Empty shallow-bosomed shadows moved along a wall. A woman passed a headland of rock with telephone wire wound around her hand. Her expression was wrapped in a teal cloud of mist. After a pause, I called to her.
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“Some hours later, the community of writers and friends had gone into action in Argentina, Chile, and several other countries. They took me from my cell, carried me to the infirmary, returned my belongings, and set me free. I was about to leave the prison, when one of the uniformed guards came up to me and put a sheet of paper in my hands. It was a poem he had dedicated to me, written in crude verse, filled with careless slips, innocent like all popular art. I imagine few poets have received a poetic homage from the men assigned to guard them.” (from ‘Conjieso que he vivido: Memorias’, Pablo Neruda)
For example, she said there’s no such thing as a tangerine-scented wind. When I argued the point, and then a delicious wind presented itself, she lay prostrate in the middle of the road for fifteen minutes.
“So far I have discussed the element of color; but similar conclusions may be made for lines. Drawing or making lines involves motor memories, impulses, and depressing one’s cheeks into a small bowl of confetti.” (page 277)
The point is not that I have a medical issue. The point is that I bought three ruined windmills. And more importantly, that I always carry an ikon of the Virgin Mary with me in my right front pants pocket.
“Sitting in that monumental piece of furniture, my weary bones found it difficult to coax sleep. I could hear a silence coming from the heights, the lonely peaks. Only the occasional barking of the Dog Stars in the darkness, only the faraway whistle of an arriving or departing ship made this night in V alparalso real for me.” (from ‘Conjieso que he vivido: Memorias’, Pablo Neruda)
She didn’t know anything about Frankish castles. She was never a princess who could prophesy a cold sea before breakfast. But I loved her other attributes all the same. Each time I walk alone now, the same feeling comes over me, and I remember how we used to be.
I have something to tell you. It is clear that the something will upset you. This would have been more appropriate just before dawn. I should certainly have known. Be that as it may, I see a scrubby hillock, and near it is a man singing at the top of his voice.
Yes, I put a stainless steel cage around her head. It is a sobering image to confront when thinking about rococo architecture.
If you’ve ever tried your hand at forming a religious bowling league, the struggle to maintain balance is reminiscent of a polar bear’s movement in a cage. Throwing a rock is comparable here as to placing that rock where you want it. Is it at the right speed? Does it bend around obstacles? Sadly, the cruel chaos of incompetence is a flash of naked bodies stirring between prayers and petitions.
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August 2018
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