Jay to Bee. Janet Frame

and black cap standing larger than life like a monument against the clear blue sky, as if I had been a child gazing upward; Elnora like a figure from a painting in her bright strong colours and dark face; the scarf-stripes gashing downwards; Jo with a kind of pearl-coloured vivacity; I, squirrel-bulky in my coat, clutching my sweater as a child away from home clutches its favourite toy; the smiling man with the brief-case; the city benevolent because we were there. And all day was a journey with the four of us performing some kind of ritual dance, person to person to person to person, a long long journey to say au revoir; it would have been impossible to say goodbye.

      I have never known such a mysterious sad strange day. It was like waiting to be executed, with the execution taking place in a scene from a painting. The lounge. The sailors sprawled asleep in the chairs. The tight-lipped woman guarding the messages and keys in their brown boxes—the striped shadows the striped scarf the striped sailors. And then, after the time in the Museum, all the paintings that had accompanied us, the image of them in our minds, their after-image projected mysteriously in the lounge of the Y.W.C.A. Boston.

      Well, it was a dream. Was it a dream?

      In lighter vein I have uncovered from the secret manuscripts of Emily Dickinson a letter from a blue jay to a bee which reads as follows:

       B you are gone away!

       even au revoir only

       was hard to say.

       We are lonely.

       Jo’s in New York this week.

       We’re settled and at work—

       the others are mostly back—

       your sweater’s warm and thick.

       You’ll get my letter, say,

       Friday. Reply straightaway

       or better, be with me—

       Yours, blue J.

      I don’t want to embarrass you with these notes; I don’t mean to.

       J

      3. MacDowell November 22

      Dear Bill,

       I’m relieved to know you’re alive and well and living in California.

       I (and we) were beginning to think you were dead and to mournyia.

       (and from there, with a swift turn of a phrase she steered into a limerick)

       The pecker of Harrison Kinney

       was so excessively skinny

       that like a Greek statue

       his balls stared back at you

      a. (classical) Let’s unGreek our leak, go Roman with Pliny.

      b. (classical) as if you were Pallas Athene.

      c. (pseudo-contem porary) Like matics without their cine.

      d. (vulgar) ‘twas a miracle he had had any.

      e. ( ’ ) so teeny so meeny so mini.

      f. (novelistic) How mean is the thorn in our spinney!

      g. (low) If you were a horse you’d whinny.

      h. (anthropomorphic) with little eyes, nosy, and chinny.

      How about that?

      Now you are back on the city scene you might be interested in the model P[eedauntal] which carries with it a special testimonial from Al Bean, Moon-Man whose wife uses it. It is our Supermarket P designed for those who must spend time shopping in one supermarket without being able to get past the barrier. It’s an audio model. The user can select Snap-Crackle-Pop of breakfast food for Environmental Harmony; Mood Music for unexpected social encounters; and many other sounds which have to be heard to be believed. And remember, it carries a testimonial from Al Bean.

      It is no mean accomplishment to serve those who now, their minds at peace, need never urinate in the Magic Flute, nor in the Frozen Foods.

       There once was a fellow named Lionel

       whose pecker was made of vynil

       while trying to warm it

       he did swiftly unform it

       it melted—in fact—that was final.

       Who finds himself beholden

       to satisfy poor Eunice Golden

       must measure his tool

       with a thirty foot rule

       The astronaut, Al Bean

       said space is a lousy scene

       once my orbit of fame

       was from coming to came

       but now I’m just Al has-been.

      Completion of the last line wins a fabulous tour of the Eastern United States. Visit the MacDowell Colony. Play anagrams and other games with the famous

      Elnora the Morer

      Jo the pro

      Janet the never-ban-it.

      Mingle with the MacDowell Elite! Journey inside the Biological Time Bomb! Experience James Thurber! Play Losing Sweaters with Simon! Pedal uphill with Jill!

      The range of experience is unparalleled. Spend one free morning in Mrs Crocket’s pocket!

      One evening in the Specially cooled Jaffrey cinema!

      Taste Rose Hips, diluted or concentrated.

      This brochure cannot describe the numerous attractions of the fabulous Eastern Seabored.

      Take a trip to Baltimore, half a mile to a mile from the Maryland State Prison and the Baltimore Jail. Walk down East Madison Street to the broken-down Laundrette and the writing on the wall

       City to city

       state to state

       boys this girl

       don’t need no date.

      And more! Get your teargas gun in Johns Bargain Store, the Monumental Five and Ten Cent. Return to the lonely house. Play Schubert on the unplayed Steinway!

       Switch on the radiator

       human beings must be kept warm.

       Open the window on the attainable and the unattainable heaven

       Schubert is home.

       In Schubert despair sits yearning on a bed of roses

       a child full of warm dreams and wishes

       lies asleep on the rain-rotted boards of a prepared grave.

      Play a Schubert Impromptu for me.