TODAY I AM A ROUGED DOWAGER
Today I am a rouged dowager. After getting up, I, maid of the paternity lie, will climb on the face, powder on the cheeks and the palm and paint a little rouge. I have come out from the refuge of Jehol.
A fortified town, in a wild and rugged mountain pass.
I have covered my face with white cake make-up and placed patches of cherry rouge on my cheeks and lower lip. Grandmother Jia has cut the cards.
I have been pre-occupied in the hobhouse. With a white kilt and kettle drums beating we are forming a new delightful spectacle. I have slept on my rectum. A man very fat and not very tall with a fine face is repairing the highways. The women here are lonesome too.
I am among the most war-like subjects of the Sultan. The Greeks have called on the saints. The see-saws are rusting. I meant to write east but mis-typed. Fletcher has taken the protons of happiness. A licking horse. A bolt of sick neckties. I refuse to wear a suit. Ears and hands are hazards. The bark on the animation tree is forming a painting. I’m writing in a shady room of the English consul.
Between continents and between loves I’m working with two blunt pencils. The windmills are squeezed against the mountains. A bright fluid circulates among the soldiers. They are roasting rebels in the snuffbox. I’m carrying a flagpole without a flag. The Turkish salute is a slight inclination of the head. A hand on the breast.