†††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††† Letter to Torgeir Schjerven
What I have written about to you are all futilities. I had been given
an ash-tray and a bottle of Bardolino for my birthday by my
daughters, had read several offensively recognisable lines
by Paula Meehan. I wrote that I was looking for a satin dress
in which I could lay down my head. What difference does it all make,
Torgeir, what difference does it all make? At this very moment
defenceless daughters are once more being born from unborn sons
such as you and me. This morning is rain-grey and blood-curdling. I know
the word blood-curdling was not part of our jargon, but part of that
which was unsaid between us. I know, since this morning,
why you did not answer my letter. A long way away you have
taken off your beige jacket, kicked off your cheap leather sandals
on a holiday beach on the Cyclades. What united us was
the knowledge that our need of love knows no satisfaction.
We remain unborn sons who, a cigarette between our lips, a bottle
in our hand, wave to an imaginary mother who we remember
from a black and white film from the fifties. We have
revolvers, weak wounds, grinding brains. What more do we want?
We are all worrying about futilities. Arenít we, Torgeir?