After last night's multiple birthday party, including early celebration of Neowyn's, among many friends gathered, after dinner, films and full eclipse of the moon, which I photographed, and after a late night quarrel with Jane, I slept 2 hours and then woke at 4:30 in fear and teeth-gnashing rage, compelled to get up and write the following...

Jane, kids, and I are living at 930 Washington St. in Denver--the gloomy red-arched bricks of its front clearly visible. I am remembering, midst a party, that we have given a number of such, replete with Japanese lanterns and firefly-like night lights mixed, in the dark, with the multiple voices of both friends and strangers.

Cleaning up, after the party, I've always found at least one corpse; and tonight is no exception. I usually take the corpse across the sheet to the weed-lot and leave it to be found away from our premises; but tonight--as Jane is having car trouble--I behead the corpse and hurl the head hurriedly thru the shrubs--so that at least it can't be identified--and wait till later to carry the body safely away... as I also want to photograph this part of my life and therefore need early morning sun for the task.

Many friends have helped Jane to hook her jeep to a truck to move it from the vast garage. She is happily jumping up and down--blue-jean clad figure in light of moon--and gesturing to the assembled silhouettes of guests. The car starts with a loud explosion... echoing cheers from guests.

The truck moves off. Guests depart. Camera over my shoulder, I begin to drag the headless corpse down the still-darkened street. The corpse moves jerkily and awkwardly wrenches loose from my grasp under its arm. As I reach to clutch the other armpit, I note a grip in my forearm muscle--as if I've been bitten. I see the legs jerking up and down, as if the corpse were trying to push itself along, or even to stand... yet the buckling pants legs seem too flat to even contain legs. Only the well-pressed crease of these pants seems to give any substance at all.

I decide to pull by the legs; but before I can change position, my hand is being bitten, cross its palm, as if by a toothless mouth. Again and again the palm is rhythmically gummed; and in the early morning light I'm seeing the out-thrust neck has shaped itself into a bloody open mouth angrily snapping against and sucking upon the heel of my hand and my little finger.

I can almost hear the words of desperate reproach...

SOURCE: Dreamworks: an Interdisciplinary Quarterly (v.2, no.1 (Film and Dreams), spring 1981, p.25) Passage untitled; I added Headless Nag--Wayan, ed.

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