bastards a little colder, still oozing, and the pimps, who drool. There is a ladder of
street slobber, so that the violence gushes out like tears or
drips like a leaky faucet, but it is a mistake, not cold, ruthless
art: as much accident as intention, not coldly calculated and
perfectly executed. Then there is this other level. No fear. No
ooze. No slobber. No exhibitionism. No boast. Nothing except
serious intention, perfectly conceived and coldly executed, an
interior of ice and a perfect economy of motion.
What has he done to her? The acid begins to grip and she will
not say anyway. Poor R had left when she heard N was inside
with a man. N is politely, resolutely silent. She will not budge.
We are worlds apart and the subject is closed. Then we are
awash in acid and beyond all human argument. We begin to
50
roam the magnificent city streets and to play like children in
their decaying monumental splendor. We range over these
grand cement plains like wild animals, we dance up mountains
fleet of foot, we rush down rivers dancing on the silver light of
the rapids: each sight and sign of squalor is dazzling and
unique: there is no language for this and sadist is a word even
when you can’t quite find it: and each and every human form
shimmers in light and motion: the cold, cold man is more than
gone or forgotten: there is no place in the universe for him: he
is behind us now and time is a river, rushing on. The cement is
a luminous rainbow of garish silver and blinding white coming
out of the gravel, rising up like a phoenix from it: gold mixes
into the stone from the heat and the scarlet from the blood is
brilliant and intensely beautiful.
The air is spectacular, daylight, light that dances, a million
shining fragments of light like tiny speckled stones: you could
reach out and touch them except instead you walk between
them, skirting their shiny surfaces, never feeling their glossy
round edges. You reach out your arm to touch a piece of light
and your arm stretches into the distance, it has the curves of a
gracious hill and subtle valley and your fingers slide gracefully
past each other, one then another then another, and they are
gracefully curved, like a valley between two hills, a slight curve,
slack but aesthetic and delicate. And the tips of your fingers
touch the light and dance, dance.
The red from the traffic light spreads out through the air, it
is circle on circle of diffusing red light, it is like a red light in
the sky and with the sun behind it, it becomes fierce and hot.
The streets are endless arcades filled with gentle refuges. There
are stores where they greet you warmly, hippie boys all hairy
and with wet eyes, and give you tea and have you sit and offer
you smoke: and you laugh and laugh: or are deadly solemn:
and there is sitar music and you get lost on each note and drift
