anticipated outcome?
And maybe—maybe—love will arrive, and remain. That could happen. There’s no obvious reason for love’s skittishness (though there is as well no obvious reason for the behavior of neutrons). It’s all about patience. Isn’t it? Patience, and the refusal to abandon hope. The refusal to be daunted by, say, a five-line farewell text.
I wish you happiness and luck in the future. xxx.
That from a man with whom Barrett had imagined, had allowed himself to imagine, the buzz of soul-contact, once or twice at least (that rainy afternoon in the bathtub, when he whispered the O’Hara poem into the man’s ear, which was edged with fine blond down; that night in the Adirondacks, with tree branches fingering the window, when the man had said, as if sharing a secret, “That’s an acacia tree”).
You continue, right? You see an impossible light, which goes out again. You believe that a bathtub in the West Village, on a Tuesday afternoon, has presented itself as an actual destination, not just another stop along the way.
This, Barrett Meeks, is your work. You witness, and compile. You persevere. You have, after all, made a significant discovery: The conjuring of a big splash, the building of a high-profile career, is not required, not even of those gifted with greater-than-average powers of mind. It’s nowhere in the contract. God (whoever She is) does not need you, does not need anyone, to arrive, at the end, in the cloud field, with its remote golden spires, bearing an armload of earthly accomplishments.
Barrett sits with his arm draped lightly around Beth’s tiny waist. Ping is saying, “… wait, this is the best line of all, Frieda, she’s the respectable one in the novel, says, ‘I have gone to pieces, which is a thing I’ve wanted to do for years.’ How great is that?”
Foster says, “I’m getting it tattooed on my chest.”
Barrett says, “‘To set the mind on the flesh is death, but to set the mind on the spirit is life and peace.’”
A pause ensues. Ping looks at Barrett as if Barrett has suddenly told a knock-knock joke.
“I’m sure that’s true,” Ping says with elaborate graciousness, as if helping Barrett cover up a faux pas.
Beth gently caresses his neck. She is married to Barrett as well as Tyler—the proof resides in a gesture like this.
“Sorry,” Barrett says. “Go on.”
But Ping’s momentum has been broken, his riff undone. He smiles with the cordiality that must have been common among courtiers to French kings.
“Where exactly did
that
come from, angel?” he asks.
Barrett, glancing around, wishing he could liquefy, drip away through the floorboards like spilled dishwater, or, barring that, explain himself, spots Andrew, standing idly nearby with a beer and a fistful of peanuts, behind the sofa, out of Ping’s sight.
Andrew, placid and sure; Andrew, who, in the way of certain gods, couldn’t care less about human squabblings; who literally fails to understand them. There are all these fruits, there’s water and sky, there’s enough for everyone, what could you possibly have to argue about?
Liz has kept him around for longer than usual, hasn’t she?
“It’s from Romans,” Barrett says.
“As in, the Bible?”
“Yeah. The Bible.”
“You’re a marvel,” Ping says. He’s a diva but not a diva of the most vicious kind; he’s a diva in the spirit of the grande dame, free with signs of his displeasure (witnesses must never imagine he’s easily defeated, must not mistake his charms for panderings) but cordial, if coldly so. Nor is he is a pedant. He is merely a zealot, possessed of a fierce and singular loyalty to that which he’s been given to understand as revelatory. Before Jane Bowles there was Henry Darger; before Darger the social career of Barbara Hutton. When Ping is in the grip, he’s surprised, genuinely surprised, that anyone could be interested in anything else.
Barrett says, “Jane Bowles was probably being poisoned by
And maybe—maybe—love will arrive, and remain. That could happen. There’s no obvious reason for love’s skittishness (though there is as well no obvious reason for the behavior of neutrons). It’s all about patience. Isn’t it? Patience, and the refusal to abandon hope. The refusal to be daunted by, say, a five-line farewell text.
I wish you happiness and luck in the future. xxx.
That from a man with whom Barrett had imagined, had allowed himself to imagine, the buzz of soul-contact, once or twice at least (that rainy afternoon in the bathtub, when he whispered the O’Hara poem into the man’s ear, which was edged with fine blond down; that night in the Adirondacks, with tree branches fingering the window, when the man had said, as if sharing a secret, “That’s an acacia tree”).
You continue, right? You see an impossible light, which goes out again. You believe that a bathtub in the West Village, on a Tuesday afternoon, has presented itself as an actual destination, not just another stop along the way.
This, Barrett Meeks, is your work. You witness, and compile. You persevere. You have, after all, made a significant discovery: The conjuring of a big splash, the building of a high-profile career, is not required, not even of those gifted with greater-than-average powers of mind. It’s nowhere in the contract. God (whoever She is) does not need you, does not need anyone, to arrive, at the end, in the cloud field, with its remote golden spires, bearing an armload of earthly accomplishments.
Barrett sits with his arm draped lightly around Beth’s tiny waist. Ping is saying, “… wait, this is the best line of all, Frieda, she’s the respectable one in the novel, says, ‘I have gone to pieces, which is a thing I’ve wanted to do for years.’ How great is that?”
Foster says, “I’m getting it tattooed on my chest.”
Barrett says, “‘To set the mind on the flesh is death, but to set the mind on the spirit is life and peace.’”
A pause ensues. Ping looks at Barrett as if Barrett has suddenly told a knock-knock joke.
“I’m sure that’s true,” Ping says with elaborate graciousness, as if helping Barrett cover up a faux pas.
Beth gently caresses his neck. She is married to Barrett as well as Tyler—the proof resides in a gesture like this.
“Sorry,” Barrett says. “Go on.”
But Ping’s momentum has been broken, his riff undone. He smiles with the cordiality that must have been common among courtiers to French kings.
“Where exactly did
that
come from, angel?” he asks.
Barrett, glancing around, wishing he could liquefy, drip away through the floorboards like spilled dishwater, or, barring that, explain himself, spots Andrew, standing idly nearby with a beer and a fistful of peanuts, behind the sofa, out of Ping’s sight.
Andrew, placid and sure; Andrew, who, in the way of certain gods, couldn’t care less about human squabblings; who literally fails to understand them. There are all these fruits, there’s water and sky, there’s enough for everyone, what could you possibly have to argue about?
Liz has kept him around for longer than usual, hasn’t she?
“It’s from Romans,” Barrett says.
“As in, the Bible?”
“Yeah. The Bible.”
“You’re a marvel,” Ping says. He’s a diva but not a diva of the most vicious kind; he’s a diva in the spirit of the grande dame, free with signs of his displeasure (witnesses must never imagine he’s easily defeated, must not mistake his charms for panderings) but cordial, if coldly so. Nor is he is a pedant. He is merely a zealot, possessed of a fierce and singular loyalty to that which he’s been given to understand as revelatory. Before Jane Bowles there was Henry Darger; before Darger the social career of Barbara Hutton. When Ping is in the grip, he’s surprised, genuinely surprised, that anyone could be interested in anything else.
Barrett says, “Jane Bowles was probably being poisoned by
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