In the room the women come and go…
Maureen McHugh
LET us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherised upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats 5
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question … 10
Oh, do not ask, “What is it?”
Let us go and make our visit.
In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.
When I was seventeen I was very sincere about art and especially about literature. I was a girl in a small town who had grown up in the library. As someone said about Milton, I saw the world through the spectacle of books. I saw school and books as a life raft. My only escape.
So literature was a life or death subject to me. I memorized pieces of Shakespeare. A year later I would read The Sound and the Fury and halfway through the first section, the Benjy section, I would suddenly understand the mechanism of the narrative, that some was in present day and some was recollection and that Benjy was retarded and I would go back and re-read from the beginning again.
Prufrock was frightening. It started with an Italian quote. I had two years of high school Spanish and although I had heard of Dante’s Inferno, I had certainly never read it. Languages were the great opaque, the proof that I was an intellectual fraud. I spoke nothing but English and had rarely heard any other language spoken except Latin. In church. Where it did not resemble a language at all since no one actually spoke it to someone else.
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For the last two weeks we have been dosing the dog with Xanax. This is not a matter of caprice on our part. Since the Em-dog broke her toe she’s been under virtual house-arrest: allowed out for functional walks, but no cavorting, no social life, no bounding about to examine the smells and textures of her world. So the vet prescribed the generic for Xanax, which scrip was filled at the local Walgreens. The scrip was filled for “Emily the Dog Robins,” which oddly tickles me. And I have to say that the stuff didn’t seem to be doing much to help the dog cope with her imprisonment–the first week Emily was reasonably good-humored about things, but this week she’s been a wreck (which means that the rest of us haven’t been having much fun either). Today I took her in for her checkup; while the bone is mending well, it looks like there’s going to be at least two to three more weeks of house arrest, a thought which chills my blood (and would likely chill Emily’s). The vet gave us a new and more intense Doggie Downer to help the dog get through the next couple of weeks, with instructions to try her on half a pill before we go whole hog.





