If It's Hot

Mary deRachewiltz ( an ivory-haired, genius-being, with a library of languages under her tongue, alive in her castle, Brunnenburg, in Dorf Tirol, Italy) the daughter of Ezra Pound, once told me, "To read the Cantos, you must know, a little Greek. Pound jumped at the idea, saying, I will have to learn a little more Greek, but so will you."

"I will have to learn more than Greek," I pretended to drink tea after my remark, I pretended the tea was too hot, and added, "I will have to learn the craftsmanship of metamorphosis. Whoever touches the Cantos touches Pound, ain't that right?"

Her pale eyes met mine as if I sent her back to childhood. Mary's strong-handed pen and spirit became droll in an instant, and the dear, quiet afternoon harbinger Mary uttered still lingers tous mes jours, "You are a Faye; meaning Fairy, in German. You will never need to explain."

"I do not know enough to explain," the tea was ready to drink.

But for this Author's note: know what I write, I question perpetually. Marching questions, like soldiers stomping left, right, closer, closer, very bad. I question for the sake I have not written enough to explain anything. It is my body that marches to write; lest the words escape my fools mind, without a body I cannot write the act of loveliness. Writing is an act of the body.

Sure, my body has done the act quite poorly, and on rare occasion, quite well; but what I have written, I assure you, it was all an act.