The Waiting Room
“He had operated upon her eyes: her lips moved addressing “him” as if he were the man in question—one Dr. Sage. Sage to Sibyl. Wizard to witch. Master to mistress. Fiend to bitch. Instrument. Susan…. In the ricochet and echo of dreams—momentum, career, medium of arousal as well as extinction, operating theatre as well as waiting room—he appeared to her armed with unseemly pistol and knife. The stone of the sun flashed, assaulted her, ripped the veil, altered the curtains of attention, texture of... station and flight. It was as if the cloven world she truly saw in the remote distance, far beneath the blind of names, assumptions, letters of invocation, self-created skies or roof of constellation, god’s hair or flesh, was at first entirely masked, snowbound. Snowbound, masked and still studded with crystal self-deception, eyes or hollows of clarity. For all she knew she may have been flung back into an early premature dawn, ancient of suns. Like a vain flag unfurled as one flew north over a winter landscape which slept after the cruel fantasy of the tropics, relative seal or glare.MoreLess
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