R.L. Swihart's Blog, page 22

Paul Bowles: The Spider's House

 

“I’ll be around,” she said calmly, “because it’s not going to take long.” 

It was too bad she had to have opinions; she had been so agreeable to be with before she had started to express them. And then, the terrible truth was that neither she nor he was right. It would not help the Moslems or the Hindus or anyone else to go ahead, nor, even if it were possible, would it do them any good to stay as they were. It did not really matter whether they worshipped Allah or carburetors—they were lost in any case. In the end, it was his own preferences which concerned him. He would have liked to prolong the status quo because the décor that went with it suited his personal taste.

Elephant Seals: San Simeon CA

 

Paul Bowles: Spider's House

The road had dipped down to the river and climbed up again, it had gone near to the ramparts, past the arches of Bab Fteuh, veered off into the country, still descending through deserted terrain, as though it would never stop. When it flattened out, the pace slowed a little, and later, when it began to wind upward once more, the driver occasionally cracked his whip, calling a lengthy, falsetto: “Eeeee!” to the tired horses. “Don’t let him whip them, please,” she implored, as the long leather thong descended with the sound of a firecracker for the fifth or sixth time. Stenham knew the uselessness of arguing with an Arab about anything at all, and particularly if it had to do with the performance of his daily work, but he leaned forward, saying in a tone of authority: “Allèche bghitsi darbou? Khallih.” The fat man turned halfway around and said laughing: “They’re lazy. They always have to be beaten.” “What does he say?” she inquired. Taking a chance, he replied: “He says if you don’t want him to whip them he’ll stop, but they go faster if they hear the whip.” “But he’s actually hitting them with it. It’s awful.” To the driver in Arabic he said: “The lady is very unhappy to see you beat the horses, so stop it.” This did not please the fat man, who made an involved speech about letting people do their work the way they always did it; if the lady knew a great deal about horses he expected to see her driving a carriage one day soon. Stenham secretly sympathized with the man, but there was nothing to do save forbid the use of the whip—if he could manage it. “Put it away, please. Khabaeuh.” The man was now definitely in bad spirits; he went off into a muttered monologue, addressing it to the horses. The latter continued to go ahead with decreasing speed, until the carriage was moving approximately at the pace of a man walking. Stenham said nothing; he was determined that if there were to be any further suggestions for the driver, they should be made by her. They could never have got back to the hotel by five o’clock in any case; that he had known from the beginning. And at this rate it would be dark before they completed the tour. Stones and bushes moved past in leisurely fashion. The air smelled clean and dry. He turned to her. “This is a strange situation,” he said, smiling. She looked a little startled. “What do you mean?” “Do you realize that I don’t even know your name?” “My name? Oh, I’m sorry. It’s spelled V-e-y-r-o-n.” “Oh, I know that,” he said with impatience. “I mean, your own name. After all, you’re not living with your husband, are you?” “Actually, the idea of using George’s last name only occurred to me here in Morocco. And I’ve found it makes everything so much easier. I don’t know why I didn’t do it before. My maiden name is Burroughs, and the French can’t get anywhere near it, either in spelling or pronunciation.” “You have a first name, I suppose.” He smiled, to offset the dryness of his remark. She sighed. “Yes, unfortunately. It’s Polly, and I loathe it.

Paul Bowles: Spider's House

“You don’t drink! Not even wine? Why not?” “Don’t get me started on it,” he said, raising his voice slightly. “Let’s say that for me it’s what we Americans call a low-grade kick. You understand that?” He was looking only at Moss. “Oh, quite! And may I ask what you consider a high-grade kick?” “There are plenty of those,” he replied imperturbably. His tone may have nettled Moss, for he pressed on. “Such as—?” “You’re on the carpet, Mr. Stenham,” said Mme Veyron. Stenham pushed away his plate; he had finished anyway, but he liked the dramatic gesture as an accompaniment to the words he was going to say. A sudden gust of wind from the south swept through the garden, bringing with it the smell of the damp river valley below. A corner of the tablecloth flapped up and covered the serving dishes. Kenzie lifted it and dropped it back where it belonged. “Such as keeping these very things private. After all, one’s thoughts belong to oneself. They haven’t yet invented a machine to make the human mind transparent.” “We’re not discussing thoughts,” said Moss with exasperation. “You’re more English than the English, my dear John. I find it most difficult to understand you. You have all the worst faults of the English, and from what I can see, very few of the virtues we’ve been led to expect from Americans. Sometimes I feel you’re lying. I can’t believe you really are an American at all.” Stenham looked at her. “Won’t you vouch for me?” “Of course,” she said smiling, “but I’ll bet you’re from New England.” “What do you mean, but? Of course I’m a New Englander. I’m American and a New Englander. Like a Frenchman I met once in a jungle town in Nicaragua. He had the only hotel there. ‘Are you French, monsieur?’ I asked him. And he answered: ‘Monsieur, Je suis même Gascon.’ I’m even a Gascon, and I like to keep the state of my finances private. And my politics and religion. They’re all high-grade kicks as far as I’m concerned. But only if they’re kept private.”

Paul Bowles: Spider's House

He knew just which table he wanted. It was behind the door, beside the window, all by itself. Often when he was not working he had come here and sat an entire afternoon, lulled by the din and music from the other rooms into a stage of vague ecstasy, while he contemplated the small sheet of water outside the window. It was that happy frame of mind into which his people could project themselves so easily—the mere absence of immediate unpleasant preoccupation could start it off, and a landscape which included the sea, a river, a fountain, or anything that occupied the eye without engaging the mind, was of use in sustaining it. It was the world behind the world, where reflection precludes the necessity for action, and the calm which all things seek in death appears briefly in the guise of contentment, the spirit at last persuaded that the still waters of perfection are reachable. The details of market life and the personal financial considerations that shoot like rockets across the dark heavens of this inner cosmos serve merely to give it scale and to emphasize its vastness, in no wise troubling its supreme tranquillity.

Elephant Seals @ San Simeon CA (Video)

 

Paul Bowles: The Spider's House

He understood why they were willing to risk dying in order to derail a train or burn a cinema or blow up a post office. It was not independence they wanted, it was a satisfaction much more immediate than that: the pleasure of seeing others undergo the humiliation of suffering and dying, and the knowledge that they had at least the small amount of power necessary to bring about that humiliation. If you could not have freedom you could still have vengeance, and that was all anyone really wanted now. Perhaps, he thought, rationalizing, trying to connect the scattered fragments of reality with his image of truth, vengeance was what Allah wished His people to have, and by inflicting punishment on unbelievers the Moslems would merely be imposing divine justice. “Ed dounia ouahira,” he sighed. “The world is a difficult place.”

Paul Bowles: The Spider's House

“In the school they teach you what the world means, and once you have learned, you will always know,” Amar’s father had told him. “But suppose the world changes?” Amar had thought. “Then what would you know?” However, he was careful not to let his father guess what he was thinking.

Pygmy Nuthatch @ Wrightwood CA

Pygmy Nuthatch @ Wrightwood CA. Though it's cooler in the mountains this was last Monday ("feels like 90" above, 100+ below) and the waterholes were few. This little guy stopped by for a drink and dip. 

#rlswihart13 #wrightwoodca #pygmynutchatch #stoppingforadrink #nuthatchesofinstagram #poetry #nature #beauty #smallthings #readmorepoetry2024🎈♥️🪶

Graham Greene: Writing Therapy

Was bumping around the Net, reading about the use of "writing therapy" in mental health. Found several things of interest, including this quote by Graham Greene (from his book Ways of Escape):

Writing is a form of therapy; sometimes I wonder how all those who do not write, compose, or paint can manage to escape the madness, melancholia, the panic and fear which is inherent in a human situation.