All of these religious men hanging upon walls. Without words, lines, splashes of colour what legacy, what greatness is theirs? We err. Impacted by the loud, the colourful, the luminous; stoneflies; we have no say.
A philosopher is a harp lulling us to sleep. A priest, a splinter of flax. And I, well, what am I?
I am nothing at all, or perhaps a leaf fallen from a great tree, carried by the wind to a forgotten gulley, here lay down and fading. A better fate than these poor men, no peace at all in museum halls.
As a man, I cannot compare the revelation of a character to the giving of birth.
As a father, however, I can speak of the joy and pain of watching these characters grow up, a piece of myself woven into each one. The seed of the world around me, the people close and far that I have copulated with all engendered in these men and women, boys and girls – they are our children. What after all, after death, is the difference between these, my literary, and these, my literal, offspring? Will not both continue on in our memories, written and otherwise, and in our own characters? Much is spoken of physical genetics, and what of narrative genetics? What of those Ivan Fyodorovichs, those Mersaults, those José Arcadios that have, in their own way, fused their personalities, their very attributes, with our own? Of character then, I can speak of hope and pride and love.
I can also speak as a voyeur, a curious onlooker into the personal, private struggles of people, real individuals exposed through story for all to read, mock, and lust after. Poor victims towards whom the reader is free of all law and moral to prey upon, vicious judgment and rabid ravish, with absolutely no retribution except, perhaps, its effects on the soul. And yet, in an ironic twist, a voyeur actor, a Peeping Tom puppeteer, with the dangerous power to direct the scenes into which I, the author, am looking in.
This desk is an amalgam of children’s wishes, personal reminders, literary motivators and religious tradition. Like its cluttered drawers and scattered shelves, these four components attempt to provide organization and separation to elements of life that are inseparable.
My life is a study in separation, division, secrecy. Beneath the clutter is a simplicity that, with a simple sweep of selfishness, could flourish and offer freedom in ways no god ever has. Or, perhaps this cleansing is exactly what all gods precisely point to.
The problem is, we are all on display, so we replace journals with status updates, etc. There are very few people capable of living what they believe, which is why religion is a dream, ethics a reverie.
We can speak a great deal about beliefs, about what should be. The problem is, what is is, staring us accusingly in each and every reflection, and so long as this is the case, the only honesty that can be, is silence.
In the morning, evading echt, he stands onefooted in a dark room. When the world awakes, he puts his foot down and steps in to the light. This, he does every day.
The dark room, it is draped with symbolism, a goldflame so long an ubiety that whatever it might have stood for is forgotten.
Until one day he reads some words. These words somehow speak to a hidden place, trampled under a footputdown.
In the morning, evading echt, he stands onefooted in a dark room. When the world awakes, he puts his foot down and steps in to the light. This, he does every day.
The dark room, it is draped with symbolism, a goldflame so long an ubiety that whatever it might have stood for is forgotten.
Until one day he reads some words. These words somehow speak to a hidden place, trampled under a footputdown.
In the morning, evading echt, he stands onefooted in a dark room.
The ménage and messuage of the writer are constantly changing. Once, open, empty so thoughts echo off unseen boundaries returning as subtle, novel suggestions. Again, occlusive mine-shafts, crowded foreign tongues vying for a madman’s reason.
It is not a process: there is no beginning or end, birth-death. It is not a moment. It is a place and a presence, neither perceived nor mensurated, yet always present, tangible alone to the author’s gradual retreat from everything, into the expansive hold of his hadronic self.
There is a cat lying in the dirt,
Curled against dawn’s spreading thighs—
His neck, a futile crowbar between
Gravel scratch pad and placid chine.
Feet advancing, stepping down the curb
Through steel dogs towards those hated
Moments, mind behind overlying
Humus throne aside tar-striped
Day’s king. I covet this peaceful rule
Amidst stone and weeds, prostrate
Heritor of fallatial dotage,
Stiff sceptre in hand of late-
Coming virgin turned whore.
