Dadaoism (An Anthology)

by Oliver, Reggie

  At the end of the old pathway, now overgrown with gorse and brambles, was the porter’s lodge. Scratching myself on the thorns and passing through copse and woodland, I discovered its entrance. On the gate, carved in bold curves, like the shapes of chalk animals on the Dorset hillsides, hewn by ancient peoples, were images of my china cat and dog. The door gaped wide and past a facade of bachelor relics from the early 1960s, were the corridors and wards of the old asylum. I recognised at once my uncle’s room, where he sat asleep, crazed by dreams of windswept crags. Here, where time turned back upon itself, would I sit, in perfect solitude, in the glory of The House of the Roaring Winds.

  My last act before leaving the hotel early this morning was to scribble this account in a notebook and leave it inside Mother’s box. I have added but little—a few grains of dust from the vast mud flats. But the chambermaid, whose name I never sought, will understand.

  AFFECTION 45

  Brendan Connell

  The woman looked over the stack of letters. The pages were yellow, the writing mounted on its turquoise lines. An irregular script of smeary pastosity, inundated with ovals, vigorous lower loops, and lancing, terminal thrusts. Yet the words carried with them a perfume of sentimentality, and spoke in guarded terms, of that object, that action, so much desired.

  She sincerely hoped that the last would be just that, and that he had understood. It would be horrible, she thought, to have him appear at the doorstep. Her world did not need to be pierced; its micropyle breached, scratched away at by the prehensile hands of the people.

  She folded them in her dry fingers. They were already known, every line at least twice read. That was what it felt like to be alive. She toyed with the earring in her lobe, and noticed her body, plump, yet devoid of extraneous fat. Others would have described her as big boned, “healthy”—a silly, largish sort of woman—a girl cast in heaping flesh (because, after all, her face carried with it the piquancy of excessive youth—never mind her thirty plus years—emotionally retarded, or just a mask, a semblance of simpler status; whatever the case, one could not tell by her choice of phrase).

  That morning, after breakfast, it had been the normal routine. Her husband having left, the woman chastised herself, but it brought little relief. She then walked outside and picked several peonies. A garter snake wound near her foot and escaped through the nearby shrubs, out beyond high trees and a blanket of shaded, composting leaves. It writhed in those dark spaces, and must have been exact, true in its course. It was really a beautiful creature—that much she knew, moving through the porch door, inside, and installing the fragrant stalks between the lips of the vase.

  The rubber ball was still in the drawer, beneath an array of lace and silk.

  Her husband often played with a penknife, taking it out of his pocket, opening and closing it, and then sticking it back in his pocket again. The woman fantasized about him stabbing her with it—if he would at least get it over with, and not always be so nice.

  arms. legs. derriere.

  —Did you make her go wee in there? Your cousin is over by the bathtub saying you made her go wee.

  Why did he have to be that way, she thought; the action being the father to the wish—because there was an urgency—and terror, after all, sometimes brought with it sensations delectable; delish, she thought, or rather felt, because the thought was a seemingly disconnected, minor aberration of the train.

  The ornament she had seen,—for brothers she had had,—and in the summer and in the brook it always seemed best of all. The scent of the fields, the tall grass and the maze made therein by the deer as they came in to sleep for the night, pressing down little clearings—such perfect places to hide. It was odd, she thought, that she had to do it sitting, while they were full allowed to stand—and it was only mischief that made it occasionally otherwise; cloth bloated, skin sore

  if not detected,

  or sometimes,

  the woods,

  the leaves again,

  and absorption.

  water. bubbles. liquid skein.

  Outside, the shadows of the branches played on the lawn and street. To meekly accept the lesson? The walls were thick and old—So many rooms—To be a ghost must necessarily be a great deal of work—People lived, under the sky . . . But did she . . . really live in that block of ice?

  Maybe a mastodon, she thought, tasting the tip of her finger (flagelliform tapering, pliant).

  —A beautiful view, isn’t it, the man had remarked.

  —Yes, I bet we can see for hundreds of miles, she gasped, feeling the onslaught. Look at the peaks over there—the snow—the sky; isn’t it clear . . . (Keep looking up and not down.) torrent. steaming sulfur defluxion.

  don’t spare me

  And the group walked down from the summit, down into the lower forest, beneath the perforating evergreen spires, past it which would not be taken in by the still frozen earth. Yet no one noticed,—which was a relief,—never mind the general discomfort; at least she could breathe easier.

  —Now aren’t you glad you came with us? I knew you would like the view.

  —Yes . . . the view was spectacular, she said, all the while thinking, I wonder if he would like to do that on me—whatever brought it on—more or less the same thing—and they might do it with grave face—authoritative mien—the conduit. so many strokes of the birch.

  trembling

  The way they stand on the side of the road

  shaking

  The wand.

  (a relatively long and slender piece of wood)

  beating

  But that is what happens when you put it off too long. That horrible pavement. Really, there was no place to hide. What force! (Breast full, cheeks pouched with air of vesical dreams.)

  They walked toward her and by her (click of shoe; beat of heart), and shame, she, the woman, found, was something that could be enjoyed, possibly even sought after. And how casually she walked away! Audacious; the ripe sun casting her shadow behind her, the spot trailing off from the curb, swallowed by the gutter. A quadruped? No, they certainly saw a woman walk away, look up at the surrounding properties as if her sole interest was in real estate.

  The woman ran her hand over her face, as if to dislodge some strands of web, some ephemera of dust. She was well girt with preliminaries—past—that was what it was. She had written articles—a published woman; even advocating, ironically, the rights of her sex; and ever against the dominant male discourse—and now: there was silence, and the house . . . Out the window an older lady came by, walking a small dog, a poodle. Peace (the clock ticks. butterfly). The light was so strong outside; as opposed to in; and further off, some blocks away, the traffic was much . . . That other dog is so strong, the woman thought, because the beast really was, and the owner (a young man, chin grown with hair) verily pulled forward chain stretched

  taut

  boding

  fear

  of death

  and white

  transmuted red

  (urologistic

  associations)

  of terror sound brute jaws locked

  and breath could stop digging with his paws

  a torrent of rain or tears and the catkins were there on the lawn and still fell from the catalpa tree, and she knew that something would soon be done about that—Because after all, the Mexican lawn men were coming, yes, tomorrow they were coming . . . So until then let them fall, let the catkins fall; the poodle snowflake dashed, throttled or devoured—Let the stronger beast have his fun; and white turned red yellow and tried to induce with candy but the other, the younger girl, her little cousin, did not want to.

  —You have to . . . Yes, you have to. And she pulled, at the cotton, amidst struggle and kicks; scream

  she was led

  edge; her fear

  transmuted (trembling)

  into the other’s delight.

  —Did you make her go in there? Your cousin is over by the bathtub saying you made her go wee.


  shoes. pant. wind. tree. glistening and the pants’ legs shaking (there’s something back there) nates felt—known—because there is, in this universe, an infinite gulf of both pain and pleasure—the salt melts, in water.

  And was it her fault if marriage brought with it so little in the way of erogenous reward? Her job was self fulfilled—he? . . . should know his own business—What torture those vain and silent experiments! What flesh it was that we are born with! To mate with an octopus or squid—the tendrils of grape or climbing vine—slug under rock, eel of the stream—certain vegetables are hotter than men. The roots and special fruits of tropical clime

  the odor in mouth face

  running

  parched

  organ

  easy enough to remember that first night how he was so polite and didn’t even hardly hint and then turned over and that was that but what was I going to do not my place to go and grab at what I knew nothing about good upbringing and just to be forsaken nights he tried just lie still girl just lie still understanding so this is what it’s like.

  Later there were the classifieds. What things people stated (language so slightly guarded!) xx. o. d. s. m. six. nine. really; there were more imaginations than one! Correspondence always seemed a legitimate mode of anonymity. His letters gave full account of his tumescent manifestation; the thought of the strappado; the mania to castigate. And the verses, he wrote, though crude

  digging with his paws

  diabolical laughter

  still intrigued—stimulating obsession—threatening outbreak . . . Verily . . . She whipped herself every morning after breakfast (pink and salted—limax—maximus). Certain it was a dark pleasure face down craving moisture bathed—But sometimes a woman is powerless, isn’t she? . . . She cannot escape from her obsession . . . The thoughts, vile as they might be, always there . . . And where was she to turn? . . . Who to tell like a worm looked and wanted oh dear god wanted just to have it touched and beat upon reborn horse was what she came to realize and appalled at the thought. The man told her what he did with her letters. Certainly it disgusted her. That was only natural. But she always did write again. What was that all about? He was obviously a brute. She would never let herself be seen in public with him.

  But nonetheless a rendezvous was set.

  The place was not public—the meeting set far and distant—nearer to his side of the world than hers.

  He: the common sort: more handsome than most: a little of the barnyard, the hayrick, still about him: not unintelligent: obviously virile (thick neck, arms like fur)—strangely enough a rather peaceful looking man—gentle eyed! . . . And what a location! No, she had never been to a place like that before; paint peeling; sign (like a crusty drab); and the décor; the beds—what dubious smudges—even burns—stains!

  —These terrible paintings are bolted to the walls, she said as she walked uneasily around the room (hardly the kind of man a woman, note her position, could trust). Why did you lock the door?

  —Well, what do you expect me to do, he replied rather gruffly—or so she thought—Don’t want someone to walk in on us, do you?

  —I am not going to permit just anything . . . Just any behavior.

  —Come off it!

  brutal truly brutal

  trembling

  sweating

  ropes in bag eyes froze in head

  —No, she said.

  Was insect ever more roughly prodded; school child further humiliated?

  With her face buried in the sordid spread, she gasped. She could feel the course, ragged material—and the aroma of stale smoke; that was there too. The sounds of the street (screams of darkest hell?); engine grinding, boy yelling, distant and uncultured babble him lifting that up with god what rough hands and the room so cold can’t they heat the place but of course the price hardly allows for luxuries at least he was gent enough to pay for whatever that is worth now what is he doing spreading them like that not part of the bargain and it’s too cool does he think he is a doctor well quit tickling then fat rubbing it like it is a little nice there’s moisture yes but that is not what I came for you know bargain trusting like this I must be crazy never be seen with him in good company and what language really not necessary to speak like that but at least he’s got it out now wondering if he cut it from a tree this morning or does he always carry one handy for naughty girls like me don’t spare me

  don’t spare me

  for him:

  woman more convulsed than split worm

  dance

  dance

  stagger laughter

  of Mephistopheles and shatters the temple of ice

  pausing

  pausing

  two weeks bruise

  delicate bursting blue or shade of black

  And when the doorbell did ring—well, in truth it hardly crossed her mind . . . That impudence really existed in such a marked degree . . . His breeding certainly showed then . . . The poor beast standing at her doorstep . . . Might as well have been one of the Mexican lawn men . . . Make sure to get up all those catkins, she felt like telling him . . . She instructed him implicitly . . . The connection was obviously one to be severed . . . Her own humiliation brought home to roost . . . No . . . The ball in the drawer . . . Under the panties . . . The leather belt . . . Told no tales . . . Better than this mound of animal flesh.

  —I would ask you to come in, but . . .

  —I took the day off work to come—Don’t tell me you’re going to leave me out here?

  —Well . . . I explained in my letter . . .

  —I never got it, he replied, pushing his way forward.

  An obvious lie, she thought, and noted his eyes, like those of a great buffalo, a thick and unpredictable beast . . . Should she offer him tea, or her bare nates to thrash with mad vigor . . . An uncomfortable situation to be sure . . . The trees in back of the house . . . Dark and cool shade . . . Him . . . With pulsating arms, broad chest . . . Venom endowed

  The floorboards creak under him,

  weight of an elephant,

  batter with tusk,

  stomp,

  and crush,

  the bones of the river nymph

  with enough uncertainty and saw

  gluteal

  obsession

  from the fallen jar, liquid black and foul cranes; land in the stubbled field snow aberration period from the knot in the tree

  the wet red wound freezes unborn

  and pain is mindless

  —I’m expecting company.

  —Don’t lie to me—I have got to have you . . . I’m burning for it.

  —But . . .

  —Come here!

  —No . . . The doorbell!

  —Who is it?

  —Company.

  —Don’t answer.

  —They know I’m here.

  —Damn it! . . . Where do I go?

  —Quickly . . . Down in the basement.

  Of course she knew not who belabored the bell—The Mexican lawn men were not due until the following day—And her own small group of neither near nor dear friends certainly would plan any call well in advance . . . They were not the type to just drop in on one.

  The two young men stood politely at the door, their bicycles parked at the beginning of the walk. Handsome they were—obviously a pair of good natured virgins (spicose fellows no doubt, black sheathes inexpertly hung from necks, shirts canescent, pants, shoes, morbid, swarthy, without style). So, glad yellow of any distraction, cohibition, she led them in and they would never they would never do it like that but what fun flail. ardent. flesh. and most important thing is voices (you fool) can’t let him catch me alone with the key good I locked him if he does not start banging beating ardent. flesh. with it back there sticking out little tea kettles steaming I see those spouts in the bushes flesh. stream but I just need to hear a little and just sit down if I weigh more than both combined one each side like two melons or great ancestor was ochre flail. ardent. flesh sin of my sin or sham
e making water what it was just delicious I believe face like just lay down or bend or sit. squat. stand. flesh. or bite till the blood came till the blood come till the blood come bath come

  —His kingdom.

  (But one who causes herself abstinence from something she desires is called a sinner.)

  —His kingdom.

  (On Judgment Day she will have a demerit on her record for each thing she beheld and failed to enjoy.)

  —His kingdom.

  (In the world to come a woman will be asked to give an account for that which, being excellent to eat, she did not eat.)

  —His kingdom.

  —His striking. His judgment. His presence. Your joy.

  —My falsehood.

  —Your falsehood.

  —My falsehood.

  —Yes.

  —My kingdom.

  Elsewhere, many miles away, the earth was plowed; herbage sprouted from the furrows—and stalks of corn, matured, covered with fine silken hair.

  mingling

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