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Kent it was all so credible until the _British brogue_. Talk about bubbles bursting. best Randolph Healy ----- Original Message ----- From: "kent johnson" <[log in to unmask]> To: <[log in to unmask]> Sent: Wednesday, December 06, 2000 1:14 AM Subject: sea gulls > Candice wondered: > > >Henry's posting of the excerpt from JOE GOULD'S SECRET (trying to tell > >us something, Mr. GOULD?) > > Yes, I think Mr. Gould is trying to tell us something. And I will help him > to tell it by sharing the following strange story. It is one that I am still > haunted by: > > Nearly two years ago, I gave a reading of translations at Brown University > in Providence, Rhode Island, a city, in fact, with a surfeit of sea gulls. > Mr. Gould's family has lived in Providence since the days of the Mayflower, > so he was able to attend my presentation. It was a truly wonderful affair, > one punctuated by excited bursts of applause from the (I jest not) roughly > five-score souls there attending. > > Well, the night advanced, I read my final poem, closed my book, said a soft > "Thank you", and placed a hand on my hip, just so, letting the other arm > dangle casually at my side (like a gentleman in a painting by Velazquez). I > was approached by Mr. Gould (walking, oddly, to say the least, on his > tip-toes), who was in the company of an elfin figure wearing 1960ish Jane > Fonda-looking boots. (It was the only portion of her form that I could see.) > Mr. Gould, who was wearing sunglasses, said, and with a certain solemnity, > "Mr. Johnson, I should like to introduce you to the great living Russian > poet, Elena Shvarts." > > I reached out in greeting, and my hand disappeared into the thick cocoon of > cigarette smoke that enveloped her. She took it, and as soon as I felt her > clammy grip, Mr. Gould began to cry in high bird-like sounds and to dance > around the booted smoke-cloud and me, madly flapping his arms, in much the > same manner as he has reported his "Hiawatha"-reciting Great hobo Uncle > doing. > > This dadaistic scene went on for at least twenty or thirty seconds, and with > each passing moment I felt the hand of Elena Shvarts gripping mine ever more > aggresively, like a clamp, and I was in excruciating pain. As I grimaced and > wimpered, I noted that Mr. Gould's Larinae dance seemed to not be given a > second look or thought by those milling around, as if it were a common thing > for him to act like a sea gull at poetry readings. The fiction writer Robert > Coover, for example, continued to speak affably with the translator > Rosemarie Waldrop only a few feet away; the expatriate poet Bei Dao argued > earnestly with the diffident Oulipian Harry Mathews. In a corner, Marjorie > Perloff nonchelantly breast-fed her baby. It was all quite odd. > > "I am very pleased to meet you," grunted Elena Shvarts in mannish, heaviest > accent, letting go, at long last, of my hand. And Mr. Gould, who only a > moment before had seemed on the verge of law-defying flight, slapped me > heartily on the back and roared in affected British brogue, "Jolly good > show, 'ol chap! Come and see us again sometime!" > > It was like a dream. But it was real. > > Kent > ____________________________________________________________________________ _________ > Get more from the Web. FREE MSN Explorer download : http://explorer.msn.com > >