The Clown May Be The Source Of

They Were Connoisseurs Of Boredom. They Savoured The Various Bouquets Of The Subtly Differentiated Boredoms Which Rose From The Long, Wasted Hours At The Dead End Of Night.

And, Oh God, In My Misspent Youth As A Housewife, I, Too, Used To Bake Bread, In Those Hectic And Desolating Days Just Prior To The Woman's Movement, When Middle-class Women Were Supposed To Be Wonderful Wives And Mothers, Gracious Hostesses.... I Used To Feel So Womanly When I Was Baking My Filthy Bread.

The Bed Is Now As Public As The Dinner Table And Governed By The Same Rules Of Formal Confrontation.

My Mother Learned That She Was Carrying Me At About The Same Time The Second World War Was Declared; With The Family Talent For Magic Realism, She Once Told Me She Had Been To The Doctor's On The Very Day.

Spindly Branches Of Buttercups Were Secreted Among Gleaming Stems Still Moist At The Roots From Last Night's Rain That Had Washedand Refreshed The Entire Wood, Had Dowered It In Poignant Transparency, The Unique, Inconsolable Quality Of Rainy Countries, As If All Was Glimpsed Through Tears.