And there definitely is a poetical structure to the prose, and I don't mean just the writing on these two pages, but also in how themes return to the stage, in a pattern of growth, or, more precisely, growth's inevitability to be expressed, or do die. This citation shows Decter's return to the issue of living in a patriarchy.
Ann Decter.
Paper, Scissors, Rock.
Vancouver
Press Gang Publishers, 1992. (Now McGilligan Books.)
ISBN: 0889740402.
I just want
you all
to get along.
Later that day Jane saw Phil back at square one. Intensive care unit.
Arms by his sides, impossibly still. A small hole in his throat, with a tube coming out. Completely so totally motionless.
Still lifedeath.
I just want
Her knees buckled
all of you
going down she grabbed her shins, held onto a crouch
to get
breathed as deep as she could
along.
Falsified air.
In the small waiting room, a social worker came looking for Jane.
"Are you the girl that had trouble in there?"
"Pardon?"
"You know, seeing someone very ill can be very difficult for some
people."
Jane smiled. Strange apparition, some people.
"I just got a little dizzy."
"Have you been into intensive care before? It can be hard the first time."
Peering into Jane's face. Placed a hand on Jane's knee.
Go away. Jane closed her eyes, raised a hand to her brow.
"Yes, I have. I have been in there before." I've been in here, I've been down the hall, I've been to the intensive care two floors up, I've whiled away hours in the cafeteria, I've held the cloth with the ice cubes, I've mopped his brow, I've arranged his house, I've driven day and night to get here and been dragged directly to this hospital upon arrival by Owen, because someone had to take over worrying, had to be responsible for caring, someone had to slip into the space Sophia escaped. Everything required it. Family. Hospital. Social workers. The whole damn system.
Everyone.
Jane opened her eyes and the woman was gone.
In a strict patriarchy, men maintain power by insisting that women show caring, give comfort, soothe wounds, assuage anger, and then devaluing emotion as weakness.
In a changing society, those drawing strength from new patterns feel the reimposition of the strictest forms as an alienation from themselves.
Slow spiritual death.
In a causal philosophy, the agent must be identified.
A box of chocolates.
In a philosophy of emotions, expectations must be assigned to the person that generated them.
Phil wanted to know his family would be alright.
Owen wanted to know his father would be alright.
Made Jane their agent.
A box of expectations.
Slice your way out.
Jane phoned Shulamit.
"He's back in intensive care."
"What happened?"
"He ate some chocolates and threw up. Something caught in his throat.
They had to do a tracheotomy."
Shulamit waited.
"I let him go. I was holding him, then I thought—what am I doing? This is a hospital, it's full of people who know what to do."
"So?"
"I guess I should have held him longer."
"Why?"
"So he wouldn't have choked."
"How do you know he wouldn't have choked?"
Jane was silent. "I don't."
"That better?"
"Yep. So how's Toronto?"
"The same. Colder. Crawling with droolers."
"Droolers?"
"Like what you just did. Dripping all over. Droolers. I went to an opening."
"Yeah?"
"Boxes. A whole room full of little boxes."
"What do you mean, boxes?"
"I mean boxes boxes. Small wood boxes, maybe eight inches across, painted inside, made into rooms—living rooms, dining rooms, bedrooms."
"Good?"
"Drool. Decoration. All they're doing at the art college these days. I mean how interesting is a living room?"
"Well, if you think about it, it could be interesting" (85-7).
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