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Danny O’Keefe really likes me. He has been over a lot of times, but he is so involved in tantric yoga that I feel he’s a fool. I can’t help thinking people who believe in Oriental magic are fools—it’s so boring and unsensual. I must be a confirmed sensualist because anything that pleases me on a grab-it-and-eat-it level just makes me completely happy. But if you have to exhibit any form of faith at all, I lose interest and start looking at the clock.
ha fair
[...] Somehow Rosaline managed to irritate both Elena and Theresa almost immediately, by describing herself as “just a social worker.”
“This is just not—you have to be confident. You have to be more confident. Social work is amazing,” Theresa said. But Theresa would never have been a social worker, Rosaline felt. Theresa had been a lawyer but now did some sort of charitable fundraising. Elena did interior design.
“Like, I just want to say, yes, my husband is the one who supports the family. But I do have a business. I was in New York magazine. You have to be confident about it,” Elena said.
Later, when they asked her where she’d studied social work, Rosaline for some reason said “Just NYU,” as if she’d intended to drive them crazy.
“Oh my God, I can hardly take it,” Theresa said.
“NYU is an amazing program,” Elena said.
that is kinda funny lol
He didn’t really believe she didn’t want a house on Cabot Lake, just as it was hard for him to believe she was ever truly angry with him. She thought of the cavalcade of workers required to keep two or more places running. She wanted something easily manageable, one small place in the world, entirely hers.
There was another reason she didn’t want the house. It surprised her—or, really, it was more like surprise and condemnation—that the rich always lived like the rich, coming to the same conclusion, which was to keep their money for themselves. The most surprising aspect of this was how predictable humans were, when often they seemed so unpredictable.
She disliked what it meant to bring this up in an argument. “You’re right, of course, you’re right,” Peter was forced to say, without ever changing his mind. She’d feel crabbed and ungrateful and even unrealistic. Indulging in his money only when it suited her—that was in part true. She ate nicer food, had nicer clothes than many of her colleagues. She never had to worry about a lack of money.
The next morning, she changed into her swimsuit and went swimming. She again found Eleu sitting on his dock.
“Do you want to come inside?” he asked her. Already she wondered if something would happen.
The walls of his house were paneled with dark wood. On them hung very ordinary photographs, which he’d taken, of leaves and birds and the lake in the light. He showed her these photographs, and then he put his hand on Rosaline’s hip, very briefly, directing her down a hallway, in which more photographs had been hung, and desire almost overcame her.
She had no experience with anything like this. She had almost no compunction either, strangely, though she’d assumed she would.
She was shocked it was happening, once it was. She noticed things she hadn’t noticed in years. That her entire body became sensitive just before orgasm, that she could feel everything all at once, that the stray hairs on her face drove her almost insane. It was after she came that she began to be filled with disgust, as if this were a part of the physical process as well, a deep disgust she could feel throughout her entire body.
She and Peter had begun dating at nineteen. She’d broken up with him twice in college. Both times, he’d convinced her to take him back, saying he couldn’t live without her. She didn’t really believe him capable of such extreme emotion. He’d always be stable and predictable, she felt.
She’d seen from the beginning that he was very ambitious. When she thought the worst of him, she thought that everything in his life—his friendliness, his interests in children’s charities and golf, every single one of his acquaintances—was in fact only his ambition in all its various forms, as if he were just one thing, really, like a little mechanical device clacking its way upward.
In his own way, Peter could be distant, simply because he was so focused on his work. But in his distance he assumed the best of her. So he seemed to have no sense that she was having an affair, once she was. She continued to sleep with Eleu after they returned to New York.
At times, she wondered if she meant to destroy her marriage. But most often she went out of excitement or curiosity—to see again what it was to go to his house, to undress, to have an affair. But to approach an affair so lovelessly was perhaps not to really understand what one was at all.
There was something of the quality of a miracle about it. Like atonement or forgiveness, a life given to her that she didn’t deserve. She and Peter found a new apartment so as to have more room. And she finally relented—they bought a house on Cabot Lake. It made more sense to her now, to have this house. Idyllic—children swimming in the lake or running through the woods.
We slept one either side of him in the huge bed, in most of our clothes. He was in gray jersey shorts. He smelled expensive; I remember that. I remember the expensive-feeling hotel room darkness, too, and thinking that I was there on false pretenses, really, that it was like being thrown forward in life. There was a lot I had to do before he and I could really be friends. He was twenty-nine and successful. I’d done nothing. I looked like nothing. I had to finish my exams, do my A-levels; I had to leave home, get my degree, become a person in the world.
ick!!
There’s a real closeness between imagination and forgiveness. I mean that in a phenomenological way. If you notice where you go when you have to forgive someone, it’s the place of supply, the place of extra. I think it’s worth spending a lot of time attending to that, so that when chance or fate or whatever it is knocks a poem your way, you’re ready. That’s why I’m quite often driven to say that it’s more important to do the work on one’s character than on the words. Don’t surround yourself with dictionaries. What really is nauseating in a poem is when you smell somebody trying to be a poet, and when it’s yourself, that’s just the worst of all. But a voice is such an incredible thing. When you think of how each person resonates differently and their physical voice comes out of this space that is tuned by tension and confidence and generosity—that’s the best thing you have.
So Joe came over after the show. We talked, smoked, drank, drank, drank, smoked, and it was bigger than both of us. Joe, being from a liberal family from Berkeley and an arch radical, suffered from typical Catholic schoolboy pangs of guilt, and had some superstition in his mind that if he didn’t actually “sleep” with me, it was not so bad. So he slept on the couch, awaking me in the morning with more caresses, and then saying, “How can you do this and say you’re a friend of Robin’s? Poor Robin, sitting at home with the kid!”
By this time I was laughing my head off it was so hilarious, and asked him if he knew Michael Lydon, whom I didn’t want to discover our adventure. He said not personally but that Michael’s former old lady was living with him and Robin since apparently some “other woman” groupie slicky had [lured] him away. When I told him I was that [groupie slicky], he held his head in his hands and moaned. I explained to him that these things happen, especially with nice people, since they’re bound to know and like each other. That wasn’t much solace, and he begged me not to come to San Francisco for a while and please never to let either Robin or Michael get wind of l’affaire extraordinaire.
omg lol how did i miss this the first time
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