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I am Henry James.
Other poor wretches at dinner parties try to regain the enthusiasm of youth in a wasted effort to regain meaning. But I, excessively rich, sever all connections in order to greet the forbidden unfamiliar languages written in the stones of the walls and gates of the houses of ill-repute. I am a young pianist, a brilliant diagnostician, a woman of easy virtue who throws genius/ mind/ personality/ and soul to the recriminating horde of jackals immured in the stones of the walls and gates of the houses of ill-repute.
I am succubi and incubi. But not, as you may be, at the beck and call of the courtesan.
You are members of an exclusive club, where no one is compelled to di(n)e alone. You have no secrets, but viciously seize on me day and night. Day and night, I look famished from the heavy/the heaving/ the heaving and panting of TACIT ADHERENCE. I keep my cheeks sucked in, my fingers tense:
* * *
EXPLORES/EXPLORERS/SOME FRESH PLEASURE
(uneasiness kindles honey/holy)
The rest is history. In 1006, King John signed the Magna Carta. The Indians showed the Pilgrims how to plant corn by planting four dead fish with each corn seed. Jesse Jackson was the best-dressed of the three contenders, but his moustache and evangelsim were his weak points. Meanwhile, the stern members of the exclusive club discussed art as if it were a courtesan.
I am the infant terrible.
I am the human lyrical expression of desire.
I inspire men to play the piano.
As a courtesan, I teach men how to survive in the wild. Hawk's breath, dandelion fumes, and wild checker make a salad that is good for the brain as well as the body. The brain is the body. I know, I just wanted to see if you were listening. I am listening to you darling, he said, caressing her downy, rounded belly, whispering your skin is the skin of mushrooms, your hair of an egret's nuptial feathers, your eye of the wily squirrel.
Ah but I too can build a beautiful machine that will self-destruct in a gallery. you should use these elk-horns in it. Yes, certainly, and bottlecaps.
I'm all blocked up. I can't play anymore. Let's go to Italy where I can better work on this concerto. Franz Liszt to Camille.
You promised you would buy me/ that necklace.
I used to serve a historical position.
I am now a functionary.
Your finger can become aware of what you were in history because your finger is a part of your ancestors, who go back into the dramatic history of boiundless French names, of enchanted skirts pulled up. Calculation is drawn into lines and then shaped to mere genius. A certain wrestling holds, and sold with heart. And then I held her close, shaping her into the image of the woman she pretended to be possessed.
It's different from having your hand stuck in nettles. I'll over fight you it. I'll fiction it to you suit. It me suction under tan hands, plugged-up ears.
I throw back my golden mane and bang on the keys: I am a writer of fiction. I am a mother.
A frame-by-frame examination shows us that there really is a bottle of coke in between the shots of the hot car driving in the desert. We -- the courtesan and myself -- will "do a cattleya" in the backseat of the car. It smells of hot vinyl. I reach down to stroke her ankle. We stop in Wyoming to look at some rocks. They are black and form towers. She picks a bouquet of dried-up grass and puts it on the dashboard. I throw it out the window, explaining that it's a fire hazard. She violently protests, leaning over me, hammering, so I grab her shoulders, working my breathing mouth along her exposed white neck, gently tonguing the thudding labyrinth of her ear downdown down to the filmy recesses of her pale, overly familiar cleavage.
Damn women forget they must always sacrifice jewelry to art. Music, my dear, in the case of pianos, is just rearranging keys. Think of the multitude of doors involved in every modulation. The SOUND does not just come from the space inside the instrument but also the space outside the instrument. This is called "acoustics."
The orthodox mod wondered aloud what makes an element necessary, gingerly rubbing her hands all over the courtesan's tiny "body." Alfred Hitchcock threw some women out of towers.
Camille receives white camellias every day, except when she menstruates, when she receives red camellias. This is the signal to her clients that she won't serve them.
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