A Story About the Body - Robert Hass

The young composer, working that summer at an artist’s colony, had watched her for a week. She was Japanese, a painter, almost sixty, and he thought he was in love with her. He loved her work, and her work was like the way she moved her body, used her hands, looked at him directly when she made amused and considered answers to his questions. One night, walking back from a concert, they came to her door and she said turned to him and said, “I think you would like to have me. I would like that too, but I must tell you that I have had a double mastectomy,” and when he didn’t understand, “I’ve lost both my breasts.” The radiance that he had carried around in his belly and chest cavity – like music – withered very quickly, and he made himself look at her when he said, “I’m sorry. I don’t think I could.” He walked back to his own cabin through the pines, and in the morning he found a small blue bowl on the porch outside his door. It looked to be full of rose petals, but he found when he picked it up that the rose petals were on top; the rest of the bowl – she must have swept them from the corners of her studio – was full of dead bees.

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note to self

I am dead because I lack desire; I lack desire because I think I possess; I think I possess because I do not try to give. In trying to give, you see that you have nothing; Seeing you have nothing, you

oh hello... dont mind me. this bit is like a 'dear diary' kind of thing, or a scrapbook of stuff I want to remember. it's 'notes to self' really. I cant lose them here. or maybe this is the best way to finally get rid of them. either way it's your problem now. alright. cheers

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