P. S. from Trudy Monae

 P. S.  

more from Trudy, right after this.

 “Lee and Leda,” I said to Roz.

     “What?” she said.

     “So?”

     “Tell me about them,” I said. “Are they our friends?”

     “What do you mean?” she said.

     “I don’t know exactly,” I said. “We’re not ‘good enough for them,’ I get the idea.”

     “Why not?”

     “It’s more how not,” I said. “We’re not cool enough. Or they’re not quite as democratic as they would like to think they are. They hesitate before they decide to include us because we might not get it, whatever it is. They’re condescending, I think.”

     “Doesn’t everyone have to have friends they can condescend to?” Roz said. She paused. “Bless their hearts.”

* * * * *

P.S. (continued from here)  I wanted to get back to you about In Watermelon Sugar before you went on to something else.

     So: inBOIL’s mayhem must be suicidal, too! Violence in such a drab, armored place can only destroy itself. It can’t touch the narrator, or Pauline. Or it can’t be more than a nuisance for her. It can’t even affect Chuck, inBOIL’s brother.

     Here is what I think. The death of the last tiger, the removal of all danger until inBOIL begins getting drunk and recruiting his band of scary, but not because they’re dangerous; actually, they’re suicidal ... before inBOIL starts getting drunk and recruiting his band of crazy followers ... The death of the last tiger settles the society in and around iDEATH into sleepy, bland bland-sleepiness. There is living, but there is no life to it; there is no creativity at all. Anything remotely odd – Margaret is the prime example – is considered threatening. Her interest in the past is especially so: there is no time but present time, dammit! (Best then that her funeral does take place in silence; best nothing at all can be said. Actually, best that she is dead. Suicide.)

     There is color, I’ll grant you that: the colors of the sky and the colors of the sun, but they are without variation; they come only in a predictable order. The planks of watermelon sugar can be turned out in any color, too, as long as it’s solid. No stripes (like the tigers have0, no speckles, spots, streaks, dapples, brindles, etc.; no blemishes.

     Finally, the people are colorless! There is no passion, only, at the most, affection. Or, if there is passion, as in Martha’s case, it can only irritate, as it irritates the narrator; it can finally only destroy itself. It cannot live or move or have real being; especially, it cannot ignite.

     The narrator himself cannot be ignited; he is fireproof, swamp-soaked, sad-soaked wood. And we, his readers, just can’t get him. That’s the sense I get. We’re rubes. As hard as we try, we’re not going to get it. On the other hand, we don’t seem to be trying as we should. In either case, we’re pitiable. We don’t see the need to try, or we are trying but we’re failing miserably.

     Do you ever feel that way?
                                                 Trudy