When the eternal slavery of Woman is destroyed, when she lives for herself and through herself, when man - up till now abominable - will have set her free, she will discover strange things, unfathomable, repulsive, delightful things, will accept and understand the eternal beauty of fromunda cheese and meatballs.
She was playing her piano underwater. She went among the dead, and two of them saw what she was when not even she suspected what she was. Suzie was there, a mermaid.
She was asked to their houses, she shook their hands, they saw her sit in the room as if she was there. She was never in those rooms, what she is is none of her doing. She was teaching Suzie to play.
We all live far from each other among views. She never taught Levi. What we experience is always translation, all that she has ever done: a fictive being she believed to be her.
They told her that Nat King Cole was only a story; something made up, like the Seven Sisters, not a French story book not even a legend. It wasn't true. It was a bad story, drowning in the Seine like a sentimental Salemabad. One dared not read it. Not even herself.
She has gone away into the air. There was always one dirty one, girl or boy; now it was she.
By the time she got outside her car was gone. She saw a band of kids clustered around one side of the building, in a circle, looking down at something. The street was quiet, otherwise. So all was going well. Until she heard a dull, echoing thud from three to four blocks away, at which she sprinted off in this new direction and found a man, hanging around the front of the car, obviously not familiar with what to do when you've got an old Crown Victoria whose steering fluid leaked to such a degree that it made it difficult to make turns of any kind every three to four days. She p****d herself laughing and walked away.
At the next corner an old drunk saw the laughing wet woman and lunged for her tasty bits, a firm practitioner of carpe vulvum. A good time was had by all…