[joe-frank-list] What's going on in 'Rose' outside of her story?

[russellbell at gmail.com]

	About 75% of 'Rose' is a verisimilar account of a nursery
(garden) manager who lives in the San Fernando Valley, works at a
nursery in Santa Monica.  She was born in 1949/50.  The story is set
sometime in 1982 to 1986, the later years more likely.  An omniscient
narrator tells the story.
	There are 5 other segments.  I haven't decided how these 4 fit
in.  What do you think?  Is the 'I' the omniscient narrator of the
rest of the story?  Is 'she' Rose?  Who's the 'He' who says, 'Do you
know that you were very angry at her?'  Joe has a clubfoot, made a
living with his voice and words, lived in Santa Monica (= near the
ocean).  Is the narrator talking to himself?  Don't count on my
assignment of speakers: Joe didn't change his voice.  Although I
listened to these sections repeatedly to make this transcript I may
have made mistakes.
	The fifth segment that isn't part of Rose's story is the
penultimate segment about desert plants, ephemerals and creosote.

	12:20:

	We sit in my apartment in the late afternoon, overlooking the
parking lot, the sound of the ocean in the distance.  The sun is going
down now, casting long shadows across my floor and the wall.  I look
out at people strolling back from the beach; the ocean shimmers in the
sunlight.  We drink coffee.  She smokes cigarettes and talks in a
soft, thoughtful, relaxed, and yet, I think, extremely controlled
manner.  I don't think that even she's aware of it.  This room is a
microcosm of the world.  She talks and I listen.
	'Do you know that you were very angry at her?', he says this,
leaning back in his easy-chair.
	'What do you mean?'
	'Because she's forced you to expose yourself.  You couldn't
hide your disfigurement from her so she compromised you - and you hate
her for that.'
	'I know that.  I told her myself how much easier it was before
I met her.  You're not telling me anything I didn't think of already.
	'You've been hiding behind your voice and words.'
	'Of course I have.'
	And she comes to my room in the afternoon.  She talks and I
listen.

	37:30:

	We sit in my apartment in the late afternoon, overlooking the
parking lot.  I can see the ocean in the distance.  I watch the people
walking by beneath me.  She smokes cigarettes.  She talks in a soft,
thoughtful, voice.
	I ask him, 'Why are you smiling?  What's funny?'
	'Nothing is: my smile is ironic.'
	'I'm supposed to be comforted by that?  You have battle scars
not only battle scars but I am embattled - and I'm losing the war.'
	'Don't look at me.'
	'No - I will not stop looking at you.  I will look at you
whenever I want to.'
	It's not my fault, the things that happened to me are not my
fault.  But you know I don't really believe it.  Sometimes I feel I'm
getting what's coming to me.  I haven't been good enough.  I've been
too selfish.
	She'll play whatever game you want her to play.  She's a good
friend, a companion, because she can give herself over.  That's one of
the reasons she's so important to you.
	And I want to lose myself in you: I want to be injected into
your bloodstream, to swim everywhere inside you.


	41:20:

	'Why are you smiling?  What's funny?'
	'Nothing is: my smile is ironic.'
	'What's happened to you is, well...'
	'Don't look at me.'
	'No - I will not stop looking at you.  I will look at you
whenever I want to.  I want to roll down another hill with you and
never let go.  We're all battle-scarred, all damaged goods.  We're all
wounded.  I've never known anyone who wasn't.  
	'You know, I just filled my bladder with water about an hour
ago and my bladder just about burst.  And now my colon's getting the
business.  Do I get anything for this, like a candy or a present when
this is all over?'
	'We'll think of something.'
	'I should hope so and I'm thinking what is all this stupid
banter?  Why don't you just shut up instead of trying to be cute or
whatever is you're trying to do.'
	'Self-loathing - I guess I'm just nervous.'
	'Don't be too hard on yourself.  Here's my blood I can't give
you my body just yet.  I hope my blood passes this test - I've always
had problems passing examinations.'

	53:10:

	We sit in my apartment in the late afternoon, overlooking a
parking lot, the sound of the ocean in the distance.  The sun is going
down now, casting long shadows across my floor and the wall.  I look
down at people strolling back from the beach.  The ocean shimmers in
the sunlight.  We drink coffee.  She smokes cigarettes and talks in a
soft, thoughtful, relaxed voice.
	'Do you know that you are very angry at her.' he says, leaning
back in his easy chair.
	'What do you mean?'
	'Because she's forced you to expose yourself - you couldn't
hide your disfigurement from her.  So you see she compromised you and
you can't help hating her for that.'
	'I know that.  I told her myself how much easier it was before
I met her.  You are not telling me anything I didn't think of already.'
	'You've been hiding behind your voice, your words.'
	'Of course I have.'
	It's not my fault, the things that happened are not my fault.
I can't really believe it.
	'Don't look at me.'
	'No I will not stop looking at you.  I will look at you
whenever I want to.'
	I want to lose myself in you.  I want to be injected into your
bloodstream where you can't see me.  We're all battle-scarred; we're
all damaged goods; were all wounded; I have never known anyone who
wasn't.
	Here's my blood.  I can't give you my body, not just yet.  I
hope my blood passes this test.
	I drive along a Pacific Coast Highway late at night - up and
down the highway.
	We sit in my apartment in late afternoon.  I listen to the
ocean.  It's getting dark.  It's quieter outside.  I watch her mouth
moving - I can't hear her talking anymore.  I wonder if she knows.
And after she leaves - it's back in the car and up and down the
highway.


russell bell