Daphne

I remembered that you were not there, that you would never be there again, that now there was only the ghost of your memory for company, and nothing more. The woods were thick with scars of the past, fallen trees turning into mushrooms, fallen leaves turning into mulch, fallen rock walls turning into a fading story of fields and cultivation abandoned in the river of time. The memory of the woods runs deeper than my memories, for the trees have lifespans beyond my own, and from their anchoring watch, watch the world spin about them. It is not that the moon revolves around the earth which revolves around the sun which spins in the arms of the giant spiraling Milky Way; rather, the roots of the trees pin the sky to the earth, stitching together our past and our future, our air and our soil. The trees are the center around which we all spin, and I am alone in the woods with only your memory walking under the shadows of the trees beside me.

There are moments when I wonder what it would be to establish a nest amidst the trees, to live way up in the embrace of the canopy, to hear the song of the wind as a call to prayer, as lullaby. There are moments when I find an old chimney, lone remaining skeleton where once was home and hearth, and I desire to flesh out the bones of a house with walls of birch bark and floors of earth stamped firm and dry. The woods beckon with the stories of everyone who has lived here before, and I hold on to the glimpse of a land that once flourished under man and now flourishes under nature.

au cœur de la nuit

Still I travel north, pushed into the land of the sun, and even the grays of twilight pale until it is always dawn or dusk and night is erased, a part of the past that has been left behind. Villages appear, tiny huts painted bright red, bright blue, with thatched roofs, and in the thatching wildflowers grow, tiny alpine blossoms in white and yellow. The villages are full of children, the sounds of the market, everywhere a tightly choreographed chaos. The children take my hands, grasp my skirts, pull me towards the maypole in the village green, and everywhere is the singing and the sound of bells that are both foreign and familiar.

We dance, I realize the song is the same song of my dreams from my childhood, that I know these people even though I have never been here before. In this land there is no night, and I ask the children: where do you store your dreams, where is your heart when you are asleep? And they tug my hair and laugh and run towards the edge  of the village where the forest begins. Our dreams are the wild animals, they tell me, we see them, but only from a distance. Our dreams are shy and untamed and do no seek our company.

They pull me back towards the bright cottages, the thatched roofs, and I glance towards the shadows of the forest, where there is movement but not form. And then I let go of the night, I allow my dreams to depart wild and free, and in the pale dawn sleep without slumbering, surrounded by the chorus of song.

paschalis

VI.

In the beginning the stories had not been written. In the beginning the stories had not been told. In the beginning the stories were not yet memories. In the beginning the stories had not happened.

In the beginning it was dawn and I held my pen and I watched the sun rise and it was good. So I wrote that down. Nothing else had happened and so there were no metaphors to draw from. There was no way to describe the feeling of a soul scrubbed clean from all the emotion and anger and disappointment that had passed before, for I did not know of the soul, I had never experienced emotion. That was all: the sun rose and it was good and I wrote it down, and in the writing it became anchored in place and time and it became memory.

In the beginning the sun rose and it was good and I wrote this down, it was my first, my only memory. As the day grew long shadows formed, shadows distinct from their shapes, for the shadows were unaware that they were expected to remain anchored to their forms. The shadows separated from their forms and there were two worlds at play: the separated shadows moved, formed alliances, danced, murdered. The evening grew close, chasing the heels of the afternoon, and as evening arrived shadows sought out the nests of their forms, returning home to roost and sleep in silence during the night. The two worlds were reunited and I watched the sun set and it was good, and I wrote this down as well. My second memory.

round booth in the corner; coffee, jello salad

B: What do you remember about when Uncle moved in?
A: Ain't nothin' to remember. Old lady who own the house died, it was on the market for a while, then this fellow and his wife move in. Happened like that all the time.
B: You know the old lady?
A: Everyone knew old Mrs. Ellis. She made it her business to know everyone. She had a bridge game once a week in her living room, and all the ladies had to attend. Just like the Queen on TV, wore jewelry and hats and Mrs. Ellis made sure they were all kept in line.
B: Did you ever join the bridge group?
A: Just the ladies. Never invited. Don't play bridge, anyhow.
B: But you went over to Mrs. Ellis' house at other times?
A: Nah. Saw her sometimes in town, but only the women were invited over. This about Mrs. Ellis or Uncle? I know even less about Mrs. Ellis than I do about Uncle.
B: How'd she die, again?
A: Dunno. She died of being an old woman. Maybe doctors have another word for it.
B: Anyone upset when she died?
A: What type of a question is that?
B: Was anyone upset when she died?
A: We had a decent funeral for her. Graveside, sent some type of flower.
B: Did lots of people look at the house, or just Uncle?
A: I dunno. I wasn't that interested. Not my business.
B: But was there an estate sale, an auction, was the house sold furnished?
A: How the hell would I know? That's just nosy, not anybody's business.
B: Maybe you should make it your business.
A: What, all out of the blue, me go around asking about a mint green velvet couch from a woman dead thirty years ago?
B: So you remember the couch.
A: I don't know. I made that up. Or I guessed. Every old lady had a mint green couch.
B: So you're going to find out for us?
A: How the hell do you expect me to do that?
B: You're an old-timer. You'll figure it out, ask some questions.
A: What is this about? I don't want to get involved, this is none of my business. This is none of your business, either.
B: We'll let you think about it and we'll be back in touch. You can find your own way back?
A: You leave me alone. I can't help you.

He leaves.

C: You think he's bluffing?
B: I think this coffee is watered-down asphalt.
C: Yeah, but does it fit?
B: Of course it fits. It's got to.
C: You gonna tail him?
B: Nah, nowhere for him to go. He's kept his secrets this long, he won't crack easy.
C: How'd you think of Mrs. Ellis?
B: Shot in the dark, kiddo, shot in the dark.

eternal return

2013: year of the Snake

The snake biting its tail: the sign of eternal return, the cycles of the world repeating themselves. Time keeps passing and yet there is still more of it -- even scientists don't agree on the nature of time. (The topic "time" is the subject of this year's "Flame Challenge," and I look forward to the results.)

Compiled into this year's card, eleven quotes from ten philosophers on the nature of time : Aristotle, Blaise Pascal, César Aira, Saint Augustine, Henry David Thoreau, Thich Nhat Hanh, Albert Einstein, André Breton, William Shakespeare, and T.S. Eliot. Held together in the shape of a sphere, made of interconnected circles, continuing the theme of eternity.

The pattern for the paper bauble was discovered through the Guardian; the text was sourced using a vast array of leads from articles on the nature of time (researched for the ongoing calendar-project) with assistance from Google. Circles of text were laid out in InDesign, printed onto linen-weave resume-stock paper, and then the work of editioning began.

First the pages were printed then folded: each circle in half, and the half-way point between the circles, so that they would align when glued together. (Folding happens before oiling, since oiled papers crack when folded.)

Oiling provided durability and shine and a bit of translucence, and test pieces were treated with boiled linseed oil, purified linseed oil, tung oil, and (yes) WD-40. 

 

 

I had wanted to stitch the edges of the pages together, but my gluing skills are vastly superior to my stitching skills (as evidenced by a sample of each).

  

Then the gluing. Glue, fold, weight, glue, fold, weight, trim, glue, insert string, fold, weight, open, trim, place in wrapper, place in envelope.

 

Forecasts for the year ahead aren't auspicious. Bunker down and be well.

summer lament

Our bonfires burned hot and high and turned to embers that still sparked the next morning, we were thorough in collecting every piece of driftwood, every twig, every fallen log. Sometimes we wished for only the sound of the wind rattling through the trees, even the sound of the fire was too loud, too much, we poured buckets of water over the flames and listened to the quick boil and then nothing but branches moving in the wind. The wind was a constant companion but so changeable in its moods: here, gentle, there, a howl of agony, and still I fear the wind, do not know if it is cruel or kind.

There are nights now when I awaken, the moon is arisen, the stars move across the sky, and the wind reminds me of a thousand promises, all broken. For the wind has said to me: I told you all my secrets, but you were young and could not understand. The wind has said to me: I told you all my secrets, and you were grown, and could not hear. The wind has said to me: I told you all my secrets, but that was so very long ago and you have forgotten, forgotten them all. And it is midnight and the grasses rustle and I know there were words and promises, but I cannot remember what they were, and I am sorry.

Charon / passageways

There is so little space, and so much to pack. Water, and grains, and here, in this corner, the locket you gave me when I promised always to remember. The memories crowd in and around, push to be included, but they can't fit. I've tried, oh, I've tried so very hard to save a little pocket where the memories will fit, but there are dry socks and a wooden spoon and a tin cup and bowl, and water, and grains, and there's only room for the locket left, and everything else I will have to forget.

I will have to leave behind what it felt like to hold your hand, cool and dry, callused and strong. I will have to forget the shape of your eyebrows, hovering in disbelief as I struggled to master all you tried to teach me. I will have to forget the way the deer stood in the garden, watching us, so intently, as we sat on the porch in the evening air. I will have to forget the crispness of the lettuce fresh from the garden and the tang of the first radishes. I will have to forget the melodies of Schubert you hummed and conducted, as if you were the entire orchestra, and with this I will forget not only the look of utter contentment so rare on your face but I will forget music, its ebb and flow and deep emotional churning. I will have to forget sitting quietly, just so, drinking coffee thickened with the reward of a task well done, the sound of ice against glasses, the plate empty of biscuits.

But here, with the water and grains I travel with, I will bake bread, and every time I will be reminded again of the smell of rising yeast, and this will awaken the smell of coffee, the smell of the fire as we played cards late into the night, and I never once won. No one told me, beforehand, that in order to journey into this our future I would have to forsake the skeleton of the past, and now it is too late. Too late.

The saddlebags are full, the canteens the last of this cool constant spring that I will ever taste. My heart was too heavy, it weighed down the horses, it had to be lightened. There, across the sky, watch, look, the first of the migrating geese. They carry less even than nothing, they have utter faith in the future and equanimity in the present. Soaring, darting across the sky, how many miles do they travel per hour, per day, per season, so lightly, so lightly. And then, in the moment of watching the birds, quickly, then, quickly, and I am astride, and we are away.

The air is cold and empty, and before us are footprints, are hoof prints, of horse, mule, cow, dog. We are all leaving: there is nothing left here, nothing remains but the shell of a life once lived, a live lived perhaps too forcefully. Now the bill comes due, our little lease ends, the gasp of a lifetime, the silent emptiness of wastelands ahead, to cross over. We traveled lost in our silences, individuals without society, across earth baked brown and abandoned. We traveled together but told no tales, for our tales were only of the past, and the past was lost. Every day the sun rose later, evening came quickly, dew froze into prismatic droplets in the morning air. The ground grew harder, and then our breaths left ghosts of ourself in the air, and there was ice upon the thin, thin stream that marked the boundary.

Something in my mind made me hesitate, I felt that this stream should be a mighty raging river, but without memory, I knew not why. Abandoned on the shoreline was a shack, nothing more than corrugated metal, a sign: Ferry Crossing, hourly; Price, one coin, no return fares. There was nothing to indicate that the ferry was used any more, for the water, though cold, was neither wide nor deep. A man, once chubby, but now with the excess skin that accompanies unpleasant futures, leaned against an oar in the shadow of the shack.

--There's no more ferry service, you see, but you can hire me on as a guide, if you like, to show you where you're going, he called out to us, but my companions did not listen; they had already forded the stream, and were waiting for me on the other side.

-- No, thank you, not today, I replied, preparing to cross.

-- There'll be no tomorrow, or there'll be only tomorrow, god speed, he cried after me, without anger.

Midway across the stream, my horse fumbled, took a moment to find footing, and in that moment, I turned, and tossed the ferryman my locket. "To remember!" and then we were across, and it was winter.

It was cold, deep winter, the ground frozen for so long that there were no distinct prints along the path, but the path was worn heavily from use, and we knew our way. The breath of the horses grew labored with their efforts, but I no longer left clouds of frozen mist when I breathed. I was lighter, lighter than I had ever been before, my heart was light and my mind was light, and as I cooked my grains in the half-light that never became day, the beauty of the fire was almost overwhelming.

My companions and I had spread out and separated, for although we were all travelers along the same path and going to the same place, we had no need for company, or for the safety of numbers. There was no fear of getting lost, no fear of danger when sleeping unprotected in the open. The air was cold, cold, but still I slept upon the frozen ground, not for long, but deeply, and my dreams were the dreams of the universe. As I slept my mind became part of the clockwork mechanism of the sky, my thoughts were placed among the constellations. When I woke in the mornings, my mind came back from so very far away, from such different lands, it took longer and longer for my brain and my body to synchronize to one another; the horse began to grow impatient.

And so I retrieved my canteen, my grains, and I let the horse go on ahead, at its own pace, as I journeyed barefoot along the trail of the lands where there is so little distinction between night and day, where it is foreign to be awake and natural to be asleep. My supplies are running low, the canteen has almost nothing left in it, but there is no stream, no ice that I can melt over my fire. The handfuls of grains grow smaller and smaller, but I do not despair. There is no call to despair, for many, many others have made this journey before me, and many will come after me, and the journey always succeeds.

We always arrive at that place that is not a place, purged of the distinction between the individual and the universe. There is no way to fail, to become lost, and so I take a sip of water, chew a handful of grains, and walk onward. Although there is no sense of time, time passes. I realize that I have been traveling through a forest once I am no longer in a forest, and realize there are no longer any trees alongside the path.

Ahead is the distant outline of the city, built densely and deeply in this cold land, and as I continue towards it, the city grows larger and takes form. Everything is the gray of slate after a rainfall, and there are tall buildings with pointed roofs, some tiny cottages and some giant complexes. There are no houses along the road, but when I reach the city gates, suddenly, the buildings are there, one against another, and filled, filled with people and animals of all sorts. There are no plants: no geraniums in window boxes, no farmer's market stalls, but it is winter, and there is snow. There was no snow outside the city, it all falls within the city walls, and the noise, the noise is astonishing.

For so long have I traveled in silence that I had forgotten the echoes of cities, ringing footfalls, the songs of commerce. I have forgotten how to speak, I have forgotten how to understand language, and I am amazed. As I make my way to a tower, and up and up the tower steps, all around me are barks and bells and chatter and hoofbeats on the cobblestone streets. Still I continue, up, and up, and up, until the street noises die away, and I hear a lone piano playing Schubert, quite close. The brightness of a moon shines through the open window, and everywhere, across the sky, are the millions and millions of stars. In the room at the top of the tower, the piano continues to play, and there is a plate with biscuits, freshly brewed coffee, and I sit, silent, arrived in a place that I know, unburdened by memory.