Eighty-five, bedridden, I sit and listen to her inquiries.
“Like, what are you writing now, Mr. Bowles?”
“Nothing. I don't write. I haven't written for years.”
“What? What do you mean?”
She laughs. Laughs, you see.
I'll tell you:
I've always walked more quickly than others. In Europe, South America, Africa, the subcontinent of Asia, certainly in the states, where most everyone is enormous. Wherever, whenever, I bluster by, weaving, stutter-stepping and then surging forward, a gust of vim and vigor—leaves, litter, life's confetti spiraling into the air—and me shaking my head: How can they move so slowly? Live so slowly? So provincial, narrow-minded, self-delusional, half-alive. Perhaps I am judgmental; a trifle harsh, you say, without sufficient evidence, but how you exist per day is how you exist per life. Look at them: so slowly, slowly, are they asleep? Drugged? Drowned? Trapped in some thick madjoun of the soul? Or simply dead?
Who can say?
But my gods, something is pursuing, something dark and breathing, a Saharan wind…
I say run!
When I was a young man I felt boredom on my shoulders like a rumpled cloak of lead. I dropped out of college and flipped a coin, a 1929 half-dollar, and decided if heads, suicide. If tails, a life of perpetual travel.
I've seen things.
A three hundred meter high sand dune, a girl tumbling down its face. The flux, reflux of drums. A bird in a spider's web. A skewered goat fetus, an open fire, flesh quivering. Pills crushed, a yellow mist. A ship capsizing, the slow roll, barnacles like cancer. A hawk perched on the Tower of London, in its talons a white pigeon. Leaves changing. Gertrude Stein pouring Kiwi fruit liqueur and saying, “No is always if and if is always yes and always yes is always no.” An eighteen thousand year old cave drawing of a man hurling a spear. A lamb crying, actual tears, seconds before its slaughter. Bombs thumping, cumulus clouds. Balcony edges, the seduction. A father murdering his daughter because she was seen talking to a certain man—talking, mind you. The yolk sucked from turtle eggs. My reflection fixed in a guillotine's blade. Aaron Copeland shouting over a trumpet solo, “Play it loud! Play it American! Play it like two lovers tumbling down the stairs!” A nine-year-old prostitute. Poisoned champagne. Sand in my molars. A snake eating a snake eating an egg. In a public square, a woman decapitated for the crime of masturbation. Icicles, dripping. An entire river in flames. A tourist stabbing a waiter over an overcooked pheasant. The gold-plated skeleton of a whale. Carson McCullers, telling me, “Death, it's going around.” A bookshelf constructed of chimpanzee femurs. A knife thrower accidentally killing his assistant, his sister, during a performance. An ocean of jade. A man excising his own appendix. Allen Ginsberg saying no to kif, waving it away, declaring, “I'm for the stiff drink, the vapor high, where you sit and just think, where consciousness becomes common sense.” A burglar wedged in a chimney and dying of starvation. A half-eaten pear. A soccer goalie torn to pieces by a rioting crowd. Tennessee Williams swallowing codeine with gin, chasing it with coffee, a handful of Benzedrine, saying, “Don't mind me; I've built this buzz many a time.” An oasis, a goldfish pond, a gallows in the center, a man swaying. Mountain flowers. A wind rattling loose windows. A camel bludgeoned to death with a piano stool. Jackson Pollock, intoxicated, slumped against a New York City fire hydrant, pointing directly at my forehead, saying with conviction, “You know, I'm just happy to be here.”
And she laughs.
Sitting cross-legged, pen and notebook in hand, wearing a tight yellow T-shirt that reads TOO DRUNK TO FUCK, tight jeans, one of my books folded into her back pocket, certain phrases underlined, twisting her hair with a pinky finger—she says, “But to give up writing? Why would you?”
I look at the carpet, at the faded, step-worn design, and tell her. I say, “I just don't understand human beings.”
And so she laughs.
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Shelter my sky, please.
Great writing, enjoyed reading.
Always a pleasure reading the good words. I don't know about the sky and the shelter, but I've been looking for shade all day on smoke breaks. Just hunker down, man.
the list of things he's seen - breathtaking, esp. when shared with such an undeserving audience (how does she not understand that he does write, that he just did?). i love the theme of the publicness of punishment, conveyed with such measured calm. horrifying and compelling. amazing, as always.
Where the hell did this/you come from?!
Tell me those phrases/images weren't lifted from the man's work/letters, and I will worship you.
(but even if they were, in fact, ever-so-slightly plucked from his oeuvre, the arrangement obviously is all yours, so I bow to that!)
Truly astounding.
The REAL thing.
You know it when you see it...
perfect
Lord, yes. Beautiful writing here and a skilled way of telling a story. Nice.
Oh, lovely. Love Carson's line. I believe she'd say exactly that.
This is so very excellent.
terrifically framed and flipped,
the grand, century-spanning, prodigiously creative, nomadic Bowles bedridden against a vacuous admirer. The catalogue is at once exotic and tortured, an inspired flight into darkness which though we're brought back to the hair twisting bimbo, it's Bowles that gets the last laugh: I just don't understand human beings. (HA!)
Wonderful. Doesn't miss a beat, and very very lyrical:
'...weaving, stutter-stepping and then surging forward, a gust of vim and vigor—leaves, litter, life's confetti spiraling into the air'
Glad his coin landed tails-up.
I'm awed by this strange and lush stream of consciousness Paul Bowles reincarnated, or brought back to life-- whichever, it's lovely. So much like what it was said to be when wandering hippies visited him in (?) Tangiers--
also strange, I moved a thick volume of Bowles stories yesterday to another sturdier shelf
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a friend of mine studied with paul bowles in morocco. apparently he wore a tweed sportcoat through most temperatures, told wonderful stories, and often fell asleep with hashish in his tobacco pipe while lecturing. once, some of it fell out and lit his sportcoat and my friend had to wake him via newspaper swatting.
This is some brilliant energy.
Christ on a cracker: this is good. I adore Bowleses Paul and Jane, so I was excited to see the title. And the story did not disappoint. The list is one of the best I've seen ever in anything. Great way of drawing us in to Paul's magical world, his life without stopping.
My undergrad thesis advisor knew him and has written about him extensively. The last time he visited was a time like in this story. He was in bed eating gingersnaps. People buzzed around him, in and out of his place in Tangier. Your story brought back memories of stories I heard about bedridden Bowles.
This one, I think, surpasses "Nachos," even. Nicely done. Star.
Well-paced. Strong form and voice. I really admire the directness of this. Wonderful writing.
Good one. Damn good one. Very damn good one. A fine indication of its value is shown in the enthusiastic comments above.
I don't know what to say, because there is so much to say. So I'll just say this: "fav."
Thanks to all.
Very kind of you.
Nice.
Elvis, Bonnie & Clyde, now Bowles. Can't wait to see who's next--or for a book full of these things. Wonderful.
gulp. shiver. favorite.
holy crap scott's here.
yeah no really this story rules, s.l.
a gust of vim and vigor—leaves, litter, life's confetti spiraling into the air—
When I was a young man I felt boredom on my shoulders like a rumpled cloak of lead.
brilliant!
Terrific. Inspiring. Fav.
Fantabulous. That one para where you categorize all he's seen.... just wow. Gives me chills. Printing it out, nailing it to my bulletin board, giving it a star. peace...
I'm intrigued by the decision to write this story. I studied Paul and Jane Bowles between graduate schools. I watched a film on Paul Bowles' music, including interview with him in Tangiers when he was old, surrounded in his bed by handsome young men also servants. I see his writing as so precise and his vision as almost too painful to take in completely. I think I find him calm on the surface yet darker than you do here. Did you find his voice in fiction or biography?
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My process is to immerse myself in the person, research, for a good while.
I then write.
I would agree he is darker, but could also be playful, in the way of dark humor, serious play.
Thanks for reading!
Wow Sean, this is stunning. Fabulous writing. Like jewels falling from a treasure chest.
I've seen things.
And then, that spectacular run --
I mean, it's all been said. Love Paul. And Jane -- any chance you're cooking up Jane, too?
I flipped a coin... good thing it was tails or the story woul dbe much shorter.
Beautiful and artfully written.
And so she laughs.
admirable, throughout
As a coin flipper, I recognize the inherent value of leaving things up to chance. A life predicated on it, yes. "I've seen things." The energy here is astonishing. And the list! Good g-d, man!
Lush and lyrical. And I, had to choke back a tear.