He thinks he is made of dust, a jar of bumblebees, shaken and opened in the face of a young playmate: no mere reaction to the cult of domesticity. He had grand mal seizures as a child. Now I aspire to leave behind rainy sidewalks of the mind, the ideology of the gaze, refractions of pleasure and authority, great vortices of energy and power: "We'll let the gooks be the Indians." The monumental view: She has no wish to be food, nor a pastoral image of self-reliance. She sings about gardens: "Once I styled myself the double obscurity of Saskatchewan, these shifting rhetorics of self the most selfish act I could commit . . .