Pricksongs & Descants Read Online Free PDF Page B

their caretaker here ... ” The man smiles. “ There never was a caretaker, ” he explains. “ Really? But I thought—! ” “ No, ” he says, “ that ’ s just a legend of the island. ” She seems taken aback by this new knowledge. “ Then ... then I don ’ t understand ... ” He relights his pipe, wanders over to appraise her sketch. He laughs when he sees the shaggy buttocks. “ Marvelous! ” he exclaims, “ but a poor likeness, I ’ m afraid! Look! ” He lowers his dark slacks and show her his hind - end, smooth as marble and hair less as a movie starlet ’ s. Her curiosity is caught, however, not by his barbered buttocks, but by the hair around his genitals: the tight neat curls fan out in both directions like the wings of an eagle, or a wild goose ...
    ○ ○ ○
    The two sisters return to the loggia, their visit nearly concluded, the one in gold pants still trying to explain about herself and the sun, about consuming herself with an outer fire, while harboring an ice - cold center within. Her gaze falls once more on the green piano. It is obvious she still has something-more to say. But now as she declaims, she has less of an audienc e. Karen stands distractedly be fore the green piano. Haltingly, she lifts a finger, strikes a key. No note, only a dull thuck. Her sister reveals a new insight she has just obtained about it not being the people who steal or even those who wantonly destroy, but those who let it happen, who just don ’ t give a proper damn. She provides instances. Once, Karen nods, but maybe only at something she has thought to herself. Her finger lifts, strikes. Thuck! Again. Thuck! Her whole arm drives the strong blunt finger. Thuck! Thuck! There is something genuinely beautiful about the girl in gold pants and silk neck - scarf as she gestures and speaks. Her eyes are sorrowful and wise. Thuck! Karen strikes the key. Suddenly, her sister breaks off her message. “ Oh, I ’ m sorry, Karen! ” she says. She stares at the piano, then runs out of the room.
    ○ ○ ○
    I am disappearing. You have no doubt noticed. Yes, and by some no doubt calculable formula of event and pagination. But before we drift apart to a distance beyond the reach of confessions (though I warn you: like Zeno ’ s turtle, I am with you always), listen: it ’ s just as I feared, my invented island is really taking its place in world geography. Why, this island sounds very much like the old Dahlberg place on Jackfish Island up on Rainy Lake, people say, and I wonder: can it be happening? Someone tells me: I understand somebody bought the place recently and plans to fix it up, maybe put a resort there or something. On my island? Extraordinary!—and yet it seems possible. I look on a map: yes, there ’ s Rainy Lake, there ’ s Jackfish Island. Who invented this map? Well, I must have, surely. And the Dahlbergs, too, of course, and the people who told me about them. Yes, and perhaps tomorrow I will invent Chicago and Jesus Christ and the history of the moon. Just as I have in vented you, dear reader, while lying here in the afternoon sun, bedded deeply in the bluegreen grass like an old iron poker ...
    ○ ○? ○
    There is a storm on the lake and the water is frothy and black. The wind howls around the corner of the stone parapet and the pine trees shake and creak. The two children playing “ Chopsticks ” on the green piano arc arguing about the jurisdiction of the bench and keyboard. “ Come over here, ” their grandmother says from her seat by the window, “ and I ’ ll tell you the story of ‘ The Magic Poker ’ ... ”
    ○ ○? ○
    Once upon a time, a family of wealthy Minn e sotans bought an island on Rainy Lake up on the Canadian border. They built a home on it and guest cabins and boat houses and an observation tower. They installed an electric generator and a sewage system with indoor toilets, maintained a caretaker, and constructed docks and bath houses. Did they name it Jackfish Island,