time correcting the stupid thing with white Liquid Paper and
eraser stuff and trying to align it right when I’m typing the
colon back in and I just really want her to drop dead because o f
it. Passions can be monumental. I can barely keep my ass on
the typing chair at her desk; I mean, she owns the desk; she has
her desk, a big desk, and then the desk where I sit, a little desk
and her desk is in her big room and m y desk is in a little
anteroom right o ff her big room so she can always see me but
I’m o ff to the side, relegated to being help in a clear w ay; it has
its own eloquence and I feel it acutely and it gets me mad. I try
to take the typing home with me so I don’t have to sit at the
little desk in the little room with her watching but she wants
me to do it there and there’s this tug o f war. She’s real
seductive and I am too fucking bored to care because if I give in
to it then I will have to be there more and if I am there more I
will have to type more and if I have to type more I will die.
There’s apparently some edge she sees; she thinks I’m
turbulent, she says; I think I’m calm and patient in a world o f
endless and chaotic bullshit, which I say but it falls on deaf
ears; I smile and I’m nice and completely calm except for when
I have to bolt but she sees some street tough or something wild
and gets all excited and I don’t have a lot o f respect for it; she
says I’m pure. I just smile because I don’t know what bullshit it
is exactly. Even if I don’t type she keeps me around. I can
barely keep m yself under wraps sometimes, frankly; I want to
bolt. I smile, I’m nice, I’m calm, but she treats me careful, as if
I’m volatile or dangerous somehow, which I am not, because
in m y soul I am a real sweetheart which is the truth, a deep
truth, an honest truth, I don’t yell or shout or think how to
hurt people and I feel dedicated to peace as she is too. I just get
bored so deep it hurts the pits o f me, stomach and groin
precisely, I feel a long pain and I can’t sit still through it; it’s
hit-the-road pain. She tells me how to be a writer and I listen
because as long as I am listening I don’t have to type; I listen,
though often I’m bored, and I haven’t mastered the art o f inner
stillness, though I will, I am sure. Then there’s the lovemaking
part, a moment comes, and I slide out from under, with a
certain newfound grace, I must say, and if I can’t slide, I bolt,
and it’s abrupt. She keeps me on, even though I never exactly
get the typing done or the filing done and she never nails me;
never. It’s a long walk to her place to type and I walk it often,
because I fucking love to walk, even though it’s stupid and not
safe and you have to be a prophet who can look down a street
and know what it’s got in store for you, and I do it happy and
proud and I fucking love the long walks. I go there and back
early and late and sometimes I get there and I just can’t bear to
stay so I leave right away, I take some cup o f coffee or food,
fast, with her, she’ll always make me something as if it’s
