campaigner.” Goodrich capitulated and swallowed a mouthful. Soon he had another and another. He kept a sharp eye now (scarecrow sharp with the Namless beverage) upon the shapes of night beyond the fire. Still there was no sign of the woman. Knife had spread the blankets on the ground. It was inclined to be somewhat misty but on the whole quite warm beside the fire, under a blanket.
Knife was off the moment he put his head down but Goodrich was so tired his senses were keyed up upon the borders of sleep in associative parallels and faculties. There was a gentle sighing wind and the sound of a shaking door or a window from the wrecked building. Also a hooting noise, an owl or some other creature. And an occasional twitter and sparking like a fire of crickets in a clump of grass.
He counted god’s sheep, felt no sickness this time from the Namless beverage but tension, almost an ague, the sense of his own limitations, the sense of ripening into the Director-General’s comedy of relations.
Then it was between curtain and curtain of night he saw the woman emerge from the farmhouse. She came straight over to him but he found himself unable to move, curled tight into the ripe scene he had become. She began to undress methodically and as she stood in profile against the fire, her head in shadow, he dreamt he could see with the severed eyes of his nose the pointed eyes of her breasts. Then she turned to face him.
An animal-smelling face nuzzled into him but it was not the woman. It was not a dog. It was not a sheep. It was the constellation of the bull, Goodrich exclaimed, the tall bull of night on its knees beside him with the longest horns he had ever seen reaching into the stars. They picked him off the ground and held him steady. He wanted to lie back, curl up again. He was about to slump when the bull pushed him forward, caught him between its horns, braced him with its forehead, pushed him on again. Now he was pushed on the forehead of the bull straight upon her: upright coitus—upstanding coitus—into which she had been drawn upon the head of the bull between the upright and upstanding pillars of night.
Pillars of night which he (Goodrich) had uprooted (so it seemed to him now). In one sense (it was true) they had uplifted him, pushed him off the ground into her thighs, between her thighs; in another sense it was his Samsonian avalanche, his uprooting of everything into a collaborative revolution of establishment.
A toppling world and yet he clung to the pinnacle of fear, the pinnacle of hate, the pinnacle of love, sleepwalking bull of night, the gigantic robot of sex which now bestrode space like the genius of the avalanche.
The question returned—had he been uprooted by her, decapitated by her into the head of the bull, or had he devoured her, his severed eyes in her body, his uprooted lips to her lips, his uprooted tongue to her tongue, his uprooted spire…?
Had he pushed her or had been pushed by her…? This was the question raised by the Director-General of Cosmic Sex as though in constructing his gigantic robot of night he was intent on fathoming the dinosaur of an age—the Strike of man against himself as a narcissistic function of economic ritual….
“Oh god,” said Goodrich as he awoke shuddering with newborn terror. “Oh god.” His blankets were awry and he felt the acute mystery of born, unborn existences.
*
When the sun was high Knife and Goodrich set off again in the rickety taxi along the ribbon of road. “I believe,” said Knife, “the woman I told you of may have gone on to one of the stations ahead of us along the road.”
“Who is she?”
“I thought you knew,” said Knife in his dead pan voice which made it difficult to tell whether he was serious or laughing up his sleeve.
“How should I know?” Goodrich was annoyed. He recalled the ague of his dream.
“Blankets,” said Knife soothingly. “So many of us sleep in the open. Comfort comes from blankets. Also from food,
Knife was off the moment he put his head down but Goodrich was so tired his senses were keyed up upon the borders of sleep in associative parallels and faculties. There was a gentle sighing wind and the sound of a shaking door or a window from the wrecked building. Also a hooting noise, an owl or some other creature. And an occasional twitter and sparking like a fire of crickets in a clump of grass.
He counted god’s sheep, felt no sickness this time from the Namless beverage but tension, almost an ague, the sense of his own limitations, the sense of ripening into the Director-General’s comedy of relations.
Then it was between curtain and curtain of night he saw the woman emerge from the farmhouse. She came straight over to him but he found himself unable to move, curled tight into the ripe scene he had become. She began to undress methodically and as she stood in profile against the fire, her head in shadow, he dreamt he could see with the severed eyes of his nose the pointed eyes of her breasts. Then she turned to face him.
An animal-smelling face nuzzled into him but it was not the woman. It was not a dog. It was not a sheep. It was the constellation of the bull, Goodrich exclaimed, the tall bull of night on its knees beside him with the longest horns he had ever seen reaching into the stars. They picked him off the ground and held him steady. He wanted to lie back, curl up again. He was about to slump when the bull pushed him forward, caught him between its horns, braced him with its forehead, pushed him on again. Now he was pushed on the forehead of the bull straight upon her: upright coitus—upstanding coitus—into which she had been drawn upon the head of the bull between the upright and upstanding pillars of night.
Pillars of night which he (Goodrich) had uprooted (so it seemed to him now). In one sense (it was true) they had uplifted him, pushed him off the ground into her thighs, between her thighs; in another sense it was his Samsonian avalanche, his uprooting of everything into a collaborative revolution of establishment.
A toppling world and yet he clung to the pinnacle of fear, the pinnacle of hate, the pinnacle of love, sleepwalking bull of night, the gigantic robot of sex which now bestrode space like the genius of the avalanche.
The question returned—had he been uprooted by her, decapitated by her into the head of the bull, or had he devoured her, his severed eyes in her body, his uprooted lips to her lips, his uprooted tongue to her tongue, his uprooted spire…?
Had he pushed her or had been pushed by her…? This was the question raised by the Director-General of Cosmic Sex as though in constructing his gigantic robot of night he was intent on fathoming the dinosaur of an age—the Strike of man against himself as a narcissistic function of economic ritual….
“Oh god,” said Goodrich as he awoke shuddering with newborn terror. “Oh god.” His blankets were awry and he felt the acute mystery of born, unborn existences.
*
When the sun was high Knife and Goodrich set off again in the rickety taxi along the ribbon of road. “I believe,” said Knife, “the woman I told you of may have gone on to one of the stations ahead of us along the road.”
“Who is she?”
“I thought you knew,” said Knife in his dead pan voice which made it difficult to tell whether he was serious or laughing up his sleeve.
“How should I know?” Goodrich was annoyed. He recalled the ague of his dream.
“Blankets,” said Knife soothingly. “So many of us sleep in the open. Comfort comes from blankets. Also from food,
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