“The woman will sit eternally in the tall black armchair. I will be the one woman you will never have … excessive living weighs down the imagination: we will not live, we will only write and talk to swell the sails.” – Anais Nin to Henry Miller
It was a gag,
or maybe not.
Maybe a seance of sorts,
a call to the past, or . . .
whatever it was, it demanded action.
I bought a tall black armchair
at a thrift store, one of its legs
slightly shorter than the rest,
which somehow felt right.
I placed the armchair in the attic
and draped a white sheet over it.
Drew big dark eyes on the sheet
in permanent marker,
and then a Rorschach blot of a mouth.
I laid a pair of my ex-girlfriend’s
black lace stockings on top
of the sheet, almost as an erotic offering
to flesh things out.
My ghost of Anais Nin
now needed sound
and so I
made a mixed tape of clips
of her voice
then placed a cassette player
with the tape inside
under the sheet
and turned out all the lights
in the attic
as I lit one thin long candle
which gave off a warm auerate glow
and then communed with the ghost of Anais Nin
for however long eternity lasts
in the world of one
according to Imagination’s standards