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Back Margery Kempe Save as PDF
Chapters (69)
  1. Cover
  2. Biographical Notes
  3. Title Page
  4. INTRODUCTION
  5. MARGERY KEMPE
  6. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
  7. Dedication
  8. Front
  9. PART ONE
  10. 1
  11. 2
  12. 3
  13. 4
  14. 5
  15. 6
  16. 7
  17. 8
  18. 9
  19. 10
  20. 11
  21. 12
  22. 13
  23. 14
  24. 15
  25. 16
  26. PART TWO
  27. 17
  28. 18
  29. 19
  30. 20
  31. 21
  32. 22
  33. 23
  34. 24
  35. 25
  36. 26
  37. 27
  38. 28
  39. 29
  40. 30
  41. 31
  42. PART THREE
  43. 32
  44. 33
  45. 34
  46. 35
  47. 36
  48. 37
  49. 38
  50. 39
  51. 40
  52. 41
  53. 42
  54. 43
  55. 44
  56. 45
  57. 46
  58. PART FOUR
  59. 47
  60. 48
  61. 49
  62. 50
  63. 51
  64. 52
  65. 53
  66. 54
  67. 55
  68. 56
  69. MY MARGERY, MARGERY’S BOB

My chest aches—a vehement tremolo—Jesus’s new lover melts in the shifting darkness. The Romans are jumping up and talking all at once. My mouth hangs open; I gaze at the sky, deep night above the noisy court. A man points at me. “I’m fucking and I’m drunk. Continuous pleasure meant something,”—he pumps his fist as though jacking-off—“no future—the meaning’s gone.”

I want to slow down these grievances but the Romans are incensed. Before I can look on the brighter side, the woman throws her hands up. “Do we need another story about I’m in love with a god?”

30

L. writes:

I guess I feel put on the defensive when I hear you talk about how you want me to be close to you because, while I understand your needs and desires, I don’t think they take mine into account. On the surface it may look as though my life is much more flexible, yet for more than a year I’ve been trying to cement new beginnings that are important to me. If you really feel you won’t be able to allow this to happen or wait before being together in a more continuous sense then we should really talk about it. I also hope you aren’t assigning more importance to my sex thang the other night than it deserves. It was fun, no mess, and it made me feel closer to you. I’m happy for the time being. Attribute this to the end of winter, small gestures towards involvement, or the affirmation I have felt through you.

I asked my friends for notes about their bodies to dress these fifteenth-century paper dolls. I clothe the maid, Willyam Wever, the Archbishop of Lincoln in Camille’s eruption of physicality, Ed’s weekend of tears, Dodie’s tangled nerve endings, Steve’s afternoon nap. My story proceeds by interaction. My friends become the author of my misfortune and the ground of authority in this book. We are a village common producing images.

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I borrow a story from Margery: I live on the Isle of Longo. The law of this land is the Longing for L. He enlarges me by not returning my love—wide deserts across which my being hurtles. I am the daughter of Hippocrates in the form of a dragon seven hundred feet in length, pure disguise in order to make a display. I turn my head and my weight beneath me coils the other way. And I shall endure in the form of a dragon until a knight come who is so hardy that he dare kiss me on the mouth.

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