Joy Kaplan
Joy Kaplan writes from Japan and can be reached at miss_kaplan@
yahoo.com. The following is another fragment (second of two) from a
longer work entitled The New York Boyfriends, "a sort of elaborate Freudian
joke, a 'story' told entirely through e-mails."
From: Dora
re: The Diva
You are like a cancer, something I’ll either survive or die of but I’m
married to the best doctor in town, so don’t worry. She always said it
was from the clay at the bottom of the lake. Shore ringed by birches.
Every step I took caused a disturbance to the decomposing twigs and fallen
leaves. I often submerged myself to watch the underwater ballet of tiny
diamond islands, suspended particles of sand, and rotting birch leaves
dancing up from the depths.
A real working class campground, lots of beer bellies and hats made of
Budweiser cans crocheted together, teenagers who smoked dope and listened
to Alice Cooper while the adults sat in the screen house, maybe a couple
doing a polka in the center to the sound of Uncle Sal’s accordion. My
mother would always be asked to sing a solo and her voice still calls out
to me across the lake.
To hell with her and all the noises she used to make. There are many ways
to abandon a child. I just received some photos of her taken on his yacht
last summer.
From: Ray P.
re: and her voice still calls out to me
So that’s where she gets that set of lungs!
From: al
re: photos of her
what is she wearing?
From: Dora
re: wearing?
She is wearing navy blue and white, of course, but neither epaulets nor
nautical stripes. It could be much worse, I know that. My mother, who had
the walls painted "lime green", likes to see me dressed in "dusty rose",
prefers nail polish that is "honey beige", used to refer to the lake water
as "wine red" as if it were something classy. Some of the confusion is over
social class and some of it is cultural. I am still working on it. She
studied at The Juliard. She sang with Stravinsky. At home she listens to
Anne Murray and Don Ho. She always said it was from the clay at the bottom
of the lake. I know now that peculiar orange tinge came from the metal drums
resting in the depths, which only confirmed what I had felt along, which was
that she ought to have been beaten, my mother, beaten and killed.
From: Lily
re: she ought to have been beaten, my mother
>My mother keeps forwarding me corny ("cornographic", I call them) e-mail
>forwards that turn into chain letters and it is annoying the hell out of
>me. All of her e-mails are deeply resented and very intrusive. I hate
>that she and her contemporaries are tainting the Internet. They're
>dangerous---what with their imported crochet instructions from Australia
>and Canada and all---I want her off the Internet!
From: Dora
re: the 17th floor
He sent me airplane tickets and felt responsible. He forbade me to leave
the apartment during the day while he was at work. I was a model prisoner.
Lingerie, mostly. He papered his bathroom walls with rejection letters from
Fortune 500 companies. He knew Hebrew, Latin, German, French, Ancient Greek.
A taste for fine wine he could not yet afford. Long feminine eyelashes he
tried to balance with a beard, which only made him look more Semitic. He
wore a leather jacket, and army boots before Doc Martens came into fashion.
He kept a loaded shotgun in the corner by his bed and The Anarchist’s Cookbook
on the shelf as if he were anticipating a showdown with the Anti-Christ or
about to go on a camping trip to Gog and Magog.
From: Lily
re: which only made him look more Semitic
>He overcompensated.
From: Dora
re: Semitic
I thought he was a genius. It always starts that way, although sometimes
it begins because of birds, white throated sparrows of the blood. The
first time it happened he was injured and walked with a cane. I thought
the cane made him looked distinguished. Benny wore a fedora which he used
to doff in elevators in the presence of ladies. He often aimed for a certain
19th Century Grandeur and at certain moments he achieved it.
From: Benny
re: at certain moments he achieved it
It may have been the moment that I fell for her. Dora was young and very
beautiful. Sixteen. I know. But with her it was different, she was like some
force of Nature, she induced in me the simultaneous physical relaxation and
mental arousal that are pinot noir’s hormonal signature. She had none of my
knowledge but all of my irony. After a few sips of rag water she would let
me pull the strings and then things would get embolismic. She was young
enough to look up to me and not see my faults. At least for a few years.
From: Ray P.
re: she was like some force of Nature
You should try her now, dude, she’s like some primordial event!
From: al
re: it may have been the moment
what was she wearing?
From: Benny
re: it may have been the moment
Not much. A black silk confection with a front hook which I was able to
activate with the tip of my cane. It was good fun, that double jack-in-
the-box, but mastering the technique required practice. I was Jackson Pollock
executing a painting on porcelain. Those sessions left little bruises between
her ribs, but Dora was a good sport. Nostalgia for those splendid little
purple mums inspired me, years later while on business in Taipei, to acquire
a ruinously expensive Ming vase, white porcelain featuring a motif of dime-
sized blue chrysanthemums.
From: Charles
re: executing a painting
One has to commit a painting, said Degas, the way one commits a crime.
From: Dora
re: Degas
My grandmother paints in oils. New England landscapes, you know the kind:
autumn birches on fire, snow-packed roads, cloud covered marshes, Rockport
Motif #1…
From: Lilyre: Degas
>Some people don’t paint because they weren’t born with a paintbrush
>in their hand.
From: al
re: Degas
others will just go out and buy a paint set. if they can afford only one tube,
then they’ll paint everything in blue.
From: Dora
re: Degas
Me? After the rain I tear off my clothes, jump into a puddle and rub mud all
over my body.
From: Benjamin
re: Degas
I am not a canvas for other people to paint on!
From: Dora
re: Degas
What kind of painter are you?
From: Israel
re: After the rain I tear off my clothes
Wait a minute, if you cover yourself in mud, that’s pottery, isn’t it?
Careful, you’re not just mixing paint now, you’re mixing metaphors!
From: Dora
re: mixing metaphors
And why not? Nowadays, they call it "multi-media".
From: Ken
re: mixing metaphors
Traces of the storyteller cling to the story the way the handprints of the
potter cling to the clay vessel.
From: Ray P.
re: executing a painting
Cool. I’m down on the connection between Impressionism and Vandalism, but
this cane trick, man--- it’s amusing, I’ll grant you that---but is it Art?
From: Israel
re: Not much.
Was she barefoot?
From: Benny
re: barefoot
I really can’t say. This was back in the days of ankle boots and leg warmers,
remember those?
In any case, she didn’t make much of an impression with her clothes on because
her mother sent her out into the world in ensembles that did not show her
lungs to advantage. (The subtext of those princessy outfits was, "This is
gonna cost ya’!") But when she undressed, sweet Jesus, she boxed my ears,
such a thunderstorm in my head, the tumult of fist fights breaking out on
Mount Olympus. I can still hear the cacophony from the first time it happened,
she stood there in front of me, in a hyperlady-like practised stance, scowling
and holding her poor cramp stricken tummy as if she would have liked to disown
it, her small breasts dangling like baroque pearl earrings. I lifted her
brassiere off the floor with the tip of my cane, observing how it was lacy
and frilly. "Keep the bra on, Baby, please, keep the bra on…"
"What I lack in tits," she told me, "I make up for with lace and frills."
My luck was such that no matter the date, each and every time I flew her
into Newark it was that time of the month. Personally, I couldn’t have been
more delighted. I enjoy nothing more than a petulant red wine, and Dora was
a sassy Beaujolais nouveau. Let’s just say that I’m a lush. Generally
speaking, Dora was an enlightened young lady, however, sexually she was in a
dark age of superstition and taboo, but she was educable and after enough
hooch, she let me give her swimming lessons with my tongue. Let’s just say
that while I frown upon crumbs left on the sheets, I do not mind a lipstick
mark left on a champagne flute.
From: Ray
re: I enjoy nothing more than
No, no, no! Incest is best, Dude!
From: Benjamin
re: Incest is best
You’re telling *me*?
From: Ken
re: practised
Do you have your spell-checker on British?
From: Benny
re: practised
As a native speaker of English I am not dependent of spell-check or any
other such crutch. I subscribe to The Economist.
From: Ray P.
re: The message was, "This is gonna cost ya’!"
So she’s the one who invented pay-per-view TV!
From: al
re: her brassiere
you take off on such a little strip, and there you are soaring!
From: Lily
re: Beaujolais nouveau
>I could throw up if it weren’t for the effort it would take.
From: Ray P.
re: Beaujolais nouveau
Oh, man, that’s twisted! That’s High Goth! I absofuckinglutely like this
guy. A man who doesn’t go down on his woman, whatever the weather, doesn’t
deserve her!
From: Benny
re: Beaujolais nouveau
Gosh, I'd blush, were I able to remember how...
From: Israel
re: Beaujolais nouveau
Let’s just say that anthropophagi’s not my cup of tea.
Joy Kaplan