You must remember those first things.  You must return to them.  Like when Dulcinea was three.  She didn’t feel guilty about what just happened.  She was happy.  The sense of it not as some fleeting thing but how to love even in criticism.  So in a conversation.  A talk between her and her lover.  How we will return to it.  What happened in 1966 and a year later and the beginning of Solomon:

 

A room upstairs Dulcinea’s room dark and colorless except in shades of gray and music from a record player.  David’s first album a voice in the room like talking to a dream after you’ve had it you’ve woken up and you know why you dreamed what you dreamed and you remember and talk to it.  You talk to the darkness and become another voice distended without a body no flesh yet out of the flesh the voice speaks while another voice remains silent and only listens its interruptions a mute empathy a being there seeing as though through the eyes of both the voice of David and that other voice in the darkness—Dulcinea—speaking to her lover a shadow and eyes in the moonlight his flesh so close next to her almost one as she feels his breathing her cheek to his chest and his hand somehow not a part of him the fingers of it writing—writing down the mixture of the two voices the father and the child the woman in his arms as it caresses the nakedness of her lower back.  And the room nothing on the walls a bed on the floor one window slightly cracked to let the March air in the night air of a winter dissipating green shoots sprouting on the trees still a shade of gray under a half moon any chill to it angry and accursed the wretchedness of death in the presence of life for there is an infant crib in the corner completely in the shadows a sleeping child who yes too has his dreams but not the same talk to it the discourse some nameless hope breathing out the cold with heat absent of nightmares maybe even this child dreaming all of it dreaming the voice from the record player and Dulcinea’s voice the hand writing it down in its caress of her lower back.  A dream in the night of ancestors and Dulcinea saying:  Yes. No.  I know he missed him (and the lover halting the words with his hands not writing saying) You don’t have to fear don’t be afraid for I will never leave you or forsake you I am here you can feel my flesh and as your child sleeps tell me; tell me of your father your father’s father as if they are your lover too for they are the first hands to hold you the first to write giving flesh to my flesh the unsubstantiated appointment to what you dream and what you remember this the form the matter to the shades of gray in this room where we are not alone…  Dulcinea breathing easy maybe he even a small cloud to her breath her body becoming her lover’s pillow no weight no heaviness beginning a story…

“I met him and he was someone to remember…” (the lover saying: Who?) the silence for a moment after filled with the voice from the record player disembodied writing in her lover’s hand… “Not who you think.  The story he told me…

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