I
Before I became a woman
I was god
I was (s)he who had no name
I was what I was
I was the dust blowing from the interior out
I was the interior ousting particles of dust and molecules of wind
I was the wind
I was the rain working through the cracks in the rocks right down to the sea
the sea eating away the faces of cliffs
cliffs crumbling onto the floor of the ocean
the ocean’s undertow ruffling beds of coral
the coral alive under the weight of the waves
I was waves of weightlessness
I was the rainbow I made in the sky when light bounced around raindrops
I was sky blue shale grey violet vermilion cinnabar green turquoise emerald green orange
chrome yellow raw sienna scarlet flesh ochre purple pink viridian indigo cinereous grey
I was ivory black
I was perfect white
I was the light
I was Notre Dame de la Belle Verriere
I was the eyes of the world
I was the world
I was mouthless and I nourished myself on my pride
until I heard men say arrogant things about me
Blaise said I was the infinite
Karl said I was a weed—or did he say I was the void?
For Friedrich I was dead
For Jean-Paul I didn’t exist
Georges, at last, said I was shit
At that I felt the urge to speak
I became Im, the incomplete, also known as Immanuelle
II
Though I’ve been married
for seven years
to a man I don’t love
some will tell you
I’m happily married
Others will tell you I’m a joke. A myth.
Immanuelle sits in a state, brooding on old, imagined, injuries. But worst of all,
Immanuelle suffers from an addiction to words
Isidoro, The Negator of Miracles
The truth is solitude has set in
And in that solitude is the most intense satisfaction
This, is the real addiction–an addiction which provokes the envy of men
III.
Sometimes during sex I dream
not of making children
but of reading philosophy, theosophy, theology, or of making fiery political speeches
Sometimes I am in another world
altogether, merged into a unity foreign to the rest of my existence
Foreign to me
Making me foreign to myself
With my mind’s eye I see the rays which are both carriers of the voices and the poison of
corpses to be unloaded on my body, as long drawn out filaments approaching my head
from some vast distant spot on the horizon. I can see them only with my mind’s eye when
my eyes are closed by miracles or when I close them voluntarily…
Schreber, Memoirs of my Nervous Illness
But always at this point
that is when I might be about to ( )
entangled in streaks of sun
I tell myself the story of King Midas
IV.
Born of the union of Cybele and the legendary peasant Gordius who devised the Gordian
knot Midas rose to become king of Phrigia
A wise and pious king Midas also looked after his exquisite rose-gardens
And so it came as no surprise that one day he should reach out to a drunk who’d been tied
up and left behind Dionysus’ rout on the banks of the river Sangarius
This act of kindness, as you know earned Midas the gratitude of the Gods:
Dionysius asked him to make a wish
So Midas asked that everything he touched be turned to gold
Nothing seemed simpler
Midas, though, soon regretted his foolishness for even the food he craved
changed into gold
Dionysus, who saw that Midas was wasting away took pity on him–
granted him pardon for his greed and sent him to bathe in the river Pactolus
The river has flown with gold dust ever since
Of course I am now, dear reader, willing to take your point:
why Midas, the gold and rose lover?
V
Before I became ( ): an autofictional fragment
There is nothing frightful in us and on the earth and perhaps in heaven above except what has not yet been said.
Céline, Journey to the End of the Night
Nothing seems to have changed
since Immanuelle last walked in and ran out through this narrow passage
Nothing seems to have changed except that he who winced in horror
at some gratification unbeknown to himself has passed away
The house, like its late owner is of generous proportions
There is even a Georgian elegance in the semi-circular fronts to the west wing
Yet it is the heavy, almost crude, porch that really catches the eye on arrival
That, and the wicked fountain with the seven cupids spouting water to the side of the
entrance
But architectural appreciation is not what brought Im back to this scene
VI
Now she stands with her back to the front door in the narrow corridor
To her left, the front gallery is all muted shades of gold
but for the crimson curtains looming on the far wall
The couches and the cedar grandfather clock are covered in white sheets
and layer upon layer of dust
The Waterford glass chandelier has lost its sheen
In this room, the collector only displayed some of his antique collection and most precious
paintings: golden christening mugs, ruby glass lustres, epergnes and chatelaines,
Lorrain’s Coast view with Aeneas and the Cumaean Sibil, a copy of Raphael’s Venusand
Whistler’s Perfect White painting.
The Perfect White painting is gone
but Immanuelle remembers
She remembers it so vividly it could be hanging in front of her as I write:
picture a woman dressed in a white gown
She is standing in front of a white curtain, and is holding a lily
Her face is quite dark
Her hair is long and red–the favourite shade of the Pre-Raphaelites
The effect of all the white is dazzling
but as you fix your eyes on the painting
the snow blindness has a curious effect
Two patches of colour begin to emerge from the canvas
like two heads framed in a foggy dream
There is the woman’s head, of course
but then (as improbable as it may seem) at her feet is a wolf’s head
We do not know the reason for that which attracts us.
Incognita, The Entombment of the Sibelles
VII
To Im’s right is another smaller room, filled only with half empty boxes and piles of
papers
This was the collector’s office, if you could call it that
This is where he would bring fellow collectors and traders, design cloths of gold, touch up
old panels with a judicious spot of gilded tin, or mix glues and pigments to fix his own
painting boards
This is also where he kept his records and his vintage wine
Immanuelle was never allowed in this room
Further down the passage is another set of doors
opposite one another
In the dining room, Im remembers a ten seat mahogany table and walls lined with shelves
crammed with crockery
She chooses to enter the library
It is still packed with bookcases facing every which way, not a single shelf left unoccupied
She recognizes the Scott section: The Waverley novels, Scott’s Poetical Works, Scott’sProse Works, The Life of Sir Walter Scott
And now she is aware of the portrait of Henry Woodcock sitting on the floor
precariously propped up against the wall
Im feels spooked
She makes for the staircase to the left side of the front gallery, leaving the kitchen behind her
At the top of the stairs, she notices how stale and thick the air is
She moves on straight through the passage and turns left
She does not look at the paintings lining the walls–
paintings of moons falling behind clumps of trees, cows in meadows and sheep in
paddocks, men smoking cigars, women shading themselves from the sun, apples and
pears, a seduction scene–so many clichés in golden frames the collector had failed to
interest her in despite his coaxing determination
In the master bedroom
where I suspect the master never indulged in the company of women
Im is shocked to see Immanuelle
hanging above the bed
a fragment of her life captured
in faded colours
framed in gold
as she is about to become
part of some other
collection
Immanuelle sits
stretched towards the sun
among asphodels–flowers of the dead; flowers of the shades
She looks thin and ethereal in front of the gilded fountain with its gilded kitsch cupids
spouting grey water
She looks lost in a river of white forgetfulness
But she does not know
the immeasurable sense of bliss
that comes from not being
herself
Not yet