Charles Guiteau, Who Will Hang for the Assassination of President Garfield in 1882, Has Trouble Connecting with Women at Oneida, John Humphrey Noyes's Free Love Commune, in 1866

In the eyes of Yahweh there is no male or female. But I am not Yahweh. And I do not possess the eyes of Yahweh. Rather, I possess my own eyes. And my own eyes are differentiators and discerners.

There are three women here at Oneida whom I discern particularly. I particularly discern Dorcas Findley above the neck. Particularly her lips. And I particularly discern Claudia Hatfield below the neck. Particularly her bosoms. And I particularly discern Florence Snyder. I particularly discern Florence Snyder when, unbeknownst to her, I am high in the branches of a tree, and her bloomers are around her ankles, and she is relieving herself in a patch of foxglove.

When I asked Dorcas Findley for a meeting, I had been in Oneida for only a week. And I had not opened my mouth other than to eat. And to discuss with Mr. Noyes the pilfering of my shoes. And to yawn. This might explain why Dorcas appeared startled when I spoke to her in the garden. Where she was reading a book. Also that I approached her from behind might explain. Also that I was bleeding from my forehead might explain. I had hurt myself with a hammer while working in the trap shop earlier that day. By design I had hurt myself with the hammer. So I could be excused from working at the trap shop for the rest of the day. And the wound had scabbed over. But I was incapable of leaving the scab alone. I would tell myself to leave it alone, make a covenant with myself to leave it alone, but then moments later find myself breaking the covenant. Despite having just made the covenant. Which put me in mind of how I had been incapable of leaving alone my burnt, blistered-over feet when I was a child and had burnt, blistered-over feet. My mother would ask that I make a covenant with her to leave alone my burnt and blistered-over feet. And I would make the covenant. Sincerely and with resolve. But then I would break the covenant. Often as soon as my mother left the room.

When Dorcas was finished being startled, she offered me her handkerchief. Which I smelled before folding it and pressing it against my forehead wound. Which I was incapable of leaving alone despite the covenant I had made with myself to leave it alone.

When I asked Dorcas if she would be willing to interview with me in the near future, perhaps even in the present moment, there in the garden, her lips smiled dimly. Not so much at me as at the leaden sky above and beyond the top of my wounded head. Against which I continued to press her handkerchief. Except for when I would remove the handkerchief from my wounded head to look at the blood on her handkerchief. Dorcas's dim smile was not a precursor to words, though. Her dim smile was a precursor to her regarding her book. As she had been regarding her book before I had startled her, and she had given me her handkerchief to press against my head wound, which I could not leave alone despite the covenant I had made with myself to leave it alone. Her regarding again her book suggested to me that she had not heard me. Or perhaps had misheard me. So I asked again. Thinking I had gone either unheard or misheard.

In the time that passed between the first time I posed to Dorcas the question and the second time I posed to Dorcas the question, I determined it was difficult to discern whether Dorcas appeared more beautiful when viewed face on or when viewed in profile. I shuffled back and forth between the two vantage points for this purpose. For the purpose of trying to make a discerning determination of beauty based on two perspectives. When her lips asked what I was doing, I shushed them. I...