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"One wonders how much food is food for something like that," Monica said. Ten minutes later he noticed that someone was watching him.* * * *The Marooned Japanese Gill, Robert 1930-2022 Clinic Director:This is schizophrenia. The boy was close to his mother: a widow after a very unsatisfactory marriage. His illness, which must always have been latent, accelerated when she died. ... He suffers also from an hysterical blindness, and cannot open his eyes. They have remained shut for the ten years of his illness. ... He likes to spend his time in the garden and likes also to be called Father. He never replies when he is so called, but only smiles a little, and turns away. ... I have often noticed that such cases seem unwilling to be cured....I am a gardener,A maker of trials, flowers, hypotheses.I water the earth.I raise perfumes there.Mother told me to stand, and I did so,Stepping towards the window in which she sat.“Now, did you find him, your other half?And mine,” she said, and I shook my head:“No, my time is so short and I’ll take no oath.”“You’ve just taken one, by standing,My dear one,” she said, and she told me how the starsHad said as much, and I concurred and sawHow the crystalware of the polished table,The cabinets of glass things walling the room,The tall roses beyond the glass, the gloss of the table,Had said as much in sunshine from my first tottering.So she lifted my hand and kissed it and said I was to be celibate,And this was great good fortune and I was a good childFor I had a quest and few had as much.The roses nodded.So I became a gardener,A maker of prayers, flowers, hypotheses.A gardener“washed in my fertile sweat,”My hair of an opulent brown“like the Lord’s,That makes you think of fertile fields.”And among the flowers, in the walled garden,“This is life!” she cried,“What a shame, oh what a shame,” she said,“What a shame we have to die,” she cried, allThe flowers pumping their natures into her, and plumpingInto her nostrils, winged wide, she leaning,Leaning back, breathing deeply, blushing deeply,Face shining and deep breath and tall brickHolding the air still and the heat high in a tall room.And I swam in the thunderstorm in the river of blood, oil and cider,And I saw the blue of my recovery open around me in the water,Blood, cider, rainbow, and the apples still warm after sunsetDashed in the cold downpour, and so this mother-worldOpened around me and I lay in the perfumes after rain out of the riverTugging the wet grass, eyes squeezed, straining to the glory,The burst of white glory like the whitest clouds rising to the sunAnd it was like a door opening in the sky, it was like a door opening in the water,It was like the high mansion of the sky, and water poured from the tall frenchwindows.It was like a sudden smell of fur among the flowers, it was like a face at duskIt was like a rough trouser on a smooth leg. Oh, shame,It was the mother-world wet with perfume. It was something about God.And she stood there and I wanted to tell her something and she was gone.It was something about God. She stood smiling on the wet vergeAnd she waited for me to tell her but she was gone.And three gusts of hot dry air came almost without soundThrough the bushes, and she went. Through the bushesOf blown and bruised roses. And she went. And the bushes were blownAnd the gusts were hot, dry air, nearly black with perfume,Alive with perfume. Oh shame. It was like an announcement,Like an invitation, an introduction, an invitation, a quick smile in the dusk.It was like a door opening on a door of flowers that opened on flowers that wereopening.It was like the twist of a rosy fish among lily-pads that were twisting on their deepstems.The rosy goldfish were there in the dusky pond, but she was gone.It was something about God. My hand made a wet door in the waterAnd I thought of something I knew about God. My motherStared at me from the pool over my shoulder and when I turned she was gone.Then the wind blew three hot dry gusts to me through the broken rose-bushesAnd she came to me dusky with perfume and I walked towards herAnd through her, groping for her hand. And it was something about God.And I searched in my head for it with my eyes closed. But it was gone.And I became a gardener, a hypothesiser, one who would consult his sensations,For“we live in sensations and where there are none there is no life,”One with the birds that are blue-egged because they love the sky!With the flocks of giraffes craning towards the heavens!With the peacocks dressed in their love for the high sunAnd in their spectra of the drifting rains, oneWith the great oaks in my keeping that stretched up to touch God!And one who could look up gladly and meet God’s gaze,His wide blue gaze, through my blood, as I think;And God was silent and invisible and I loved him for it,I loved him for his silent invisibility, for his virile restraint,And I was one with my peacocks that sent out their wild crySounding like shrill“help!” and meaning no such thing,While my flocks of deer wrote love in their free legsTheir high springy haunches and bounding turf. And they would pauseAnd look upwards, and breathe through wide nostrils, and all dayIt was wide and firm and in God’s gaze and open: tussock and turf, long lake,Reed-sigh, silence and space, pathway and flower furnaceBanked up and breathing.And the people. And the causeway into the walled garden.And the people walking in so slowly, on their toesThrough the wide doorway, into the cube of still air,Into the perspective of flowers, following each other in groups,Gazing around,“Oh, what shame, to die!” and the great doorwayAnd ourselves, smiling, and standing back, and they changed,Concentrated, concentrating, at the edges of the body, the rimsTighter, clearer, by the sensations of their bodies, solidified, bound,Like the angels, the bodies’ knowledge of the flowers inboundInto its tightening and warming at the heart of flowers, the fire called“Then-shall-ye-see-and-your-heart-shall-rejoice—And-your-bones-shall-sprout-as-the-blade.. ..”And she was gone. And she lay down like the earth after rain.It was love-talk in every grain. And something about God.The brick walls creaked in the wind, grain to grain.And judgement came as the father comes, and she is gone.Clouds swoop under the turf into the pond, the peacock cries“Help!” strutting in its aurora, love talksGrain to grain, gossiping about judgement, his coming. RangesTumble to boulders that rattle to shingles that ease to wide beachesThat flurry to dust that puffs to new dusts that dustTo dusting dust, all talking, allGossiping of glory, and there are peopleIn the gardens, in white shirts, drifting,Gossiping of shame through the gardens.“Oh glory!”Through the gardens. . . . Well, father, is that how you come?Come then.Whose breath is it that flares through the shrubberies?Whose breath that returns? Look at the peopleAll ageing to judgement, allAgreeing to judgement. Look at that womanStill snuffing up the flowers. My mother!Look at her. She bends backwards to the tall flowers, falls.Her flower-laden breath returns to the skies.I think this garden is a prayer,Shall I burn it as an offering?And I think these people are a prayer,I think they are a message.Shall I burn them for their syllable?There is a fire crying“shame!” here already!It mixes dying with flowering.I think we husk out uttering. I thinkWe tip it out. Our perfect syllable,Tripped out over the death-bed, a one,Round, perfectly-falling silence.Look how they seek the glory over these flowers!I wanted to say something about God,My syllable about God. I thinkWe are a prayer. I thinkHe wants his breath back, unhuskedOf all the people, our dying silences,Our great involuntary promiseUnhusked, flying out into the rain, over the battlefields,Switching through shrubberies, into the sky. . . .You press, oh God!You press on me as I press on an eyeball,You press sunsets and autumns and dying flowers,You press lank ageing people in gardens“Oh shameTo die,” you press roses and matchflames like wisps of your fingers,Your great sun cuffs age at us. I will bring,I will bring you in, father, through the bounds of my senses,Face to face, father, through the sockets of my head,Haul you in, father, through my eyes with my fingers,Into my head through my eyes, father, my eyes, oh my eyes. . . .To live in the blind sockets, the glorious blunt passages,Tended by gardeners, nostril, eye, mouth,Bruised face in a white shirt ageing,To be called“Father” and to hear call high“Oh shame, what a shame, to die” as they see the great flowers,To hear the peacock“help!” that means no such thing,And to live unseeing, not watching, without judging, called“Father.” MICHAEL MOORCOCK:The Time Dweller, NW, Feb. As Yechida sat staring into the sockets of the skull above her, a white-shrouded corpse came and sat beside her. For a while the two corpses gazed at each other, thinking they could see, although all corpses are actually blind. Finally the male corpse spoke: PLAY - The heightening of consciousness that arises when one awakens in a strange room that one cannot momentarily identify We wont get there, will we? Lazeer said,We stake out both ends, hide back good with lights out. We got radio contact, so when he comes, whistling in either end, we got him bottled. Not that he cared if it was tied down properly or not. It was revolting merely to think of using a net to capture a flopper. Such things were unfair—unsportsmanlike. Stogumber. Hejar switched on the audiostat which unscrambled the data from the long-winded secretary computer. Several months later, when the news of his arrival had been generally forgotten, various pieces of the body of the dismembered giant began to reappear all over the city. Most of these were bones, which the fertilizer manufacturers had found too difficult to crush, and their massive size, and the huge tendons and disks of cartilage attached to their joints, immediately identified them. For some reason, these disembodied fragments seemed better to convey the essence of the giants original magnificence than the bloated appendages that had been subsequently amputated. As I looked across the road at the premises of the largest wholesale merchants in the meat market, I recognized the two enormous thighbones on either side of the doorway. They towered over the porters’ heads like the threatening megaliths of some primitive druidical religion, and I had a sudden vision of the giant climbing to his knees upon these bare bones and striding away through the streets of the city, picking up the scattered fragments of himself on his return journey to the sea. From a Juilliard student who lived on my block, I learned that every Saturday at noon there is a concert in the church tower. High above the city, in a small glass room, a bellringer comes to play the carillon. No, no—its just that you were quoting the wrong sales pitch. The one you gave is the one for pistols, you know, like on TV. He made shooting motions with thumb and forefinger. That’s a rifle. You’re supposed to look at it in a combination of the ways you would look at a Patek Philippe watch and a . . . and a jet plane.” Roche, perspiring, so nervous that he nearly dropped the manila envelope, turned and walked toward the door. It took all his determination not to run. He went out into the shopping crowds, turned a corner and walked fast. He went into a department store and out the exit on the far end and took the subway out to Queens. But nobody chased him. Psychologically, the patient appears to have been completely dominated by her husband and his uncle, and to have become so submerged in her husbands mental aberrations that she began to share his hallucinations and delusions. This transference to her husband of an unresolved Electra complex may well have been the psychosomatic basis for the altered adrenocortical physiology which seems to have been responsible for her terminal disease. We cannot, of course, eliminate the possibility of a libidinous attraction towards her uncle-in-law, who, no doubt, represented the more masculine father figure. This multifaceted ambivalence and superego-id conflict resulted in schizoid withdrawal and an attachment to mysticism centered around her husband’s psychotic manifestations. Indeed, the subsequent history of her two daughters who were seen in their third trimester, having become pregnant incestuously, indicates the pervasive and malignant nature of this psychiatric problem. Im sure it’s no skin off my back, said the razor with detachment. She had not told them where to go, wherenot to go, when they left the Shchapalov apartment. It was her own fault. Prison? Mrs. Klevity blinked blindly. Did I ask you about prison?”.
