SCULPTING SAMSON
By Nathan Hobby
Later on, at the time of the wheat
harvest, Samson took a young goat and went to visit his wife. He said, Im going to visit my wifes
room. But her father would not let him
go in.
I was so sure you thoroughly hated
her, he said, that I gave her to your friend. Isnt her younger sister more attractive? Take her instead.
Samson said to them, This time I
have a right to get even with the Philistines; I will really harm them.
- Judges 15:1-3, The Bible- New International Version,
(Zondervan: Michigan: 1985)
*
Every
night for a week Lila refuses to sleep with him until he tells her what is in
his study and why he hates women. S
doesnt seem particularly bothered; he makes up a believable story and tells it
flatly until she is satisfied and fucks him; afterwards he chuckles and the
first couple of times she bothers to ask him if he has told her the truth but
after that she doesnt.
And
then the seventh night he just gives in.
He doesnt care any longer. It
isnt that he loves her or anything like that, it is just that he is tired of
his life and his anger and would like someone to see it all. So he takes the key from around his neck and
tells her she can go into the study and find out for herself.
*
Whos
Samson? Emily asked him thirty years ago when he told her about his plan.
Didnt
you ever go to Sunday School? They
were standing at the window of his studio, overlooking the busy morning
street.
Na,
she replied, chewing green gum as always.
S
sighed even though it was obvious he was glad of the chance to show off his
knowledge. Hes in the Old
Testament. God made him really strong
so he could belt up the Philistines.
Except he wasnt ever allowed to cut his hair. And he had a problem with women. He fell in love with a Philistine and then lost her because he
killed all the Philistines guests at the wedding. After that he thought he had a good reason to really hurt the Philistines. But then he fell in love with another
Philistine - Delilah. And she kept on
bugging him until he told her the secret of his strength. Finally he gave in and told her. While he was sleeping she cut off his hair
and he lost his strength. The soldiers
came and put him in prison where they burned his eyes out.
Gee,
she said, Sad story. And youre going
to rename yourself after him?
No. No Im not.
Its just... its just an enigmatic... an enigmatic name that could.... allude to him... a persona to go with my first great work. And anyway, theres more to the story. The Philistines were so happy to finally capture him that they
paraded him at the front of the temple at their big festival. He prayed for strength just one last time
and God gave it to him. He pushed on
the pillars and the whole temple came down.
Killed him and all the Philistines.
So
whats the moral? Arent Bible stories
meant to have a moral? she asked, but her hand was already pulling down the
fly on his jeans, her eyes wide, corruptly innocent. Are you moral, baby?
What
do you think of my plan? he asked as her persistent hand broke his
concentration.
I
dont know, she says.
Come
on. Dont play games. Tell me what you think. The name, the image...
Her
hand came away from him and she stood behind, arms folded. I dont know. It all sounds... a
bit...
A
bit what?
A
bit fake. Artificial... he went coldly
silent so she continued, I mean, I dont want to be offensive or
anything. But you know. Like its just a career choice for you -
thats what I think.
*
The
morning after he gives Lila the key he is up early, sculpting in the backyard
and trying not to care about the surrender.
He sits in the buzz of the early summer morning, the drone of a
lawnmower and hopes Lilas decided to leave or something. He finds it difficult to work; something
has shifted inside. His whole
motivation has disappeared.
There
are twelve abandoned statues in his backyard.
They are all of the same woman.
Four are unfinished. The other
eight he used his cricket bat or bare fists or sculpting tools or whatever was
convenient at the time to hit off heads, arms or legs or a combination
thereof. These twelve white grey
blackened marble corpses stand/sit/slouch in a mess of tangled chicken wire,
knee high grass and dying shrivelled wattle bushes.
What
he is sculpting is the thirteenth corpse, although he wont admit it yet - he
maintains that this will be the one -
a nude pose with hips slightly angled lips slightly pursed hair tied and tight,
all from a hazy memory of a darkened Room 78, Holiday Inn Resort, 1981 or is it
1980? Thirty years is a long time.
He
is whistling loudly when Lila walks slowly up the overgrown concrete path with
two full mugs. He doesnt look up from
number thirteen.
Brought
you coffee, she says.
He
glances up at her and wonders strayly what she is. The tenth, fifteenth?
About that, of those that lasted a month. She would have to be one of the youngest... he seems to remember
her telling him she was twenty-one... that makes an age difference of thirty
eight, he realised, thinking about it for the first time. Not bad.
Thanks
ah... Lila, it is a deliberate humiliation and she knows it but smiles
instead. She has neatly sculpted dark
brown hair and a full, curved figure.
Can
I sit with you a while? she asks.
He
looks back at number thirteen a moment before answering. Na.
Im busy.
Youre
such a prick. She says it evenly, without hysteria, and
waits.
He
scowls, his eyes turning wild. None of
the others would have spoken to him like that.
He almost likes it; its probably the only reason shes lasted this
long.
He
keeps on chipping at the breast of number thirteen. He has never been able to get the breasts right. Once there was a girl he kept around for
several months - Kristy was her name - purely because her breasts were the
closest he had ever seen. Then hed
decided that it was fake and deceitful to the re-creation and Kristy was soon
gone.
He
is surprised that she is still standing there when she finally speaks
again: Heres the key back.
He
takes it from her silently but she continues.
Thats not a bad statue, but its not her, you know. Its nothing like her. Shes gone forever. Those letters you write... youre just
writing them for yourself. Or maybe
youre writing them for me. Maybe
thats why you gave me the key. Id
already guessed most of it, you know.
He
smiles, trying to rise above her. You
know nothing.
You regret it all, dont you? The fame, I mean. Because thats why she left you.
Ive read it all before you know.
Youre an object of public scrutiny.
You were working twenty hours a day on Poise... totally ignoring her...
its no surprise she left you. But the
irony of it... the night before you finished...
Do
you think I dont know this? Youre a
silly little bitch. Youre good in bed,
Ill give you that.
He
turns his attention to the chisel.
How
come youre so obsessed about re-creating her?
I dont understand what was so special about her. Shes not that beautiful, you know. I think she must be dead by now. Dont you think she would have responded to
one of the ads? The lure of your fame
and riches? If shes not dead, shes at
least an old lady by now. Ugly,
wrinkles. Her breasts sag. In fact, I imagine she has a moustache of
fine black hairs. And watches
talkshows. She probably drives a little
green hatchback. Lives in the northern
suburbs. Your dream woman, your
soulmate.
He
is silent.
Describe
her, S. Describe her for me. Her personality. Whats she like?
Silence. He tries to answer the question in his
head. She is... What sort of question
is that, he thinks. He cant define
her, only their relationship. It was
joy, joy without bitterness. All he
can think of is little moments that encapsulate her. Like the time they tried to ride his bicycle together and they
fell off. She grazed her knee on the
gravel and a couple of days later she said to him, Could you roll up my pants
and tell me that my knee looks really bad?
It sounds so silly even in his mind; he doesnt know what to say.
You
dont know, do you? You dont know
whats she like. The years have clouded
it. All you have left is this hazy
afterimage that youve clung to. Well
let me enlighten you. Emily is an old
woman nearing retirement. She is tired,
ugly and dull. She watches television
all day and she probably only vaguely remembers the genius sculptor she used to
sleep with in her young days. And the
funny thing is that any vague memories she does have are even more fake than
yours because youre not a genius sculptor, youre a bitter old bastard who
isnt going anywhere.
More
silence. The bitch, he thinks. The stupid bitch. I love Em because shes not a bitch, he thinks. She used to come up to hiܥe3
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ad. A man - the famous sculptor, S,
seeking her. Well, I explained it
properly to her, of course. I told her
that I was your niece and that Id placed the ads because there were some old
books and letters you wanted her to have.
In your will, you see. Yes, he
passed away in his sleep, about a week ago - didnt you see it in the
paper? Surely you would have, if you
saw the ad! She said she hadnt, told
me not to worry about the papers and drove away. You know, I exaggerated - her breasts werent that saggy. But she was pretty ugly.
The
chisel quivers in his hand and she steps back, her smile fading slightly.
Youre
lying! Go away! Go! he says.
She
takes one more step back and waits. He
stares at her a while and then like she guessed he drops the chisel and walks
past her to his study to write a letter, the last letter.
Samsons
lost his hair, she says quietly after him and he doesnt turn; there can be no
response because she is right, much too right.
*
Em
Bits of you everywhere. In the backyard. Over my walls. Photos,
photos, photos. And my desk - it bulges
with piles of these letters, these letters that will never reach you... these
terrible masturbatory letters...
I wish I could turn back the years. Laugh them away curled up with you on the
couch. Im sorry Emily, Im really sorry.
You saw it. Im so fake. Poise started everything I dreamt it would
- acclaim, fame, money. But it was passionless - I didnt understand
the surrender, I didnt understand what it was like for him to stand there with
his hands on the pillars.
Now I can see it thats what I want to
share with you, Em. Last night I
finally understood it all - Delilah didnt seduce him; he gave in. He knew what she was doing. He didnt care any longer. I dont care any longer, Lila. I know youre reading this. Im writing it so you can read it.
But the point is, Samson didnt hate the
Philistines. Or not originally. He married one. And he lost her because he didnt realise what was
important. She was important. Not killing all the Philistines. Is it any wonder she left him? Is it any wonder you left me?
I thought Poise was important. But it wasnt. It wasnt even from the heart.
It was an intellectual understanding.
An intellectual understanding that Ive lost. I cant sculpt any longer; my hair has been cut. Only now, eyes burned out, hair cut off,
only now have I reached the true understanding; if only I could sculpt it now... now that I know... now that I am
Samson in his poise...
Whats left Em? I want to know whats left... I want to know how to bring the
pillars down... I want to know how kill them, me, everyone.
Love S.
*
A
couple of weeks later, S thinks his time has come.
Lila
leads him out in front of a table full of gel haired feminist arts graduates
sipping at plunge coffee and delicately eating cheesecake, Celtic music in the
background.
The
entering barrage: Why hello S, one says, reminding him of a peacock. Another: How are you? And: Any new pieces?
He
mumbles and is finally offered a chair at the head of the table.
For
years, Lila says, theres been rumours of Ss secret masterpieces. But, she giggles, the truth is there
arent any. Hes been wasting most of
his time on moping. Starting then
abandoning statues of his lost love.
She left him because of his obsession with his work... he wouldnt pay
her any attention...
S
turns red, all his cynicism, his anger, his power impotent, useless. He is simply embarrassed without
retort. He feels his hands on the
pillars...
...
all rather silly dont you think?
Is
that all true, S? one of them asks in a cheerful voice.
Oh
completely, he says trying to adopt his once perfected sarcasm and falling
short. How to bring the pillars down?
Tragic,
says peacock.
Jump
on the table, pull his pants down... piss on them... masturbate... something... shock the hell out of
them....
Theyre
saying other things; hes not sure if theyre talking about him. He picks up a buttery biscuit and eats it
self-consciously, loudly, crumbly certain he is making a fool of himself,
failing to grasp the immense weight he sees in the moment. Revealing himself... what would that
do? How would that bring the pillars
down? It suddenly seems a silly melodramatic
gesture...
A
minute earlier there had been an urgency, but now it is lost. The conversation is orderly, pedestrian and
he looks out the window to a suburban street, a glimpse of the river
beyond. Dry, bins out, browning lawns,
summer afternoon slowness.
Sudden
irritation with himself. Just what are
these metaphoric pillars? he asks himself.
And the Philistines, who are they?
Women, women in general? It
doesnt make sense, he thinks.
He
looks across the table and notices for the first time next to the peacock a
quiet blonde with long hair. She has
piercing, sunken eyes and a smile that lights up her face. And just looking at her he thinks, I dont
hate women. It is suddenly stupid to
pretend he does.
So
no pillars to bring down, no Philistines to kill.
And
no Samson, he realises. No Samson at
all.
*
The
thirteenth corpse will never be finished.
Lila wrecked the illusion of Emily.
Somehow after this she will always belong for him in the suburban moment
he caught when he looked out the window.
An elusive moments inspiration he wants to move away from. Hes realised theres probably lots of
women that can make cat noises. Hes not
really a better person, just a less bitter one.
So
he follows the blonde out to the car when she goes and finds out her name is
Rimi and she is a poet and loves pasta.
He gets her phone number and has short to medium term plans for her.
*
Months
later:
S:
I feel so secondhand.
Rimi:
What do you mean?
There
was this artist in this book I read... his girlfriend... she was years younger
than him. And she told him he was in
love with loss. And thats me,
exactly. I didnt want to find Emily. All I had to do was ring her mum, ask for
her number... I was always scared of her mum... I didnt want to find her. I wanted loss. I wanted to keep her in my mind as she was. Keep this sugar coated image of her. I dont
know why I finally placed the ads... maybe I was starting to realise
just how stupid I was being...
Rimi:
You werent being stupid.
S:
Yes I was. There is one event, one
turning point in every persons life.
And if theyre a person like me they let that turning point consume
them. Its consumed me, Rimi, its
consumed me. Im that man in that
book... I am that man. And you know
what the sad thing is?
What?
That
book was so boring... I never even finished it. I didnt bother. I dont
even remember the title.
Rimi:
I do. Daniel Martin, by John Fowles.
He wasnt an artist; he was actually a filmmaker. And unlike you he changed. But I didnt finish it either.
There
you go... thats typical. My life is
such a mess, Rimi. I needed to bring
the pillars down. You see, the original
Samson died happy. But this
Samson. This Samson just keeps on
living. On and on, miserable and
depressed. No pillars for me... just
blindness, weakness...
You
know what your problem is?
S:
No.
Rimi:
Youre always trying to be someone else.
Always trying to live someone elses life. And you havent even got a name.
Just get a life, damn it. Get a
life and get a name, S. Your own life
and your own name.
How
about Woody? Is that a good name? How do you like Woody?
She
glares at him.
S:
You know, like Woody Allen, that filmmaker who was so neurotic, so brooding...
always trying to get into bed with someone new, always getting sexy girls old
enough to be his granddaughter.
He
begins to laugh loudly and triumphantly but she shakes her head and leaves the
room briskly, disdainfully and theres no-one left to hear him laugh and it
falls so flat and empty that he stops abruptly and just sits there wishing he
could cry.