DOWNSHINE, ON THE MOONSHINE
Thinking now, just thinking; how everything
fits, but nothing fits - how the rage in the
cotton has little to do with the field where
it's grown; how the hundreds of little things
maybe - just maybe - do all add up in
the end.
-
I'm not yelling at you, I'm yelling with you.
-
Ludmilla? Ludmilla, you know I've never
been to Turkey, Egypt, Saudi Arabia, or
North Africa. Do you think that makes a
difference? I don't, and my temperament,
I figure would be the same even if I did.
So little matters so little.
-
I'm not yelling at you, I'm yelling with you.
-
Ludmilla used to talk a lot, about sex.
Her 'pulse-beating tribulations of each
horrifying encounter - someone, and
somewhere; even with one of the young
assistants at the Museum.' (That's Walter
Abish's quote). 'People would listen to
her, with baited breath, as she described
her reactions and responses to the abrupt,
crude lascivious blunt and obscene
proposals made to her in taxis, in
subways, on escalators, in grounded
elevators, and even in a dentist's chair!'
-
One man, she claimed even insisted
on tying her hands to the chandelier.
-
(I'm not yelling at you; I'm yelling with you).
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