Letter to Constance Wilcock

Written by

Charles Olson
Contributor Page

Year

2010

Wednesday

My beloved,

...

Your special came last night but the fat letter has not arrived today, unhappy me! O darling I miss you so. Last night was hard to pass over without you. I had to drug myself to sleep by reading Prescott until the eyes were too tired to stand more. O yes, I now have a library card here, and I shall have the Nun's letters so that we can read them together, darling of mine. In the branch where I got my card they did not have them. (The 42nd St will.) Instead I got a bad book on the Mayans with which I amused myself last night before I turned back to Prescott as nembutal! When you come I'll have the best thing on the Mayans, the Conquest of Yucatan, by Blom. A few lines did come yesterday on the Indian! Not good enough to send you, really only notes groping along. But they show that what is going to be central is GOLD, perhaps as image only, maybe as subject too, for the greed of the Spaniards for it and the Indians confusion of the S as the breed of the Sun, the sons of white Quetzalcoatl do join somehow, and ironically.

Today it was your hair again which tangled my heart! and your long legs which snared my body! Do you feel a treasure house of moments and sharp sensations which our love has gathered into which, lonely and hungry, to dip and recall? Suddenly you will stand or move a certain way, your arms will raise, inside where he is you will feel afire, your lips will kiss in a way they have not kissed, you will look at me out of your eyes anew, you dive into the water different, it is that graveyard at Barnstable and the voices below us, or your hand held is all the world, or it is beside the bed at Ipswich when quickly we were in each others arms two Buddhas of desire. These things happen to me. It is always a birth. I love you, Constance.

Please, love, have nothing to do with that auto, please. Everything in me tells me it's bad. Be assured it's no aid to our love. It is only enemy, the machine. You and I hold something against the machine, against the world of the machine. The very thought of it cuts across me like a rip saw. I could not bear to have you drive to me in an automobile. Our love is clean of it, and if our love had nothing else, it would be a miracle because of that. No darling no. Cleave to your instinct here, as in everything: thank god you do hate to drive and dislike autos. I love that very hate. That prime spontaneity of yours, which makes my heart seep with love, exists because of hates in you like that for an auto and a subway. Never betray it, woman of mine.

God knows to lose this weekend is harsh, beloved, but again I trust your senses, love. I know what you mean. O Constance, whenever you work from your organs, organically, I am strong, take composure, live steady, endure. I toughen when you toughen, and that chemistry makes me very sure of us. Do you know, beloved woman, that initially you are rare, rare, love? The given of you is exact and fine. That also has to do with what I meant by the fastidious, the delicate as it is the strong. your arms, your arms, your arms. your womb. all of you. oh oh sweet, sweet love of mine I want you. You were born beautiful, and all either of us do to live up to love is to remember our innocence. People and the world scale and cover beauty until beauty remembers itself: then they can be experienced and known and no longer mar us, actually even then add to us. But love's the secret. I don't know whether I ever showed you those lines I wrote a long time ago and have never made anything of, though I suppose some day they may spring into something:

Die out of the world
Die into the self
Live in the self
Live in the world.

I love the seed of you. May God at last be good and make the weekend beyond, ours! For in heaven and hell's name I want you, my woman. I await and abide you, love.

for I am yours, your Charles
Charles

for god's sake tell me
if you are not well,
sweet heart.