Body Heat
It is cold here. There is frost on the window when I open the curtains in the mornings. There is a 70 percent chance of snow after midnight tonight. I like it when it snows while I am sleeping because when I look through the frost on the window, I can see patches of snow on the highway and surrounding the Suburbans, BMWs, and Cadillacs starting to fill the rows of the Milwaukee Country Club parking lot directly across the highway--small, white patches that look different from the sixth floor of the tower across the highway than any other vantage. The scene is strangely beautiful, familiar.
The cold makes people act differently here, myself included. We can no longer sit apart outside on some wayward bench. Now, we are all crammed in the coffee houses listening to each other's conversations, the corners and nooks of the library, and inside the doorways of the buildings. Cheeks are red. The heat blows directly overhead in bold gusts before cold, glass doors as students and professors are let loose from the buildings onto Wisconsin Avenue.
The dull swaddling of winter coming on, almost everyone is wanting everyone else because they know they will have to burrow down soon, hide, hold tight to one another for shelter. It is amazing how most us contain our desire and our cheeks and our silent knowledge of what is to come in the classrooms and conceal them from simple words exchanged in line for coffee or on the corner waiting in crowds for the walk signal.
I am reading Sophie Calle's book of photographs and words, "M'AS-TU VU(E)?" (Did you see me?) Its full of innovative, clever studies on humanity. She asked people to give her a few hours of their sleep in her project entitled, "Sleepers." The occupation of her bed began on Sunday, April 1, 1979, at 5 p.m. and ended on Monday, April 9, at 10 a.m., 28 sleepers succeeded one another. A few of them crossed each other. Breakfast, lunch, or dinner were served to each depending on the time of day. Clean bed sheets were placed at the disposal of each sleeper--some guests changed them, some did not. She took photographs every hour and watched her guests sleep. If one did not show up, she took the guest's place herself, usually noting the warmth of the bed.
My favorite study of hers that I have read so far is entitled, "The Blind." She met people who were born blind, who had never seen, and asked them what their image of beauty was. One man said the sea-the sea going out so far you lose sight of it, a girl said a sculpture of a naked woman in the Rodin Museum "with very erotic breasts and a terrific ass." She added, "She is sweet, she is beautiful." A boy said fish fascinate him the way they are not connected to anything. Another man said he believes his room is beautiful and he believes what he wants to believe. A girl lists author Claude Jauniere's description of a fancy hotel room in the novel, Romance in Granada. She says, "I love beautiful things but I had never imagined anything like that."
I had a dream about you early this morning, in the dark hour before dawn. You and I were holding each other in my big, white bed in my red room in New Orleans--someone was beating on the door, the chain lock on the door to the balcony was rattling, I could tell the air conditioner was on full blast because my long white curtains were blowing across our feet but the window unit was silent. I got the sense that neither of us wanted to be there but we were anyway. And being there was warm. It was a frightening dream, I don't remember the rest other than another part in which I was outfitting my N.O. housemate, Allison, with supplies to make it to work, at her old job near the superdome I assume--mace, a flashlight, a phone, a hat, anything I could find. I was briefing her on ways to get in touch with me if she needed me and in my dream I feared for her. Then I returned upstairs to you and the whirlwind. I finally awoke a while later as the sun began to show through the frost on the window because someone in my dream was twisting my arm. And when I turned on to my back my arm was still hurting though I was awake.
Real vs. Imagined? Tuesday, I flipped the page in my history book and found Eliot and his Hollow Men before me once more. Knowing I like poetry, my professor asked me to read it to the class. I was deeply saddened by memories of our words, of Eliot's words, of our words about Eliot's words. But then I remembered the night--all those nights, all those years ago--in which you and I fed oysters to one another in our high boots and danced without music and I felt better knowing all things will settle in time.
The cold makes people act differently here, myself included. We can no longer sit apart outside on some wayward bench. Now, we are all crammed in the coffee houses listening to each other's conversations, the corners and nooks of the library, and inside the doorways of the buildings. Cheeks are red. The heat blows directly overhead in bold gusts before cold, glass doors as students and professors are let loose from the buildings onto Wisconsin Avenue.
The dull swaddling of winter coming on, almost everyone is wanting everyone else because they know they will have to burrow down soon, hide, hold tight to one another for shelter. It is amazing how most us contain our desire and our cheeks and our silent knowledge of what is to come in the classrooms and conceal them from simple words exchanged in line for coffee or on the corner waiting in crowds for the walk signal.
I am reading Sophie Calle's book of photographs and words, "M'AS-TU VU(E)?" (Did you see me?) Its full of innovative, clever studies on humanity. She asked people to give her a few hours of their sleep in her project entitled, "Sleepers." The occupation of her bed began on Sunday, April 1, 1979, at 5 p.m. and ended on Monday, April 9, at 10 a.m., 28 sleepers succeeded one another. A few of them crossed each other. Breakfast, lunch, or dinner were served to each depending on the time of day. Clean bed sheets were placed at the disposal of each sleeper--some guests changed them, some did not. She took photographs every hour and watched her guests sleep. If one did not show up, she took the guest's place herself, usually noting the warmth of the bed.
My favorite study of hers that I have read so far is entitled, "The Blind." She met people who were born blind, who had never seen, and asked them what their image of beauty was. One man said the sea-the sea going out so far you lose sight of it, a girl said a sculpture of a naked woman in the Rodin Museum "with very erotic breasts and a terrific ass." She added, "She is sweet, she is beautiful." A boy said fish fascinate him the way they are not connected to anything. Another man said he believes his room is beautiful and he believes what he wants to believe. A girl lists author Claude Jauniere's description of a fancy hotel room in the novel, Romance in Granada. She says, "I love beautiful things but I had never imagined anything like that."
I had a dream about you early this morning, in the dark hour before dawn. You and I were holding each other in my big, white bed in my red room in New Orleans--someone was beating on the door, the chain lock on the door to the balcony was rattling, I could tell the air conditioner was on full blast because my long white curtains were blowing across our feet but the window unit was silent. I got the sense that neither of us wanted to be there but we were anyway. And being there was warm. It was a frightening dream, I don't remember the rest other than another part in which I was outfitting my N.O. housemate, Allison, with supplies to make it to work, at her old job near the superdome I assume--mace, a flashlight, a phone, a hat, anything I could find. I was briefing her on ways to get in touch with me if she needed me and in my dream I feared for her. Then I returned upstairs to you and the whirlwind. I finally awoke a while later as the sun began to show through the frost on the window because someone in my dream was twisting my arm. And when I turned on to my back my arm was still hurting though I was awake.
Real vs. Imagined? Tuesday, I flipped the page in my history book and found Eliot and his Hollow Men before me once more. Knowing I like poetry, my professor asked me to read it to the class. I was deeply saddened by memories of our words, of Eliot's words, of our words about Eliot's words. But then I remembered the night--all those nights, all those years ago--in which you and I fed oysters to one another in our high boots and danced without music and I felt better knowing all things will settle in time.