
      You hold my world in contempt because you can never be a gentleman.

      LEONARD
      Virginia, you hold “your world” in contempt.

      VIRGINIA
      And then the hero marries the other girl. The stupid, cow-eyed one! It’s a betrayal.

      LEONARD
      It’s just a bad novel, I’ll give you that. Don’t laugh at me. Not everyone is born with your gifts. Consider my perspective. Any rational mind must inevitably face disillusion and depression. I tried to show how poor Harry just couldn’t escape his past. He couldn’t but I think we can. I probably shouldn’t have published it but Arnold was willing and I couldn’t bear to waste all that work and all that suffering.

      VIRGINIA
      What can you, a prizewinning Apostle from Cambridge, an imperialist potentate of a subject country, possibly know of real suffering?

      LEONARD
      Virginia, I’m a Jew from Putney. All my life I’ve been spat upon. Job is the only book of the Bible I ever understood. Who ridiculed who first? I trained myself to avoid personal feeling. Admit you despised me. Your set. You made me into a joke.

      VIRGINIA
      My set despises everyone. That’s what we do. It’s self-defense, from growing up amongst the most monumental hypocrites.

      LEONARD
      You despised me personally. Be honest. You hated kissing me. You could barely bring yourself to marry me.

      VIRGINIA
      But I did it, didn’t I!

      LEONARD
      You wanted to shock them. You were competing with Nessa to see who could be most scandalous.

      VIRGINIA
      I wouldn’t dare compete with Nessa. Competition is a male thing. It’s a brutal, endless game. I think all competition should be abolished.

      LEONARD
      But it’s all you ever do! Your flirtation with her husband –

      VIRGINIA
      (cringes visibly)

      Oh God, not that. Somehow that memory turns a knife in me more than anything. How it catches at me, the fangs of that old pain. I know I lost Vanessa forever. She will never forgive me. I simply couldn’t comprehend why she married such a strange, intolerable creature with his twitching pink skin and a jerky laugh. Before Clive, Nessa and I drifted together on a sea of seducing half-brothers,
      hiding together beneath the dining room table. We spoke a special animal language.

      LEONARD
      But you were no longer children. Vanessa waited till twenty-eight to marry.

      VIRGINIA
      Who would willingly grow up? I never wanted to. As soon as you’re pushed out of the nursery, the happy moments vanish. Vanessa was the bowl of golden water that brims but never overflows. I lie prostrate at her shrine and still she won’t forgive me. When she brought home friends from the Slade they laughed at me behind the door. You can’t think what it feels like, having one’s self so thoroughly extinguished.

      LEONARD
      I do know it. That was my exact experience at both St. Paul’s and Cambridge. St. Paul’s was a disgusting brothel, but at Trinity I met G. E. Moore. He taught me how to ask the important questions.

      VIRGINIA

      And what are the important questions?

      LEONARD
      The most important question is why. Why can’t Vanessa forgive a mere flirtation? She must know by now that Clive sets out to bed every woman he meets. You at least resisted him.

      VIRGINIA
      But I did wrong. Clive and I made common cause against my sister, his own wife. Some things should be sacred.

      LEONARD

      Wasn’t it true that he respected your intellectual work more than he could ever appreciate Vanessa’s daubs?

      VIRGINIA
      Leonard! How can you!

      LEONARD

      If it’s the truth, shouldn’t we say so?

      VIRGINIA

      I tried speaking the truth, yet here I am locked up among the imbeciles. And weren’t we just arguing whether all imbeciles should be killed?

      LEONARD
      You’re hardly “locked up with the imbeciles” at Dalingridge Hall!

      VIRGINIA
      You’re wrong. In this castle beats the very heart of idiocy and evil. Aren’t you the one who said the most dangerous imbeciles are running the nation? Here I am at home among the hunters, where the miner sweats and dies and maiden faith is rudely strumpeted.

      LEONARD
      But you used to love George! He told me you’d make an adorable wife.

      VIRGINIA
      Perhaps I’ve been given too much time to think. Get a sense of proportion, the doctors keep telling me. So now I stare for the first time into the very mouth of doom. Look your last on all things lovely.

      LEONARD
      Virginia, if you don’t want to be called crazy, you really must explain yourself. Whatever do you mean?

      VIRGINIA
      George behaved little better than a brute. He never let me alone for a moment. That he was the pet of duchesses hardly excuses him. And yet it was Gerald who broke my hymen, when I was six years old. It’s a painful process. and now I freeze like ice. Give up on me, Leonard, there’s no awakening the dead. I’m ruined by incest, I’ve even desired my own sister. I’m locked up because I stew in murder, just as Laura did. I long to slice Gerald’s fat, transparent flesh, to take a rifle and shoot George directly in his smug, piggy face. Or could I bag him with a net and killing bottle? And why shouldn’t I turn on my tormentors? I suffered, I was helpless, why should I be the one forced to writhe with shame? I longed to be petted but instead was trapped in a cage with lions as sulky and angry as they were ferocious. I’m just a little monkey and little monkeys are too easily squashed and trampled. It’s too late for me, Leonard. My body is spoiled forever by George and Gerald.

      LEONARD
      (shocked)

      George? Gerald? These are pillars of society, your own half-brothers! It’s so unbelievable.

      VIRGINIA
      George drowned us in kisses, me and Vanessa. Each kiss was an amputation. I used to sign my work, “One of the Drowned.” Oh, those horrible parties! The oppressive gatherings of Stephenses ground one to a pulp. Because I wanted to discuss Plato I was told I had no conversation. George was so angry! After I removed my ball gown and stripped off my gloves and stockings, he would come into my room and lock the door.

      LEONARD
      But how can any of this be true? How could nobody have noticed it?

      VIRGINIA
      Everyone did notice it. People contrive to bend it to the conventional heroic shape because he kept insisting on the purity of his love. I saw him kissing Countess Carnarvon behind a pillar at the opera! And now she’s his mother-in-law. I asked to join the British Sex Society, dedicated to the study of parent/child incest, but they wouldn’t let me in. Now that you know, you’ll have to spit in George’s face at the club.

      LEONARD
      We don’t belong to the same clubs.

      VIRGINIA
      Then when you thank him for this execrable house, challenge him to a duel. Will he at least feel some regret? Will he take the pigeon gun and blast himself instead? Then the aristocracy will hate me because it’s all my fault. Yet is it not a noble work, letting light in upon the evil Duckworths? Probably he’ll feel nothing. Possibly some vague imbalance.

      LEONARD
      Let’s try to be objective, Virginia.

      VIRGINIA
      If only I could! What a luxury that would be! How I hunger for the objectivity of beloved Macaulay or the stern analysis of cherished Carlyle. Lockhart’s ten volume Life of Scott was the best present I ever received. Reading relieves all my pain, but they won’t let me read anything here. In spite of them I’m continuing to learn. Only life itself matters, nothing but life – and the process of discovery, the everlasting perpetual process, and not the thing itself at all.

      LEONARD

      Virginia, I am speechless.

      VIRGINIA

      Now you know how it feels. I used to think it would be enough to have someone share my loneliness. But if no one believes me, the solitude is total. The Duckworths are guilty of nameless atrocities, and you’re complicit. You locked me away here, so I couldn’t speak. As soon as I open my mouth they try to destroy me. It’s a conspiracy of hush.

      LEONARD
      If this is something you’ve only just remembered how can it possibly be true? It sounds mad.

      VIRGINIA
      I don’t think memory is always at the forefront, Leonard. There’s only so much a human being can bear. Memory comes and goes. One requires tools to think with, to make sense of one’s experience, and these tools are alternately dull and sharp.

      LEONARD
      Well, there are some things no one wants to think about.

      VIRGINIA
      It’s clearer in my mind than the bad, stodgy meal I was force-fed yesterday. Our summer place at St. Ives, in the dining room; I must have been six years old. Eighteen-year-old Gerald lifted me up to a high ledge and explored my private parts. I fought and I struggled but I couldn’t get away. I could see his face in the dining room mirror. It was the face of a demon. I’ve seen that face since, on the drooling men who expose themselves in the park. Now I no longer look in mirrors. I can’t cross a puddle. The depth looks back at me, concealing malicious, hairy arms to reach out and grab. I can’t go forward, I am stuck in the loop of the six, no power even to lift my legs.

      LEONARD
      The loop of the six? I don’t understand.

      VIRGINIA

      I was learning numbers. Six was my number. But I couldn’t close the loop.

      LEONARD

      This was Gerald you say? But Gerald is your publisher!

      VIRGINIA
      I know! If I am not a madwoman, then the world itself is mad. What was I to do? I wrote a book and my incestuous brother was a publisher! Who else would even look at my work? When I delivered my manuscript to Gerald I was in such acute despair – so near the precipice!

      LEONARD
      Did you tell anyone?

      VIRGINIA
      I told Nessa and she told Dr. Savage. Who is an idiot, as you well know.

      LEONARD
      I can’t believe it. Gerald seems so – so – well, ordinary. So completely controlled.

      VIRGINIA
      Get out of here! I’m sorry I told you. I wish I was dead!

      (She is tearing at her own throat – he rushes forward to hold her hands down, lifting her body out of the chair)

      The use of force is all you know!

      LEONARD
      Virginia, I love you.

      (He kisses her neck, she becomes a dead weight. He lowers her carefully into the chair, arranges a blanket on her knees)

      VIRGINIA
      When you touch me, I feel nothing. My body goes dead. That’s how I froze when George came into my room, night after night.

      LEONARD
      Oh, Beloved!

      VIRGINIA
      Don’t. He called me that. I don’t want to be loved, I want to be believed.

    3. Writing a novel for class – a memoir by Alysse Aallyn

      THE PINCH OF DEATH – Writing a novel for class

      After my fiancé graduated law school in Kentucky, we came East – where our families lived – to get married. I applied to Brooklyn College for the MFA program and was hired as a writing fellow. What followed was an experience so discouraging I can well understand why graduate students are at a high risk of suicide.

      First, there’s the contrast between the high prestige of the position and the pitiable pay. You could literally make more money (and spend the same amount of time) combing the subway for lost change.

      Next, there’s the “job” they want you to do, which is to prepare seriously undereducated freshman to write an essay justifying their admission into the hallowed world of academe.

      I had fun developing my own syllabus, which was basically teaching critical thinking in the most fun way I could possibly imagine. A teacher “reviewer” who came to watch the class wrote me a rave review – I don’t think anyone in my life has ever praised me as much as he did. I still cherish that evaluation. But don’t get excited – the second guy (months later) disparaged me so much that if you add the two reviews together I think you’d have to give me a sad C-. But at that point, They Knew About Me – that I had no college degree -and so they were trying to get rid of me. Really, you can’t blame them – how could I prepare students to get something I didn’t have myself? And what – you may ask – was wrong with MY thinking and reasoning powers that I had not expected this?

      The truth is, I had flouted “rules” all my life – they always seemed ridiculous – and because I was a “rara avis” I usually got away with it. But clearly, this could not continue. Much chastened by my brush with the universe (which represented itself as “sanity”) I did go ahead and get a BA degree in psychology from LaSalle. I even got half a masters under my belt from Springfield College until I saw that it was useless.

      But back to Brooklyn. There were classes I took, of course, in WRITING – which was my absorbing interest and passion. I kept the fact that I had actually published a novel a secret because the class expressed such a tragic belief that being published was their deepest desire and most desperate and holy quest. I knew that it was the writing of the book itself – finding the subject AND the expression that was your spiritual release into the world – that was the most important absorbing and exciting. My first book was written to specifications – what was “popular” – under the ingenuous theory that I would develop important publishing relationships (my editor lost her job, my company bought out and revamped.) You could hardly brag about an experience like that.

      For my class on the Novel I decided to write a novel. I thought it would be fun. If you wrote a chapter every week you would have a novel at the end.

      One of my classmates was an ex-nun – a most interesting person – whose experiences strongly affected me. I effortlessly adapted her into my heroine, because my book was a mystery. Surely these are the easiest to write – they must evolve according to a plan. You have to introduce the problem, then the suspects, give clues, and make the reader care about the outcome. I had an idea it would be less emotional than my first book, which got bogged down into a bizarre love story about a fatherless girl pathetically seeking mentorship. THIS book would be all business.

      I got such massive pushback from the class I’m kind of surprised I went through with it – but I was enjoying the writing and the characters were alive to me. “Criticism” in class was students laboriously reading each others’ work, describing its emotional effect on them and describing different ways things could be said. The forward motion of a novel – the sweep, the assumption of power – was thereby utterly dissipated. Everyone just rewrote the first chapters of different books endlessly. So it shouldn’t have been called “Novel Writing”, it should have been called “Paragraph Writing” – a class I wouldn’t take.

      This teacher and I butted heads on all kinds of issues. First off, he said great writing couldn’t have a “happy ending.” I saw his point but I thought it shallow. Surely completion of a quest – solving a mystery – is an enormous relief. But mysteries aren’t serious writing, he insisted. (Uh oh. Since I was engaged on one.) Well, what about the Odyssey? Jane Austen? {Probably Tom Jones, if I could recall the ending.)

      MODERN literature!! He insisted. We can’t have happy endings anymore!

      That was when I realized the whole thing was bogus. If I was bogus, they were even more bogus. I was eight months’ pregnant at the time and this man’s feeble philosophy defied the spinning of the planets, the arrival of spring, the creation of Life itself. What a silly fellow.

      I finished Pinch of Death, and still reread it with pleasure, A very charming book.