"Wrestling Walter Benjamin"
Podcast originally published in Bound Off, #54 for July 2010
Wrestling Walter Benjamin
I invent my wife. Sometimes, according to her it’s she who invents me. Then, depending on who’s telling this story one of us or both of us invent the rest of the world although neither of us claim responsibility for Mrs. Houke who lives in the apartment directly below ours and suffers from terminal happiness, her laughter keeping us awake most of the night. In my wife’s heart-of-hearts, I know she blames me for Mrs. Houke because all week she’s nagged, saying, “If you’re responsible for the world then the Houke woman must be your doing, so erase her.” I’m of the opinion that Mrs. Houke’s happiness bewilders my wife and I say, “Bewilderment, if taken in small doses, and of course not all the time may be good for you,” and refuse to rub the Houke woman out. My wife flew into a tizzy, but it was a small tizzy and did little harm to the cutlery or to me.
Sometimes I die first. Sometimes it’s my wife. When reborn we look different, and so it takes time to find each other. When she dies first, I stand on the sidewalk inquiring of every passing woman, “Are you my wife?” and, “Are you my wife?” Eventually a woman stops, looks me over, and says, “Yes, I am your wife.” Then I carry her home, throw open Theses of the Philosophy of History and we begin anew wrestling our way through Walter Benjamin.
In bed, tossing and turning, unsuccessfully attempting to doze over the uproar of Mrs. Houke’s happy cackles, I note that the hour hand has passed midnight and we have entered the day of my wife’s birth.
“My wife,” I say, “it is your birthday, would you like me to get you…” It’s right here that Mrs. Houke stops laughing. “Can I call that your birthday present?” She buries her head.
With the dawn of the day of my wife’s birth finally arrived I remain in bed, but unable to sleep she has gone into the basement to do laundry where she learns from the gaggle of women often gathered witch-like around the dryer that during the wee hours Mrs. Houke died.
Shouting, “Assassin! Assassin!” she throws open the front door to our apartment, and straight away goes for his face. She has some success before I manage to catch her with a good one, which settles things down.
The rest of the day of her birth we spend thumbing through Benjamin seeking an absolute, some bottom line the sub-basement of human speculation. Around five-thirty in the afternoon, defeated, we give it up and begin to drink heavily.
“My wife,” I say, “was it in Benjamin that I read that in the physical world everything has weight, or did I pick that up somewhere else.” Her face registers profound disagreement. “Wait,” I say, get a tomato from the fridge and a throw it against the wall above the mantle, tipping over one of her decorative glass animals—the giraffe, the kangaroo, I don’t know. It shatters to shards on the floor. “My wife, you can count on that. At least that’s one bottom line, that’s one absolute, don’t you think?”
She runs for the kitchen. Hearing the refrigerator door open then slam shut, I beeline to the bathroom, close and lock the door an instant before her tomato lands.
What my wife does with most of the remaining hours of the day of her birth I do not know because I remain locked in the bathroom, but before all the hours pass I am semi-forgiven for the destruction of what I learn is the glass antelope, although I know there remains a price to pay.
In bed again, minutes remaining in the day of her birth she turns to him, and asks, “My husband, while you were locked away in the bathroom, what did you do?”
“My wife,” I tell her, “while I was in the bathroom I finished a chapter, I built an arc,” and why not, perhaps I had.
Feigning curiosity, I ask, “During the time I was locked away, what did you do?” Propping herself up on two pillows, she thinks that over.
“My husband,” she finally says, “It’s still my birthday, isn’t it?” I agree. “So can I start from the very beginning?” Again, I agree. “Okay then, lets see,” she thinks, “I got up very early. But of course, you know that. Can I call that number one?”
“It’s your birthday.”
“Okay, then I went into the bathroom and brushed my teeth. Call that two.” I do. “Then, and I can’t image how I forgot to mention this, and you're not going to believe it, as I was brushing my teeth the cat brushed against my leg, purred and I felt the floor arch up beneath my feet, and my husband, the huge circumference moved, I felt it, the earth, I felt it move and then, listen to this, filaments of celestial geometry crisscrossed through me and in that instant I was connected to the inanimate as well as the animate world.” Pulling down the blanket and pointing to her tummy she says, “My tummy, right here, it began to glow, and the bathroom became so bright I had to shield my eyes, and…and…” Just then, and for the first time, Benjamin’s Angel of History, magnificent, wings spread wide, its back to the future and facing the devastation of the past glides though the bedroom. “My wife,” I say, “will you look at that, it’s the Angel of History, open your eyes and see how far we have come,” but already she has turned away from me, has buried her head, has gone inward just as I then do, where inside my head while sifting through layers of memory, reacquainting myself with myself and perhaps seeking the equivalent of bottom, I ease into the zone of Mrs. Houke, her laughter, which after minutes gives way to silence.
Wrestling Walter Benjamin
I invent my wife. Sometimes, according to her it’s she who invents me. Then, depending on who’s telling this story one of us or both of us invent the rest of the world although neither of us claim responsibility for Mrs. Houke who lives in the apartment directly below ours and suffers from terminal happiness, her laughter keeping us awake most of the night. In my wife’s heart-of-hearts, I know she blames me for Mrs. Houke because all week she’s nagged, saying, “If you’re responsible for the world then the Houke woman must be your doing, so erase her.” I’m of the opinion that Mrs. Houke’s happiness bewilders my wife and I say, “Bewilderment, if taken in small doses, and of course not all the time may be good for you,” and refuse to rub the Houke woman out. My wife flew into a tizzy, but it was a small tizzy and did little harm to the cutlery or to me.
Sometimes I die first. Sometimes it’s my wife. When reborn we look different, and so it takes time to find each other. When she dies first, I stand on the sidewalk inquiring of every passing woman, “Are you my wife?” and, “Are you my wife?” Eventually a woman stops, looks me over, and says, “Yes, I am your wife.” Then I carry her home, throw open Theses of the Philosophy of History and we begin anew wrestling our way through Walter Benjamin.
In bed, tossing and turning, unsuccessfully attempting to doze over the uproar of Mrs. Houke’s happy cackles, I note that the hour hand has passed midnight and we have entered the day of my wife’s birth.
“My wife,” I say, “it is your birthday, would you like me to get you…” It’s right here that Mrs. Houke stops laughing. “Can I call that your birthday present?” She buries her head.
With the dawn of the day of my wife’s birth finally arrived I remain in bed, but unable to sleep she has gone into the basement to do laundry where she learns from the gaggle of women often gathered witch-like around the dryer that during the wee hours Mrs. Houke died.
Shouting, “Assassin! Assassin!” she throws open the front door to our apartment, and straight away goes for his face. She has some success before I manage to catch her with a good one, which settles things down.
The rest of the day of her birth we spend thumbing through Benjamin seeking an absolute, some bottom line the sub-basement of human speculation. Around five-thirty in the afternoon, defeated, we give it up and begin to drink heavily.
“My wife,” I say, “was it in Benjamin that I read that in the physical world everything has weight, or did I pick that up somewhere else.” Her face registers profound disagreement. “Wait,” I say, get a tomato from the fridge and a throw it against the wall above the mantle, tipping over one of her decorative glass animals—the giraffe, the kangaroo, I don’t know. It shatters to shards on the floor. “My wife, you can count on that. At least that’s one bottom line, that’s one absolute, don’t you think?”
She runs for the kitchen. Hearing the refrigerator door open then slam shut, I beeline to the bathroom, close and lock the door an instant before her tomato lands.
What my wife does with most of the remaining hours of the day of her birth I do not know because I remain locked in the bathroom, but before all the hours pass I am semi-forgiven for the destruction of what I learn is the glass antelope, although I know there remains a price to pay.
In bed again, minutes remaining in the day of her birth she turns to him, and asks, “My husband, while you were locked away in the bathroom, what did you do?”
“My wife,” I tell her, “while I was in the bathroom I finished a chapter, I built an arc,” and why not, perhaps I had.
Feigning curiosity, I ask, “During the time I was locked away, what did you do?” Propping herself up on two pillows, she thinks that over.
“My husband,” she finally says, “It’s still my birthday, isn’t it?” I agree. “So can I start from the very beginning?” Again, I agree. “Okay then, lets see,” she thinks, “I got up very early. But of course, you know that. Can I call that number one?”
“It’s your birthday.”
“Okay, then I went into the bathroom and brushed my teeth. Call that two.” I do. “Then, and I can’t image how I forgot to mention this, and you're not going to believe it, as I was brushing my teeth the cat brushed against my leg, purred and I felt the floor arch up beneath my feet, and my husband, the huge circumference moved, I felt it, the earth, I felt it move and then, listen to this, filaments of celestial geometry crisscrossed through me and in that instant I was connected to the inanimate as well as the animate world.” Pulling down the blanket and pointing to her tummy she says, “My tummy, right here, it began to glow, and the bathroom became so bright I had to shield my eyes, and…and…” Just then, and for the first time, Benjamin’s Angel of History, magnificent, wings spread wide, its back to the future and facing the devastation of the past glides though the bedroom. “My wife,” I say, “will you look at that, it’s the Angel of History, open your eyes and see how far we have come,” but already she has turned away from me, has buried her head, has gone inward just as I then do, where inside my head while sifting through layers of memory, reacquainting myself with myself and perhaps seeking the equivalent of bottom, I ease into the zone of Mrs. Houke, her laughter, which after minutes gives way to silence.