Afterglow_a dog memoir

by Eileen Myles

  BLUE HARMONICA ON METAL HOLDER

  I kind of tossed this in the box. It reminds me of driving back to California in ’05 and giving the harmonica a toot once in a while all the way home and you were in the cab of the truck that whole drive. This time I’m taking a tiny tape recorder and camera. I like this new idea of talking to the road rather than singing about it. Rather than dangerously writing with a pad on my knee I pick up the slim Gumby-like recorder every once in a while. I wrote poetry different ever since the advent of you. I got to follow you with my eyes. Take a step behind, next to and in front of you. We walked to the places you needed to go: parks and beaches. I brought you to the country, to houses to give birth, to multiply. We decided we don’t need puppies. We’ve got recording. We were out there in nature and I wrote about you and thought about things in general. I’d leave someone asleep in my bed and take you to a schoolyard in my neighborhood and think about what I had left behind. You were always my boat. You brought me space and peace. I put you in the middle of my life and you never steered me wrong. I got a digital camera in ’04. Digital means discontinuous. Discrete. Like a series of 1s, not a whole picture. I liked the recording part the best. When I could pony up the money got myself a handy cam. I took it on our walks. I began a process which I continue today. Little god! On our walks I noted down my thoughts as poetry and then I began filming them making remarks as we strolled. I had such problems with the sound of my voice. Not the recording. The live listening to myself in the sensorium, me here in the world in the park, yammering.

  I had this weird experience the year before. We were in the park in the morning and I wanted to write but I had forgotten a pen but I had my phone. I called myself and the text that I spoke was full of pauses. But I was writing on the phone. Which isn’t the same as what I am talking about but I think similar. I was talking to the world direct and not needing to not forget. And finally really utterly being with you, god.

  Which is what I think all this recording (in my life and everyone’s) is about. I took a longish walk one day with you when you were so close to your mortality a lip of something you were almost ready to go over and I recollect now that everything all our moments became like that by the time we got to San Diego, our walks became reminiscences of a sort, our present had a pastness to it every day. In San Diego I was so sad. I went there with Jordi which I knew it was a total mistake. She blamed me for giving up her apartment when I said didn’t want her coming so I now had to support her in San Diego which was wrong. Then she left me to be in something “more open” in LA.

  She put it that way, not me. The poem on the cell phone was about loss. About always flying desperately to another city and being back here now, home. Being in this park with you. And the filmed walks were about the diminishing time we had together. Immediately you were sick and almost died there. When your spleen burst and I spent five thousand bucks to keep you there. And I got sick. I believe that I almost died. My fever shot up to like a hundred and five. I remember saying to Jordi hovering over the bed now what do you want. She said I want to be free. I thought fuck can’t you even lie to me when I’m dying.

  I took a walk with you once you were gone. I filmed our walk and talked to you like you were there. It’s how I’ve always loved. I wrote some poems about the woman I came there with as if she were still here, when she was already gone. She accused me of being gone. She didn’t know what I wanted. You are always gone. I tried to explain to her that what was there was enough. And she was bored with that. My lack of ideas. My lack of desire. I thought I wanted her. She doubted that. Did I? Did I know? Probably not.

  I didn’t seem to know the difference between when she was there and when she wasn’t. It was a fake kind of life, my desire. When I was young, an early teen I pretended to have something in one town and it was how I had it in another. I told all these new kids about the sexy teenage experiences I had in my town and then I went home I told them about the other place. It’s how I became alive. My experience made me possible, but it had never existed. My sex was built on sand. Maybe my love has always been this way, a thing existing in language and so the ghost goes in and out the girl it’s based upon and now my dog. I can walk you whether you’re here or not. My god! I toss this note into the back of my truck as we drive across the country. I play nothing. I stand up to the mike and talk to you like I’m talking alone, I feel love. I play with the silence now. I squeeze it with my voice: my flow. Driving’s so bluesy. And still I can feel you back there in the cab of my truck.

  BLUE DISPOSABLE CHUX

  Maybe somebody else can use them. I spread them all over the house. Mary across the street gave them to me. Mary lived with Betty. They both used to be in the military and Mary had MS and the US government supplied her with boxes of adult diapers. She didn’t use them. You went through at least three boxes. And then I bought some more. I put them at the foot of the bed, on all your dog beds, on the floor. I got expert at layering them, cross-hatching, they protected the furniture. So I did less laundry then and I did a lot. My house was covered in these big blue ‘x’s. I felt proud. That there was something I could do. That I cared about you. That I had plenty. I had excess. That there was a product. That I had been given a big box of them by a friend. That the government had cared for an ailing dog. That your support came from the government. It made you special, part of the country, like it or not. It was like you were gay. Taxpayers paid for your giant sanitary pads, for your chux.

  GREEN DOG COLLAR, STRIPED, WITH TAGS

  I bought it cause it was soft. You began to have sores all over your neck. It chafed. Your neck hair was thin, it looked pink but that’s cause there wasn’t so much. A leather collar was actually punishment and this soft lime green striped faintly padded one was nicer for you. And buying it gave me pleasure because I cared. The collar proved I saw things, sometimes, when other people pointed them out. Maybe Rosie would like a nice new soft collar! Her neck is covered in sores! I went right out and got it. My pride suggests I’m abusive really. Not heartless but absent like everyone says and I’m saying it now but you never did. A dog’s silence is often construed as love. After some trip people would say she really loves you. She acts different when you’re around. I’d say really? Cause honestly I never really knew how much you cared about me. You liked snow, and rain and air and sun and the beach. You loved these things and I brought you to them and you smiled. I suppose I could’ve imagined you loved me then but I only knew I loved you because I saw you in my way and I was listening. And you simply were. I loved you for that. For being who else was in my life no matter what.

  The Rape of Rosie

  It was a date, it was quite intentional. Though I had never met Buster, Charles had and he insisted he was sweet, not even slightly violent, utterly tan and about five years old. He had the owner’s number but he lost it. I’ll find it, I’ll find it he assured. You will love this dog. And Rosie loves him too. Charles’s eyebrows raised. Big grin.

  Then there was a girl on sixth street who worked in a store. She was pretty young, early twenties and she knew Buster’s owner and she said she would leave a message for him at another store where his friend worked. Then she asked me if Joey another young guy who walks Rosie was my son. That was scary. Or maybe she meant Charles.

  Mostly I had given up. Every now and then when I walked Rose some guy would ask me if I wanted to stud her and I always did someday. I collected numbers and put them in my phone book. Tom 549 1694. Sometimes I would write dog next to the name. There’s also a few phone numbers in the file where I keep Rosie’s health stuff. Usually these dogs look too tough though. Or their owners do. They’re the kind of people who ask you to fuck in the street. I want to be tough. I am tough, so I take their numbers. I like it in some weird way. But I never thought of it as the way for Rosie to meet her mate.

  Now suddenly she was in heat. I had all the wrong phone numbers and a vacant summer. I kept it free so I could do campaigning2, but no one invited me to come anywhe
re till September, and Rosie’s two, so this is the time. I was going away for a couple of days and I begged Charles not to let her fuck—I want to watch, but to get their numbers. But I felt sure he would let her get laid and that wasn’t so bad either.

  Phone rang one night. “Is this the owner of the pit bull that’s looking for a stud?” Yes, Yes, Yes, I replied. And what’s your dog’s name?

  We set a date for Friday night. I was sure he wouldn’t show. Though she was still pretty puffy (her pussy) I was not convinced that Rosie was still in heat. It seemed so long. Vivien came over. It was pouring rain. Doug lived in Westchester, would be driving down. I couldn’t even call this guy direct, had to leave messages on his friend’s beeper—who wound up being the guy with the store on sixth street. The date was for around eight or nine. Eight came left. 1/4 of nine. I started calling the beeper. His friend called me back. Far as I know he’s on his way. That’s what he told me. There was something about two lesbians and a female dog, waiting for this guy and his male that—

  Buzz, Buzz, Buzz. They’re here. Doug was a blondish guy in his late thirties I think. Kind of American looking. Buster was beautiful. Also kind of a blond, I guess. Should we, we pushed the furniture to the side. It was pouring out. Doug said the roads were flooded coming in. That’s why he was late. Everything felt very valuable. I had just gotten cable and we left it on. It added reality to the moment. Were they going to fight.

  We were sitting along the sidelines on couches and chairs and Buster would tail Rosie and she would trot away and turn and rear up on her hind legs. She exposed her white chest to him and he licked. She made sweet fighting sounds, growls. Buster barked once or twice. I wondered if I was doing something illegal. Letting dogs have sex in my building. What was normal in this situation? Why did I want that now. It looked like they were going to have a fight. This how they have sex, whispered Vivien. Remember that dog down at the park. Yes, assured Doug. It can be very violent. He’s done this before we enquired. Just a few weeks ago. She seems to be quite pregnant. I think you’ll be happy with the results. If she’s still in heat. She is, he authoritatively assured. Men always say that. The women I know who have dogs make the window of fertility be tiny.

  Buster was trying to mount Rosie now. Her response was to sit down. To cover her butt. Uh—oh. Looks like we’ve got to help her a little. We began to raise her … “vulva.” We used Doug’s word. It seemed so veterinary. If we said pussy it seemed like we were talking about sex. We would push her little doggy vulva up with two palms under her butt. She would turn and try and bite whoever. There were three of us on her now. Do you have a muzzle Doug asked. It’s just like that guy said. Yes, they can be very violent maters. Oh God, No—well. I tried calling Delia who used to have Nancy, a very violent pit bull. Nancy had to be put to sleep. No answer.

  You got, you got … how about this, I offered. We wrapped an extra leash around Rosie’s jaw. I felt she liked being robbed of her choice. She stopped trying to bite. I held on, up there. Doug was positioning Buster. Vivien held Rosie’s vulva up. Doug warned us of not letting Buster get it in the wrong place. They do that, you know. Buster’s dick was pretty huge. I felt like I was hurting Rosie. What if she’s not in heat. Is it in, is it in. I can’t tell. We could use one more person here. How come Charles didn’t come. We got it in. They both seemed to relax. They simmered. He poked. Slightly. She wavered. Her whole body wavered. The two swaying slightly together. His leg cast over her back. She ceased to turn, their two mouths, their huge jaws slack, hanging open, panting in unison like big smiles wavering in the night. It was still pouring out. We all sat down and relaxed—though still holding on. I took off Rosie’s muzzle but held on to her collar. I felt like she needed me. I had a new experience of my dog’s body. She had one. She was being fucked right in front of me. I felt shame. Regret. Fear. Excitement.

  There was a priest on from Operation Rescue. He was going on a long theological explanation of the Catholic Church’s deeply thought out position. Rosie’s for life, laughed Doug and I didn’t know where I stood. The teevee had a surreal quality as news came and went, rap groups gazed out to us, enticing and threatening, the weather continued to be formidable and the dogs kept at it. It was sex that was impossible to ignore, yet bureaucratic somehow.

  You girls ever hear of Mainstreet USA asked Doug. A shopping network? Nope we replied. From his chair Doug began to explain his business. Lotta empty hotel rooms, vacations, car rentals, just stuff. Lot of extra stuff merchants would rather sell than you know just let sit there. You pay a small fee and you get this card. He pulled out his wallet and there was his key to all these purchases. I’m kind of a facilitator. I just got involved and I think it’s a really good thing. I think I can make a lot of money this way, I haven’t yet, but I’m interested so I’m going to see where it goes. When I meet people I just let them know I’m involved. They got a video over at the store. Maybe I’ve got some stuff in my car. No I think Joe’s got it. After we’re finished here, he flourished his hands at the panting dogs, we can take a walk. Want to. Sure, we chimed.

  They had been doing it for forty-five minutes. Is this normal. Twenty minutes is normal said Doug. They’ll stop, he assured. Are they stuck? We threw the word tumescent around. His tumescence. She clamps around him. Eventually her water breaks. That’s what it is. And it did. Rosie began to lick her pussy ferociously when it was over. She looked incredibly sweet and kind of used. No, spent. That’s it. Buster just lied on his side with this immense pink dick with smears of blood on it—Rosie’s blood. Does a dog have a hymen. I kept thinking of the word tool when I looked at his dick. It was a pink tool. A deep pink. We gave them both a lot of water. They were very thirsty.

  Want to go for a walk said Doug. The rain had stopped and the street had that shimmering blackness. Doug had moved out of the East Village a couple of years ago. Couldn’t take the filth anymore. The noise, the disgusting people, the attitude’s different. I lived here for years. He went on like that all the way down sixth street. Rosie was farting nonstop. What does this mean? We bumped into a buddy of Doug’s. Hey he yelled. You know that straight guy yell. People who watch Saturday Night Live. Who stay in to watch it in the seventies. He introduced us to the guy. I really felt like I was in someone else’s life. Who are we supposed to be? We were just all having sex. I’m starving muttered Vivien. At the store we met Joe. Everybody was very smiley, shaking hands, but it wasn’t about the dogs, it was about the shopping network. He handed us the tape. This is really good. Everyone smiled when we talked about the dogs. The dogs were like these girls we fucked while we were doing business.

  2. Eileen Myles’s presidential campaign, 1991–92, which will barely be mentioned here.

  Just Before and Just After

  If I want for a minute to remember how it felt that summer with my dog, I need only do something ridiculous like go sit in that chair out there, a similar chair like the one I sat in on the floor of the house in San Diego, before the seat tore. I remember the perfect balance of all that just before. The heat in the place was constant, not a wall of heat like the southwest, or an insidious atmosphere of moist sticky heat like it used to be in New York. Not even the hopeless depressing heat of Arlington, Mass. I wasn’t even vaguely near the ocean in San Diego but they have one and eventually you could feel it, that shimmering blue body. In San Diego it was hot and you could do something about. And because of the closeness of the ocean an ac seemed foolish. But I could get a fan. I could get us two.

  I placed the dark orange sand chair right under the fan and I placed you down next to me with your aged thin summer fur, greasy to my touch, but like living furniture under my drooping hand where I could pat you all day long and read. I was reading some paperbacks from the pile I got at the library sale. And while I’m sitting here let me pass on this small bit of advice to the reader. No one ever wants to hear from anyone at any time anywhere that they have just purchased your book at the library sale. It’s like saying hey I plucked
your book out from under a forklift just before it was heading to the dump. To write a book is to dig a hole in eternity. It’s like after a play you don’t go backstage and go: Hey what’s new. People do do this. People who don’t understand performing, they act like they are at lunch with their friend not understanding that the performer is full of wind and is standing there in the aftermath of something. If you find it impossible to imagine this state then never go anywhere near a performer after a show. Not even the week after the show. The performer stands in an insane place on a cliff and if you say hi how are you you are pulling the cliff right out from underneath the person. You’re punching Harry Houdini in the gut. People really do that and I’m saying don’t.

  What do I feel for writers. I feel this. I feel an awe for the incredible permanence of the act of writing. Do you think I had any idea what I was about to write today when I sat down. No I thought I just better do it. And here I am already past the middle of my life. Sitting here humming along on the only road I know. Everything’s out there shifting. So maybe the writer should sit still. Like this. In her orange sand chair while the dog is dying. This might be when she would do her writing. People say would you like to come here and read your work. I say no. I have a wind in my heart and I admit it is often eased not just by the act of writing, but money. Yeah. That too. Cause there is also the experience of being seen as a writer, getting chosen, thereby that way getting money. It seems you should obviously always be pleasing somebody with your writing but who. That in part is the problem of the writer.