Wednesday, June 27, 2007

Bloor Line, still muggy from an oppressive heat.

Black woman, late 20s, wearing a black dress, black headband and pink suede sandals. A pink and black leather "courier" bag sits between her feet.

Coming Through Slaughter, Michael Ondaatje (Vintage)

Page 54:

Imagine the mis-shapen man who moved round the room, his grace as he swiveled round his tripod, the casual shot of the dresser that holds the photograph of the whore’s baby that she gave away, the plaster Christ on the wall. Compare Christ’s hands holding the metal spikes to the badly sewn appendix scar of the thirty year old naked woman he photographed when she returned to the room--unaware that he had already photographed her baby and her dresser and her crucifix and her rug. She now offering grotesque poses for an extra dollar and Bellocq grim and quiet saying No, just stand there on the wall, there that one, no keep the petticoat on this time.

In university, there had been a boy. She'd sat in her room, listening to The Pixies in her headphones, "Wave of Mutilation", and getting dizzy off peach schnapps. He was at the pub, when he said he would be. She danced on his corner of the floor, watching his lanky frame sway in the tiled mirrors. Later, much later, he agreed to walk her home. She took his hand and placed it on her breast. His wrist locked and he pulled away. She heaved in her doorway, a fig covered in ants inches from her face.

4 comments:

4n0n3m0u5e said...

Interesting writing - is it a door into your head or a reflection of the world you see?
Fred

Julie Wilson said...

It's likely a swinging door, little glimpses of either side. Perhaps? Hmm, that's probably it, actually. Thanks for asking the question. You've given me an image to hold on to!

ms peacock said...

i love this book. i wish i'd grown up in and age and place where jazz horns blared out of windows at all hours.

Julie Wilson said...

Perhaps that's why we burst into song.