red's novel, 8 yrs ago.....
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By Red Rivers
The Reunion
In three days, Damascus Tree, fifteen hundred hours. That’s all. No signature, no return ticket. It’s the sort of pictorial postcard available at most thrifty convenient bookstores with quaint bright scenes of wall flower waterfalls mushrooming or nostalgic statues so popular to folks far away, it’s fantastic, it’s amazing, it’s a wish come true if they could see a shooting star and all that sort of tales I was told when I was young, I believed, pumpkins could be turned into midnight carriages and Lazarus could be sleeping, so on, so forth, in time, I learned, these things ain’t true. A moth landed on the postcard. I couldn’t believe it. It’s Cloud Moon. A car crashed into a telegraph pole. A current of bloody electricity waves splashed unto the hidden shore of my brain in a whiff of ill wind blowing soft blue tropical coconut tree swaying kind of music to make the knees bend, the clocks stop, the clothes wet, I could hardly breathe, I could only rotate my wrists and neck. Impossible! Looking around to make sure nobody’s around, looking at my name and address to make sure it’s right, looking at the picture, looking around to make sure nobody’s around, looking at the picture, looking at the message, over and over, I must have done that over a hundred times before I could breathe again. No contest. It’s Cloud Moon.
The previous night, I saw a shooting star. It’s the first time I ever saw a shooting star. Flash! It’s gone! It’s almost like I had not seen it. In a moment, split, gone as soon as it came, I could hardly believe it. Dropping the cigarette I was smoking, carelessly, quietly, extinguishing it, I made a wish, toes in the ground, nose in the heavens. It’s natural. A chestnut shot of lightning zipped across the ember heavens. It’s strange. Though I had never seen a shooting star previously, I knew how a shooting star appeared, exactly, in pictures in magazines in mind so if I ever saw a shooting star, I could recognize it and make a wish according to Mother Mary who swore sheepishly, it’s good, it’s good, you see a shooting star, it’s good, it’s good, you make a wish, it’s good, it’s good. I thought she was mad. When I asked her what’s a shooting star, she said, watch more TV. When I asked her what’s a wish, she said, count more stars. Anyhow, it was the same. As a kid, I watched a lot of TV and counted countless stars. Yet, I had never seen a shooting star and never found out what she meant until the night I saw the shooting star. Not long after, Mother Mary lost her sheep. For the longest time, I imagined, I would never live to see a shooting star. No. Yes. Patience was the least of my virtues. If I missed a train, I would never wait for the next one. If I failed, I would never try again. Still, I could never bring myself to stare at the heavens for hours, night in, night out, looking, looking, looking, resting when the sun came out, neck sour, eyes bitter, I thought, it would be such a waste of time and energy if there’s no shooting star, I thought, I would rather watch TV.
Weather forecast, rain, rain, rain. The moon was pregnant. The stars were boiling. Horizon to horizon, dense cauliflower clouds canopied the heavens. Loud naked claps of raw thunder rumbled the earth, softening soil, rumbling, clashing lightning illuminating foot of clouds, lead, ready to crash, ready to flood, ready to wash, not a drop of wind, not a feather of bird, it went on for more than an hour, rumbling, flashing, rumbling, rumbling, rumbling, flashing, flashing, flashing, a violet crescendo of violet morse code sound and sight spectacle crying out for attention as a baby without food or water or clap funerals without three shots into the heavens for generals and bank vice presidents running away with bags and bags of promises to deliver election results and cash carrots in a cage of thousand dollar notes channeled to the National Trust of Socrates, stealing, taxing, pilfering, nodding twice to denote silence and waving a hand to denounce society and what’s the capital of Senegal in October where there are thirty one days instead of thirty days as roe as doe hiding in a cave, it’s supposed to be raining, forever, I judged, I calculated, I inferred, it would be raining, forever, no rest, no fever, staring at the heavens, reverent, attentive, absorbed, window opened, eyes a gleaming, ears a glowing, fascinated, it was the first time I ever looked at the heavens with head held high and no regret for regrets were made for fools without last suppers or last words spoken to fragile maidens wearing glass sandals they knew would break if they stood up, defying God, defying La, La, La, La Bamba, Lamba, Lamba, Lamba, Bamba, leaves were blue, misty, thrilled, it started pouring, buckets, big, big, buckets, it rained like it never rained for a thousand years of drought and two fifty nine P.M. being Post Mortem, it’s true, it lasted six minutes, no more, no less, it’s clear, I thought, queer, queer, this weather. Some days, it’s sunny and all, no lightning, no thunder, it rains. Some days, it’s cloudy as hell, fire and brimstone, it rains not. Hmmm…
Eleven twelve, shooting star, Cloud Moon, Besame Mucho on the radio, it’s good, it’s good, it’s good, all the time, I was thinking of her, it’s true, I couldn’t help the poor for lords got hungry too, scratching and screaming, in humor, in ritual, in season, no sound coming out, no throat breaking, tambourines and mandarins, tangerine vertical maroon velvet cockroaches crawling across the face of New York April May flying on gas-lit jade broom sticks signaling penis envy and sweeping propaganda toy cows mooing religiously in meadows of milk and honey as promised to Hebrews and Turkish carpets known for powers of flying, no fear, no tear, no bear, no wear, all or nothing at all, it’s evaporating, it’s falling, God knows where there’s some meteor the size of the sun for more or less the time to say excuse me in melodramatic old fashioned Hindi films where men chase women around trees on wheels made to last a hundred years or more so all would get the bread of their labor without prejudice and prime sirloin cuts of baboons throwing snow balls at frail ribbon easy gypsies looking into crystal balls and palms to uncover secret of secrets unknown to all, it’s plausible, the aliens had landed, the Messiah had come, a second time, a third time, a thousand times, I wished, one giant wish big enough for all, a minute of fame and fortune so vital for prodigal sons returning a wicket of sixty nine and a half acres of Pakistani mango orchard tricycle in carbonated baby bottles of wine making slaves toiling in sparkling sweatshop virgin grape vineyards of gold and the gift of heaven forfeited for brine lemon brides throwing flowers to the next brides to be who never got married because they refused to stop smoking though they had been warned of health hazards plus incurable sexually transmitted diseases nobody thought seriously about such things unless they were stricken by lightning, twice drunk, thrice shy, it’s natural, those who had never been bitten would never know the bitten no matter how much bandage or how much pity, it’s never going to be enough, it’s never going to be perfect, it’s never going to be consummated, it’s never going to be realized, it’s never going to be eternal, all things pass over, tomorrow, yesterday, today, it’s all coming to pass, wishing upon a shooting star, wishing, wishing, wishing...
KNOCK! KNOCK! KNOCK!
“Song? Here’s your mail.”
“Thank you. So Long.”
It’s the Postman. Whenever we met, that’s all we would say to each other. It’s absurd. He knew my name and address but I never knew anything about him except that he rested on Sundays and public holidays like the rest of the world. He looked about the same as me. We’re of the same age and stature, smoking, heads over hands, he would always bring something, I imagined, he knew more about me than I would ever think about him. Though I never found out how he looked, I bet, I would be able to pick him out from a crowd if he ever got near enough, outside of office. Twelve, twelve, that’s his number. He’s like my shadow. Wherever I would be, he would find me, twelve, twelve. The first time I received my mail and my mail alone, he was there, beaming, excited, delivering a letter from Mother Mary wishing a shooting star and all her fairy tales I had grown not to believe in wizards and angels and all, the Postman, only a boy at that time, it must be the first time he posted, I thought, we must be twins or something. The day he posted Cloud Moon’s postcard, he looked like a poisoned man. A dark cloud hung over his head like a bulb of light in cartoons, it’s supposed to be a wish coming true but not true yet, I looked at him like he was a lost brother or something akin to kinship, I looked, normally, I would have turned away as he turned away, simultaneously forgetting each other, embarking on our separate missions, it’s strange, I never thought much about the Postman and I supposed, he never thought much about me either sun or snow, punctually, he appeared, silently, he disappeared, punctual as a clock. Along the corridor, he raced on, no time to waste, no time to look back, he raced on, walking away as fast as his feet could go, he went, tick, tock, tick, tock, he raced on, smoking, floating away as ghosts would do as if he had no feet, shuffling away, I made sure he was well out of sight before I looked at the postcard, weighing two stones, I discovered, the Postman was an angel. Behind his back, a pair of vulture wings. Now, if he stood right in front of you, face to face, you would never suspect he could fly. When he turned his back, watch. As he reached the end of the corridor, he flew out of the window.
The postcard, musked, old, smoked, seams flaring, showcased Wind Flower, in all the fruits of her youth, Mother Mary’s darling character she would never grow tired of telling no matter how many times she had told it, she always smiled the brightest smile when she was ready to tell on Wind Flower, I heard it so much, so much so I was able to recognize her when I looked at the postcard though I had never seen her before. Flipping to the other side, it’s Cloud Moon. Black on white, the writing, scribbled in most obscure hand so the casual reader wouldn’t be able to make out the message, bearing my name and address in perfect block capital letters printed hard in everlasting Indian ink permanent and clear enough for the Postman to deliver so he would not make an error without knowing the message though it was open for him to spy, I was sure, he wouldn’t have time to go through every postcard as if it was addressed to him and all that kind of shit surely going round and round in his head as he made the rounds, everyday, posting, posting, posting, posting, dawn to dusk, he had to finish his work before the sun went down, sometimes, he had to fly until he couldn’t fly, collapsing into a pile of bones, sleeping until the sun rose. True or false, it’s not important. If things progressed the way it had been progressing, I would never find out if those things I learned about the Postman were true or false. On a clear day, I didn’t give a bean of a moment about the Postman. When Cloud Moon replied, I knew he was an angel. That’s enough. Closer, closer.
The rain had stopped. The night was clean. Not a cloud, not a haze. Stars a glimmering, moon a brightest, thirty years, once, night became day, I peered out of the window as I had done the previous night I saw the shooting star and wishing to see Cloud Moon one more time but never expecting it to come true as most people do when they wish on their birthdays because their wishes would never be fulfilled and next year they get to wish for something else or what they do when they throw coins into water, next to the pond, a crippled crow pecked at a stalk of miracle wheat ready for harvest and busting the husks bursting, blown off by winds stronger than Atlas blowing off the candles on his birthday cake with the number of years he had been born spelled in Persian cream, smelling fat of camel burning, I saw a lady bathing, oblivious of the world. Though I was breaking the law, I peeped as I had never peeped before. I couldn’t help myself. Hair standing, I peeped as hard as possible. Even if the Supreme Judge Of All Judges was present and peeping with the whole world stoning me and whipping me, I wouldn’t blink. If I was hanged, my eyes would be wide open, peeping, peeping, peeping. I was stoned. I mean, I turned to stone. I couldn’t even blush or salivate as I often do when I see a naked lady. There’s nothing more sinister than a lady bathing, no plans, no worries, no nothing, wanting to be watched without being watched without knowing what news don’t report or what encyclopedias don’t record or what teachers don’t teach, that, simply to think about it, it’s a sin, it’s punishable by twenty or more lifetimes so the condemned would be executed and reincarnated as slaves as long as the days of the earth, wet, smiling, still, I didn’t think she cared one way or another how naked she had to be clean in order to be sure she would be ready for Prince Fox every night, Garden Of Eden, she had to be clean, so, so, so hardly he came, so softly he left, she must be thinking, it was night and so nobody could see her splashing water on her nipples, whistling and standing, she rubbed a hand of ice cream on her belly to make sure it’s cooling, moist and melting, it’s clear, she thought of him and nothing else, shining, daughter of the moon, doubly full, it must be, it must be, pregnant, she must be washing all her filth away. Soon, sunrise. She was gone. I rubbed my eyes to make sure I was not dreaming as they do in comic disbelief in the movies when my eyes were sore and bruised, painful as hell, I felt a thousand blows on my back, peeping, I thought, I could have shut my eyes and rested for a thousand years, it’s true, I had not slept in a fortnight. It’s Wind Flower! It’s Cloud Moon! I was so tired, I couldn’t sleep. Standing there, I just stared at the sun as if it was a moon, surely, hair over breasts, so full, fresh, fresh, fresh milk pouring down her thighs, twisting and turning, a worm in the brain. It’s incurable. I couldn’t sleep even if I wanted to crash into my pillow of rainbow and sleep for a thousand years, I couldn’t do it. Fifteen hundred hours, Damascus Tree, in three days. In the morning, I dared not move. There, a baby cried. Two more days.
Knock! Knock!
It was the milkmaid. She’s from Sunrise Milk, the milk company that delivers milk as the sun rises. Hungry and thirsty, I would have killed to drink the whole bottle in one gulp, killing two birds with an arrow. Yet, I moved not. If I even yawned, I would have crumbled to the floor and slept forever. Hell! I had to move as slow as possible. It’s ridiculous. All my life, I had been taught, slow is bad. Slow is taboo. Speed is the answer. The best minds of our generation are the fastest computers able to decipher industrial Notradamus credit card frauds, in algebra, in geography, it’s true, it’s false, twenty multiple choice questions designed to trap snails, launching rockets to Neptune, three minutes, three minutes, stop, pens down, hands in pockets, I thought, I better start on going to Damascus Tree. It was a long, long way away. No more time to be wasted. I was so slow, I could hear my ankles creaking as doors not oiled for a long time regularly so it could be opened and closed without the slightest noise disturbing the neighbors’ dogs barking, battling for space, it’s time, it’s time, the clock chimed, eight times, signifying eight in the morning when I was supposed to be getting up and getting ready to leave home, so slow, I had to keep moving so I could meet Cloud Moon, it’s clear in the postcard, there was no date, there, words fading away, straight, square and slow, I set off. Fifteen hundred hours, two days, Damascus Tree.
Damascus Tree. The last station on the West line. Fifteen hundred hours, schools of seagulls flock the platforms, picking crumbs of bread fallen from hollow mouths of preparatory school children too absorbed in the world rushing away to eat properly though they had been taught to be kind and all that kind of culture parents inject into their fruits served to children to make sure they would grow up and walk the right path, inculcating a sense of love so they wouldn’t forget their roots or numbers which would serve them well a whole lifetime, timeless lessons of to further their empire and preserving their livestock, they needed lime and tiger tooth powder sold in the trains for fifty pennies a vial good enough for an energetic kicking laughing bubbling bundle of joy, glug, glug, glug, guaranteed to stand the hardest test of time. For men, twelve hours and endless supply of ammunition. For women, seven months and endless sea of children. No worries. It’s here! Be Silent! Under the table, children could be delivered in six hours instead of nine months, normally, these children would be smarter, noisier and stronger, it would only cost ten pennies. In those days, it was a penny for a cow. To have a hundred pennies meant you had land, stock, horses and such, in this age, a penny couldn’t even buy a fly. Hah! It wouldn’t even get you on the train.
Fifteen hundred hours, I got to Heaven Peace Gate, the nearest station around. If I had more time and I could walk faster, I would have boarded the train at The Black Hole to enjoy the fresh morning as I walked there everyday when I had to go to school to listen to a hostile host of starving crows crowing violently all along a narrow path lined with old sycamore trees reaching for the sky as if they had been there forever and ever as seen in scenic scenes in movies depicting grand passage of time, lightning a flashing, birds a flying, leaves a falling. Even if it was raining, I would take a walk on Penny Lane. Trumpets blowing, horses galloping, Penny Lane, it’s in my brain, it’s in my train, tra la la la la la la la la la, it’s a song we all know some time or other when we were just kids and all and life wasn’t so tinted and all connected to all by wires and radios being our veins and Holy Ghost insurance schemes, respectively, more or less, flooded with loads and loads of lighted dynamite parcels of information with nowhere to go but kissing a million innocent Romans for their war crimes as punishment is not too harsh for the seas had been poisoned, the earth had been intoxicated and the sky had been punctured, senses so dull, so numb, so senseless, plagues, wars, famines, unemployment, there, it’s all there. More and more, robots are replacing humans at jobs previously held in high esteem where it was thought to be irreplaceable and it’s impossible for a robot to perform the task of a nose surgeon, now, it’s possible. The trains are run by robots. They don’t stop for antelopes, they don’t slow for hadicaps. Punctual and efficient. No errors, no delays, no accidents. At the appointed time, the trains arrive, doors opening and closing in a minute so considering even the slowest of the lot taking longer than usual, it had been calculated, it was enough for the handicap to step out or step in depending on where they were heading, embarking and disembarking, stopping and going in a minute, it was fair, never late, never early.
To get to Damascus Tree in two days, I would have to board the Evening West Train. It comes at six. The journey takes forty hours. If I missed the Evening West Train, I would die. I could never imagine that. In my mind, there was only one scene I played over and over. From so far away so I couldn’t even see where when she started, she would dance along the platform in slow ballet as if she was near stopping and going, giggling, naked as a bean, lips burning in neon gold in furnace of gold, sweat pouring even when I thought about it, the kiss, surged by vibrating vibes of a thousand electric eels packed in a tin can the size of a slim pocket calculator costing two hundred pennies, the rhythm of love, three hundred pennies, hell, I would even sell my country. This kind of thing didn’t happen everyday to everybody. To those who chanced upon it, salute. Thou had tasted the forbidden fruit. There was no other way to describe it. The forbidden fruit, it would cost a thousand pennies. In those days, you could buy Saturn Raping Venus for a thousand pennies. It was such a long time ago when I received the postcard and reading and looking, over and over, I must have repeated more than a hundred times, I felt ashamed, I couldn’t take it along. When I saw the lady bathing, I dropped the postcard and I didn’t have time to pick it up because I had to rush to Heaven Peace Gate, moving at the speed of a snail, I knew, I had to start right away if I wanted to be punctual and sure, I knew, she would not even wait a second, it was clear, I had to hurry and I was in such a hurry, fearing I would be late, I sucked my teeth to go faster. It worked.
Still, I wasn’t fast enough. Sure, I was missing Cloud Moon all the way, rebuked by fist shaking pedestrians ridiculing, horned by cursed motorists, hell, I had to stop when the Red Man was on and walk when the Green Man was on just as I had been trained since I was a small kid, remember, cross the road in twelve seconds or less when the Green Man flashes, hurry up, wait, it’s too late, take a deep breath, wait, the Green Man comes in half a minute. Slow, I could only take a step in a cycle, I was standing as the Red Man standing in the middle of the road when it came on, irritating the motorists and pedestrians as well for all the noise and chaos breaking out, cars swerving to the left or right, it was hell, hell, surely, I would go to hell to see Cloud Moon, alive, I didn’t care if they butchered or hung crosses round their necks or blasphemed against God in nations where it’s punishable by death to copulate in the open, I didn’t care if they slapped or slashed Orphelia more suited to be pasted pasta naked on refrigerator graveyards where even crickets wouldn’t sing their songs of decadence. It was hell! If I hadn’t wished, I would have bitten off my tongue and committed suicide in the middle of the road so I be not Green or Red, not stopping, not walking, Land of the Brave, March of the Saints, it’s all the same. Safe, I got going.
When I got to Heaven Peace Gate, I headed straight for the ticket counter and proceeded where I was to board the train, pleased and relieved. Behind the yellow line, I waited, feet together, knees bend, ready to jump when the train arrived so I would not have a heel stuck in the door if I had walked, I counted, it was better to jump. When the train arrived, jumping, I made it with ten seconds to spare. Fortunately, I got a seat. It was a good day for travelling. Nice weather, nice view. In the train, watching the world train away, I thought, what a great movie it would make if everybody could be filmed doing what they were doing and tiny spinning girls waving at the train as it passed by, naked, smiling, naked buildings and naked streets, all things artificial, invisible so people would be standing or sitting in the air, walking on hollow ground, hands empty. Suddenly, I felt a solemn urge to smoke but because it was a nonsmoking train, I had to think twice. The smoking lounge was nine coaches away. It’s too far. The fine was set at three hundred thousand pennies. I could never afford it. Phantom shallow trees swept past in emphatic fashion, near and far, blue and bright, it was music, green, green pastures of diamonds. Che Sara, Che Sara, Che Sara, Che Sara Sara. I must have listened to it a hundred times or more, drinking every fountain, sucking every branch, everything, I never cared to find out what the song meant to say to the Spanish who understood everything it was about the very first time they heard it so there’s no mystery to them no what the hell, I believed, I had to keep it just the way it was for mystery is the salt of life. Without salt, everything would be tasteless. Otherwise, I would have slept for a thousand years. The closer I got, the more I missed her so even if I wanted to sleep, I couldn’t nod, eyes wide open, I stared into the country I had ignored or forgotten for a long, long time, it’s night, cloudy, humming, a drunken dirty old lady sneaked up to the seat beside me and smiled like she had won the jackpot or something.
“Great Earth, son. Where are you heading?”
It was Mother Mary. The last person I would want to meet on such a journey. I looked at the ticket to indicate she could take a look and see for herself as I seldom talked or moved whenever we met. Advancing a withered hand, vibrating, trembling to take the ticket, straining her eyes forward to make sure she was reading correct and not mistaken, reading for a long time before it became clear, beaming as a peacock, she laughed a good three minutes, no bean for the world, tickled to the soul, wiping tears away, drying, choking, coughing, folding a hand rag into her coat pocket, wearing her spectacles, handing the ticket back, she patted my knee as though I was a pet and didn’t know brick from stick, putting a crumb of cheese in my mouth, Mother Mary tongued my ears, her nails dug into my thighs, blood thrilling, spine chilling, no pain, no Cain, no rain, no grain, no brain, no gain, surrendering, shooting a pail, lighting a snail, laughing and laughing, stubbing her little fingers in her ears so she couldn’t hear a thread of sound, taking a deep breath like she had never breathed before, she began to tell the tales she loved so much she could tell the tales over and over as if she had never spoken, vigilant and faithful, she never changed. Frog was frog, blue was blue, star was star, all in all, Mother Mary’s tales might be the only thing that’s constant in this world. In tone and deliverance, it’s clear, it stuck, older, slower, she spun, feet on seat, spinning, spinning, three miles an hour, snailing her way through the Forest Of Golden Fir, boating her way over the Ocean of Forgetfulness, Mother Mary told the tales I had heard over a hundred times or more, it’s true, word for word, I could recite the tales backwards to shock the soul a little bit, it’s the same, it’s Wind Flower standing under a lamp post, smoking, cigarette after cigarette, the Piper blowing his flute on the third floor, window open, she could hear owls hooting when rats ran wild on street sprawled full of lepers, leaning on wood, fraying, splitting, bending, straight as an arrow, she stood, stationary, soaked in shower of ultra Zen indigo street light, muted, Wind Flower waited. Fire Worm was late. He’s always late. One time, she was made to wait two days and when he came, she shot him in the soles. He didn’t flinch. Fire Worm was a man who felt no pain. Also, he was a mute. It was this fault which endeared Wind Flower to him for she saw in him the frailty of a child losing his parents and pitied him from the first time they met when he stumbled into her garden without permission and though she was entitled to persecute him, she didn’t. A flood of compassion descended upon her like a dove flying to rest on her nose running and watering, she took him in her arms, dreading the moment they would be apart for she never imagined they would be apart after three weeks of amorous trivia only interesting to thieves and on evidence presented by mutual consent, perpetually, Wind Flower grew to love Fire Worm more, more and more, though she knew it would cost her life, she would kill herself if they were separated for more than three days, it’s hopeless. I wished I could jump out of the train. It was a dry day.
When Mother Mary finished, morning came. I couldn’t be more pleased. Cracking her neck, she slapped, left, right, left, right, harder and harder, when I could normally scream and holler, I couldn’t even smile, it’s customary, I couldn’t escape. It was her way to make sure I remembered her tales, word for word so I would recite the tales backwards until she grew tired, satisfied, she sucked on a cob of corn she would always find in her knapsack kind of raccoon she carried whenever she appeared out of nowhere for I never knew where she was coming from or where she was going to. After swallowing every kernel of corn whole, she would disappear. Whenever I turned my head, she would be gone. In the train, she stayed. We were going to the same station. Thrashing her head, ecstatic, Pom Pom hair fluffing, eyes shut, lips a minus sign, face a blurring, she must have done that for an hour or more, transfixed as people entranced and following the their hearts leading them the wrong way most of the time while they were encouraged to follow the rhythm and blues singer who sang to birds perched on her shoulders like she’s a hanger or a scarecrow, without a hat, without a cat, black as water, grasshoppers mating, bees mooning, flies firing, it’s all nice, nose flowering, face blurring, teeth gnashing, window becoming mirror, it seemed she would never stop, she would never tire, she would never dream, seeing visions, suddenly, Mother Mary crashed into the floor, tongue in chin, she slept talked.
“Damascus Tree? Three days? Fifteen hundred hours? HA! HA! HA! I’m so happy. Shooting star? Tomorrow, your wish shall come true. I have seen it. Cloud Moon has seen it. Shhh… She’s here. Though you cannot see her, she can see you. It’s true. She knows all about you. In fact, she knew you before you were born. When you thought there’s nobody looking, she’s looking. Yes. She was there when you received the postcard and studied it as if you were about to take the most important test in the world. When you were sleeping, she was there, watching. Watch it! In the toilet, you were not alone. She’s there. Everywhere you have been, she’s been. HA! HA! HA! What thoughts you hosted, she read you. Cloud Moon understands you more than you understand yourself. It’s no accident. Just hang in there. Tomorrow, you will meet Cloud Moon. HA! HA! HA! I’m so happy. It’s perfect! You’re welcome. Thank you very much. When you see her, you will surely faint. HA! HA! HA! O you most blessed of men, Cloud Moon’s waiting for you. She’s been waiting for this hour since the day you were born in a water closet, she was there to deliver you when there were no midhusbands or midwives around town when you were due, she was ready. Why? Why do you suppose you are here when you are supposed to be in school? Wait! Wait! She’s coming on. O Cloud Moon! Yes! He’s here. What? You want to speak to him? HA! HA! HA! This is fun. Wait! Wait! Wait! I will plug my ears. There! Go on. Go on.”
“O Song, O Song, draw nigh, draw nigh,
Round shutters down, the harbor is night,
An egg or a serpent, choose right,
Do not despair, do not race, do not hide,
Dawn, raw mimosa octopus juice,
Dusk, preserved tails of lizard,
Boiled Zulu bones, origami Neptune 8,
Virgins’ tears, old forsaken newspaper swans,
Sold to merchants for nothing at all, all, all,
All or nothing, nothing, nothing, rhyming,
Bold with cold, nothing, nothing, nothing,
Three times, I whisper in your ears, nothing,
You shall hear, you shall rule, you shall conquer,
You shall inherit the Earth, it was yours,
From the beginning to the end without pause,
Lips a cracking, dry, skin a smoking, tongue a tracking,
Back to Eden, Paradise a plenty, blooming in bottles,
Filled, milled, pilled, billed, willed, tilled, killed,
Ten million Jews killing twenty million Palestinians,
O how sad the tune of love so easily forgotten,
Berlin walls falling, curtains on the morrow,
Ice fountains, video cameras mounted in the hall,
Do not turtles die?
Do not maidens flower?
This is not the museum we display Cleopatra’s crown.
This is not the path we travel less or more the bullock.
In, In, In God We Trust, the slogan of sages,
This is not the flag we raise, the Pacific parting,
O Song, how I wish you are where I am, I am,
You, a mountain of gold I would pawn, comb, castle,
O Song, I would sell Plato, beloved horse of mine,
To be closer, to be poorer, to be slower, to be thinner,
O how my heart skips just to know you are here,
Not there, not anywhere but here, listening, glistening,
O how my mind bends, here, tomorrow is today,
Tomorrow, the sun rises from the West,
Tonight, we sleep with angels on ships of glass,
Sailing on clockwork seas of midnight chocolate,
Ticking, O Ramayana, shine, shine, shine upon him,
Poor shepherd boy losing his sheep to a school of wolves,
Thunder, O Mr. Thunder, strike thy hammer on thy chisel,
Clang, clam, plang, plam, blang, blam, slang, slam,
Chipping off the stars, one by one, falling off the universe,
Be not afraid, we sleep in silky beds of rainbow,
Sleep, sleep, fair knight, sleep, sleep, sleep,
The Conductor’s making his rounds,
I must go, Happy Birthday, sleep, sleep, sleep.”
Sleep? How could I sleep? I turned to stone. Mother Mary slumped into a knot of flesh like she was a statue or something until The Conductor arrived and asked for ticket which she promptly withdrew from her handbag without a slight whimper or a thread of remembrance of things happening without her knowledge and consent, placing a parcel in my hands, smiling the broadest smile imaginable, he smiled, the worn out man sitting in the seat directly opposite, he must be a land surveyor or something like a lawyer, he smiled like he had known algebra for a long time, he must have smiled his whole life to deepen those wrinkles on his forehead bearing the mark of the lamb, sweating, he handed back the ticket to her without a single question and nodding, he continued, checking on passengers he had not checked, going in circles, eye balls spinning at speed of long violin drag to evoke sense of loss and isolation, she left, without custom of waving hand or excusing oneself to go to the ladies’, drinks on the house and so on and so forth, sliding the coach door, she disappeared.
The train was rocking. Left, right, left, right, side to side, puffing forward, strange, I couldn’t hear the well oiled clock of wheels washing the rail usually I could hear so well, so loud, so far, the hushed voices of passengers in the coach, oscillating, to and fro, left, right, left, right, siren colors of sounds so luxurious, so rustic, previously, all blocked, all blocked. Silence. Outside, calm, inside, sweltering hurricanes. Deaf! Deaf! I was deaf! Hell! Swallowing a pocket of onion saliva, I couldn’t believe it even if it had been scientifically proven and certified by the best surgeons in the field, signing to confirm I couldn’t hear at all, it was useless, a Lebanese woman rested her head on my shoulder, closing her eyes to sleep, tears flowing, half smiling, half sad, I wondered if she wasn’t also deaf as people get when pressure increases as trains climb up, wind up through town valleys where cold air rush in to replace the warm air rising at night in parcels and letters to be delivered as well as paper pledges to win the lottery even when the odds of winning was a billion to one or more on rainy days, hell, it was raining, it had been raining for quite some time though I didn’t know how long it had rained or would rain, I saw it was a violent rain by the way the windows rusted and the trees waving madly as hard lashing winds tossed and stripped, not a leave, not a puppet, rooted to the earth but uplifted, people were flying, cars were tumbling, buildings were bending, it was a strong storm. The train stopped. Nobody could believe it. No train had ever stopped in the middle of the way to the next station where it was scheduled to arrive without delay, without fail, it had to be there when it’s time, never early, never late, engine of the nation, twenty four hours, everyday, the trains were on time, keeping the world satisfied, no complaints, no favors, no overcrowding, no problems, a soothing and strong voice boomed out of hidden polka dot speakers at strategic locations in every coach so every passenger could hear the computerized recorded broadcast of destinations reached and destinations to come, it was always the same voice, I knew, she would take nothing, nothing, TV screens they placed so strategically so every passenger could see from every angle, monitored so every moment was captured and not wasted, old and new passengers gobbled, in unison, the movies, big news, such and such, such that everybody would receive the standard vital instructions in cases of emergency so they would know what to do and do not what they thought to be right in such chaos, in fact, we had been free of emergencies for a hundred years or more, we never thought much about emergencies though we had been properly instructed in schools and at home, the TV telling us what to do when such situations arise whether it’s an accident or a play, we speak, we act, we kiss, we listen, we TV, O God, the air tense, announced in graphic classic banana yellow custard cello mellow color to symbolize WARNING!, warning our senses to awaken to the fullest possible and heed the announcement as if it’s the most important thing in our lives, we, the passengers of the train, pledged our souls to the captain, our deliverer, our savior, our healer, breath cut, listening with utmost attention and fragile silence, loud and penetrating, he spoke.
ATTENTION! ATTENTION! THIS IS YOUR CAPTAIN! TAKE A DEEP BREATH! ONE, TWO, THREE. THAT’S ENOUGH. PLEASE BE QUIET. CALM DOWN. THIS IS NOT AN EMERGENCY! HOLD IT! BELIEVE. DON’T WORRY. WE ARE PREPARED. EVERYTHING IS UNDER CONTROL. IT’S A MINOR PROBLEM. THERE IS AN ANGRY STORM BLOWING ACROSS THE COUNTRY. GOOD CITIZENS, ALL IN THE COUNTRY IS STOPPED. REST! THIS IS NOT AN EMERGENCY! UPON THE POWERS VESTED UPON ME, I COMMAND YOU TO CLOSE YOUR EYES AS FAST AS POSSIBLE AND REST. WHEN YOU AWAKE, YOU WILL BE WHERE YOU ARE DESTINED TO GO WITHOUT THE SLIGHTEST DELAY OR INCONVENIENCE AND YOU WILL FORGET THIS WHOLE EPISODE EVER EXISTED AS THIS MESSAGE WOULD BE ERASED AS WELL WHEN THE BELLS RING, SLEEP, SLEEP, SLEEP. GOOD DREAMS TO YOU.
As the lights were dimming, a fog of angelina smoke swam out of the air condition vents, warping a sinister tinge to the night, so hot and congested, the sound of bells ringing, I slept, I guessed, it must be the same everywhere and she must be sleeping soundly as a child under crunching belly of a lion not eating her but just looking majestically at the horizon as she had been taught to fear in such a situation, though I had never seen a lion in my life, I knew how it would look like when I saw it for the first time in my life in the zoo, harmless, unthinking, I felt safe, happy, obliging, Lord, be glorified, be glorified, certainly, everybody was sleeping as they had been instructed, they had to sleep, they had to obey, they had to abide by laws shadowing their actions or behavior befitting society so equal lots of land belonging to them could be restored unto them when they arrived home, O how they slept, they had not been out, some mothers stuck in markets, some fathers stuck in offices, some children stuck in schools, O how they dreaded, O how they wished they were home, instead, it was to come to pass, O how they slept, sleeping as if they had never slept before, the whole country sleeping, resting, falling and rising, buoying in one breath, we slept, some standing, some sitting, some walking, some praying, some coughing, some smoking, so united, we slept, sleeping it through without knowing what happened in those times we were sleeping, so soundly, we slept, so if World War III came, we slept, ignorant of dangers ahead or what some decorated, estranged soothsayers warned a long time ago, a big, big sleep overtaking the country in hell without lake of fire, ridiculous, we slept, heavier than a mountain, falling into bottomless pits of rest with no lid so we could fall free, cleansed, sinless, soaked in cold sweat, we slept, for generations, for instances of machine, for all species of animals to be protected so our children would know how a dinosaur looked like in the movies when somebody slept with a neighbor’s wife or something like vinegar to propagate a taste of jealousy being a trademark of God under stringent copyright laws which prevent the furtherance of His Kingdom so vast and concentrated in areas of the world where nobody gives a shit to Philistines and barbarians still using stone age axes costing a million grains of sand so magnificently kept in an hour glass dripping sand and Father Time so elusive and illusive of human nature being greedy when we had all that we ever needed without a single note being added to Temptation Of The Shrew being aired on national TV all across the globe so everybody could be watching the same thing being telecast live and without interruptions and rest so precious in a country where everybody slogs their socks off without regards for Black Sabbaths where newborns were being abandoned and donated to the FBI and CPI being the strong arms bearing a torch to light the whole world so the blind could see, the deaf could hear, the afflicted be healed, really, all kinds of tricks to lessen pain and nightmares of the Devil stealing souls in bright daylight and all the King’s men and cannons couldn’t put the Earth together again once it’s broken, it would be so nice to be in Macedonia which was the country of the Great Spirit before Calvary and cheese wisdom of Edison given the luxury to try the millionth and one time so we could see in the dark and feel warm in the cold while we feel cold in the light, we slept, unharmed, untouched, unknowing, everybody awaking at different times for we had different destinations and vocations, wishes, really, we slept, musical sleep where we danced in the quiet of the night so quiet so flowers blossomed, bearing fruits of toil and planting seeds in higher grade soil we used to measure the worth of land turning into gold the moment King Midas touched his penis, turning to stone, turning to ideas, turning to religions, transparent, we slept, all together before music begins again, picked and locked, licked and clocked, we drifted to fading lullabies we didn’t sing anymore because we had outgrown Peter Pan and Mother Goose delivering a basket of eggs every morning without fail, without question, we slept, so long, so sweet, so gone, so comforted, so dire, streets silent, salivating, we slept, tired as rubber tapping cheap laborers tapping in tune with birds alarmed by foresters who kept chopping trees without permits, without license so important in the republic, we slept, we must have slept forever and ever as in fairy tales we were told when we were younger and discerned not The Fox Prince charming, riding a white horse, blowing a trumpet to wake Snow White with skin whiter than snow and not in any other colors as we had been taught, we slept, comforted and hopeful, initial nine, six in the third, it was all planned, a long time ago.
Thirteen hundred hours, I arrived at Damascus Tree, fresh as a pickled cucumber. It felt like I had slept for ages and ages. The storms had died. A faint breeze blew in a circle, encircling me, a twister of green leaves, snubbed cigarette butts, torn ticket stubs, ripped panty hose, ashen name cards, bruised mosquitoes, folded lost pet advertisements, cut pearl fingernails, latest pocket computers, tiny piano key chains, truly, all sorts of things people normally find in a train station, bones sour, the platform bare, forever I would remember, I couldn’t remember why I was there without the slightest clue in a flash of lightning erupting in orange tinted heavens, nonetheless, I laughed, I laughed, I laughed, I laughed like I had just been released from the mental hospital where I had exhibited my sanity once and for all when I passed the test, they had let me go and pray I didn’t have to go back to be served by cold, cold janitors, bored nurses and junk physicians, I rubbed my eyes to make sure I wasn’t dreaming for I saw Cloud Moon floating toward me as I had hallucinated, naked as a bean, I spread my wings to cover her when she came near enough, strange, I never knew I had wings, I was so happy to see her, I wept uncontrollably as lovers do when they were separated from each other for longer than they had expected Mars to be conquered by a swarm of angry grasshoppers hopping to miracle wheat fields able to feed the masses dying of starvation appearing on the covers of magazines set up to horn the plights of the world never imagined in our wildest thoughts about music being able to heal the sick and the afflicted through chemical therapy and nonstop salted examinations we had to pass to move up ladders of development being the game developing nations trying to emulate the First World where members enjoy the fruits of the farmers’ labor without breaking a sweat without breaking a bank without walls or vaults but all electronically up kept to keep up with the times so we wouldn’t lag behind so far so we could never catch up with the elite if we slow down, we would never have caught up so we could never rest or holiday or all that kind of leisure reserved for the rich pulling card after card out of a bag of magic so everybody had something to do and feel justified in establishing a castle of hope for the masses forward marching to the Gates Of Paradise always open for the poor in spirit but not the wealthy for they were already in the Garden Of Eden, that’s right, that’s where we met.
In picture perfect slow motion, she danced, covering half of face and eyes, bumping into Roman pillars and bitter gourd replica garbage bins, she hid whenever possible, lips illuminant, afar, I recognized it, straight away, I knew it, it was the lips in the postcard I left at home and though I didn’t have it with me to prove beyond a reasonable doubt, I knew it, Cloud Moon was performing the ritual of mating in cultures not known to the world but much practiced in time forgotten and unnecessary in our age, a statue, roots growing under shoes, twinkling and wet, it was perfect, hair a standing, rod a divining, I wished, I could run to her and decrease the agony by half and half making one and one making love on the empty seats, ten minutes each, rolling, rolling, rolling, glued, skin on skin, it was perfect, the scene unfolding as I had played out in my head, over and over, she progressed, she regressed, giggling, trapping a pigeon, she spun, releasing it in the middle of a single giant leap, landing inches in front, up close, I confirmed, indeed, it was identical to the lips in the postcard, absolutely, I needed no evidence or witnesses, to be sure, I surrendered, smitten and frozen, a carcass, I could smell a flying whiff of daffodils, melting, breathing together, I couldn’t see so well as I used to see so well in the past when I could see tens of million of miles away, the stars so bright so far so right, it’s impossible, I couldn’t see Cloud Moon and wouldn’t even be able to pick her up if I was shown a photograph of her if the lips were concealed, blurred, stumped, I thought, it was absurd, it was perfect, standing there, hands behind, thrusting upward in perpetual potent motion of jumping so to conserve energy running out in less than twenty years according to projected growth rates, resources evaporating, sucking every drop of spirit from inside endless wells of love so I could have stood there forever with Cloud Moon bouncing on, always, I would sleep as a tree when I was dry and spent, smiling, pleased I hadn’t been felled, shot or drowned in a blackout pond of roses, I heard a train a coming. Look in the Northwest.
Sleeping But Not Sleeping
When I awoke, I awoke not. There, I must have slept for ages and ages. It’s horrible. I didn’t know how I was transported where I didn’t know why I couldn’t move a limb or turn over a new leaf and all that sort of rubbish even if I wanted to see so badly the bust of Venus, truly, if I had to die to see it, O Lord, I would have committed suicide at the drop of a penny. I hated it. Quietly splitting brains, in a while, I remembered everything, exactly, in a moment, the time I received the postcard to the time I received Cloud Moon, all shots squeezed into a sand of grain so I could replay the sequence of events at speed of light in memory flash flood mode and reversing into the present when I was laid out horizontally on a bed of goose feathers poking into my spine, skin a tingling, teeth a numbering twenty nine, seven a missing, bones a rattling, heart a spinning, breathing the last breaths as I thought would have time to climb Mt. Olympus sometime, I knew, someday, I wouldn’t even have time to climb up a flight of stairs I thought I would always be able to climb, up and down, up and down, now, I knew, I knew not how it could be done just as I knew not how most things were done, most of the time, stuck, I would smoke a cigarette to pretend I was thinking about it but in effect, I couldn’t think, I couldn’t hear, it’s true, then, another, then, another. A Cuban Herring Smoked Gold Plated Cigar Aged A Hundred Years. Cloud Moon was talking all the time like she had never talked, she told her whole life story even when I was sleeping, I was sure, she told about when and where she was born as people do when they yearn to get closer or getting closer so I would know her from hair to toe, it didn’t matter, she just let it out, the big Black cat out of the bag as they most often do when nobody’s looking or listening, stealing a moon or a swan, she didn’t care, she didn’t care for she had never spoken a word in all her life so she could save it for the special one she had met hundreds of them but none of them the right one after another torrential one night stands she described each one in candid details restricted to blood and gore so loathed in prime proper polite society standards rotting to shield the Bear from the Lion so she was so unafraid of people no matter how big, strong, thin, tall, dominating, fearless, intelligent, she sucked them dry, blood and all those blots of buffalo blood on the walls scaring the nuts out of them who had not seen those terror horror movies, so novel, so shocking, they gulped, they jumped up, digging into sullen cheeks for they did not believe ghosts and circus and flying saucers and witches and camera tricks and God and puppets and Pharaohs and mountains so green so a lady running and singing in bright blue skies seemed so out of the ordinary when what’s out of the ordinary, they had to wake up when the alarm sounded, bones turning to lead, they slept, sleeping, sleeping sleeping, then, it happened. In a flash, waves of angry rush of hot city in wrinkled morning cereal fix flushed in big stream of toad horns and shower traffic lamps shining faster in the night and slower in the day blown up, air bullets and moist burnt bacon, quickly, hustling, bustling, I knew, I was blind. I dared not open my eyes. Snakes of gold ran down. There’s a twinkling feeling of swelling like thread being run through the eyelids stitched together so I couldn’t open my eyes even if I tried harder than hardest in all I had ever tried, I discovered, there was no pain. Faithfully, it was still standing. Wild pounding, a hundred mouths licking, fingers snapping everywhere, petals in sweat, dancing the swan, banging of drums, orchestra of Pompeii, zero gravity, every moment frozen as if it wanted to explode, naturally, I came, over and over, I came, greeted in howls and vigorous clapping, iron claws tearing my succulent skin embalmed in peppermint tea leaves, mummied, I was raped, over and over. If I had any control, I would have pushed her off, halting it right in its tracks before it ran off course and promptly delivering two thunderous slaps across her face as in the movies where scenes could be acted out even if the person was just thinking about it and getting satisfaction of what was being imagined, so hard, she would be in a coma and all but as I was thinking those thoughts, she boxed my nose so dangerously fast, I couldn’t even breathe quick enough to keep up with the thrusts, tumultuous and ferocious, ding, dong, ding, dong, together we came, ear bitten off, tongue bleeding, teeth locking, chin kneading, dawn, it was clear, she was trying to meld our spirits together so she would be I and I would be her as people swore in marriage vows so two would be one, in hunger and in thirst, in pain and in rain, in heat and soil of her mound, slightly, strangely, it grew in height and in stature, in shivering monstrous rapturous moans mounting to a speck of silence, slowly, galloping to fading House of The Rising Sun on a broken horse, there she goes, there she goes, day in, day out, she rode, screaming, trembling and gnashing of teeth, at times, she was happy, at times, she was crying and laughing just like a little girl when a stranger gives her a candy on her birthday and throw a celebration of ribbons and balloons to signify jubilation and victory for the people feeling just as happy if not more for a day or two at most before depression sets in, void, sparking off a new prism of lending and borrowing trend against the wage floor for underage labor and expensive reforms to curb military spending at minimal price of a fly, floating on water, interlocked, urinating, I shot and shot, burning yellow fever piss, furious and infectious, giggling, she must have known I was awake but couldn’t speak for fear even a moment would be lost forever as most things do when they got lost, weeping and cracking a whip, I thought, it wasn’t so bad, after all, it’s Cloud Moon.
Cloud Moon! Cloud Moon! Cloud Moon! O how many times had I recited and tailored thy name to perfect pitch of wave rhyming with cave but not loud with cloud, how hard, O Goddess, in silence, I tried, smoking cigarette after cigarette, clouding the room, I practiced until I could do it without opening my mouth dribbling damp as I get when I see a glossy muslin bound leg of lamb roasted to a glossing glow to radiate moisture and crispiness of glass when pounded as powder to ward off evil and all that kind of methods, I tried, Cloud Moon, Cloud Moon, forgive and forget, millions of times, I must have called operators across nations and climate to get thy number but it was always wrong or sorry, the number you have dialed is not in service, over and over, she said, sounding the same all the time, many times, I felt useless and wasted but persevering, soothed by the chance I held, no matter how minute, no matter how invisible, no matter how, what, I believed, I could be meeting thou tomorrow and it would be real dumb if I couldn’t address thou according to thy humor, condemned, condemned, I would be condemned to a life of hard labor if I had not lived, O Cloud Moon, thou have come, O Cloud Moon, thou have moon, moon, Cloud Moon, cloud, cloud, Cloud Moon, it’s raining, today, I saw thou on TV, today, I saw thou in the newspaper, today, I saw thou in the refrigerator, today, I saw thou in the mirror, today, I saw thou in the train, today, I saw thou in the toilet, today, I saw thou in the night, today, I saw thou in the flesh, flesh, a pound for ten pennies in the old days when all things were permissible and cordoned as long as there’s light there’s thunder there’s hope there’s music there’s chance there’s boats there’s angels there’s rainbows there’s gold there’s storms there’s love there’s all there’s to it, O Goddess, hasten thy feet, fasten thy bows, moon, moon, Cloud Moon, cloud, cloud, cloud, Cloud Moon, cloud…
“Stop it! Stop it! Enough! It’s driving me insane. Bring the bucket. I’m washing my hands. Enough! Enough! As of now, I dissolve this union. Enough! Wipe your tears away. We will act as if we had never met. I know you not, you know me not. We are strangers. That’s all. I’m leaving. Stop it! Don’t cry. I don’t wish to see you again. Stop it! So long.”
“Wait! Wait!”
“Cut! Cut! Cut! Don’t cry! This is dumb. Save it. Somebody bring some water. A towel! A towel! How many times are we going to do this? Here. Drink! Clean yourself. Read the script. Here. Hear what it says. As Father Time was leaving, Moon Cow smiled, frozen in her tracks, holding a knife behind her back, she reasoned with delightful contempt for she was born when the moon was full and swallowed by a cow, it’s a miracle she didn’t die, the new parents were so happy they named her Moon Cow without thinking about the arrows she would have to dodge when she was orphaned as her new parents laughed until they coughed a pail of blood and passed away peacefully leaving little Moon Cow in the hands of scavengers and robbers who used her as a slave as soon as she started obeying and sold her into prostitution as soon as she started rebelling. It was all so unfair. Why should she suffer? Tightening the knife in her hand, sweating and shaking, she saw her life zip across her mind in reverse, in a second, ending in BLACK. There is a blackout. Read. SHOUTING AT THE TOP OF HER VOICE, MOON COW, WAIT! WAIT!! WAIT!!! C’mon, you’re a bright girl. I know. Take a deep breath. Need some time? REST! ASSEMBLE ELEVEN THIRTY! DISMISSED! Hey, White Phoenix, just one shot, alright? We have to get it right, alright?”
Alone in the wagon, closed off from the crew she totally abhorred, White Phoenix counted her pennies. Since the age of three, every birthday, she would find a penny. The first time, it was under her pillow. The second time she found it under a rug. The third time, she found it in her pocket. The fourth time she found it in under a tree. These were the most precious things to White Phoenix. Each time she was feeling blue, she would count those coins until she got better or slept through the day and before she knew it, voila! she would be better. For her, it was easy. All she needed was a penny on her birthday. This, she never told anyone and nobody ever gave her a penny on her birthday. She had to work for it just like everybody else who had to slog like slaves to buy a bowl or a cat. Sometimes, it’s tricky. She had to look in the most unlikely places. Once, she found it behind the battery cover of the living room TV remote control unit when her mother told her to change the batteries because they were getting old, worn, and faint and unable to perform the task at hand anymore than a cripple being able to get up from bed and start walking on Mars without a helping hand, without a map, without a doubt, White Phoenix always found those pennies on her birthdays. Day in, day out, it was the only thing she looked forward to. There was nothing else more important. Eleven eleven. In less than an hour, her birthday would be over. Yet, no penny. Please, please, she rubbed all the pennies she found over the years she so wished they would all be fast forwarded so a year would pass like a day and as well an hour or a minute for that matter for she believed when it passed quick enough, it would rain pennies and she would be the happiest girl in the world, rich too, she guessed but it’s all a fantasy she knew would never come true no matter how hard she prayed or begged for it, she was civil enough to know it would never happen for it never happened that it rained pennies and Father Time would never walk faster or slower. Things like that, her mother said, could only happen in fairytales. Moses parting the Red Sea? Cinderella marrying a prince? Nadia scoring perfect tens? Who would believe? Look at all the flowers and those tall towers of Babel reaching for the sky and racing developing plans underway, why, who would have believed the last great war occurred some sixty years ago? No matter how many times ugly footages of the war be broadcast all over the globe twenty four hours a day, still, people who had never gone through a war would never know how it felt like to go through a war though the cruelty of throwing babies in the air and stabbing them till they died and raping weeping pregnant mothers watching fathers being castrated before being skinned and beheaded, imagine, it’s worse than being extinct at the push of a button, screen fuzzy, blacking out, ash to ash, dust to dust. Today, this is our danger. Switching off the TV, White Phoenix felt as if a bomb would be falling on her anytime. Moist, she rubbed on the coins as if they were going to disappear if she couldn’t find the penny, swelling, kneeling, she petitioned as if she was going to be electrocuted in half an hour and begging for her life, it made no difference to her if she was executed or not. If she found no penny on her birthday, she would rather not live. It’s no accident. She had never failed. Yes. In the beginning, she suspected her mother because she was in her care when she was younger and unable to feed herself, it was not unthinkable, her mother planted those pennies for her to find on her birthdays as a sort of treasure hunt or something for her to remember the rest of her life. In time, she discovered, her mother could never have planned for her to find it in a walnut on her sixteenth birthday when she had reached the age of reason, walking round the old walnut tree in circles, stepping on the edge of its shadow when she was waiting for the bus always late and bulging with passengers who huffed and puffed in city with too many commuters trying to rush home as fast as possible to catch another hour of The Mad President. It’s a mad hit. Everyday, everywhere, everybody talked about it with great reverence and warm fervor. All but White Phoenix. She was only interested in her pennies, wondering how she would find the next one, sure, she was never right or left wing when she found it always turning out different from what she had imagined.
Eleven twenty two. Less than thirty eight minutes. Damn! She never thought it would be that hard. A clash of thunder rumbled the wagon. One by one, White Phoenix swallowed the pennies without using water but straight up for obvious reasons, it was hard to push all those pennies all the way into her child for she was already six months pregnant and she thought how nice it would be if she could find a 1999 penny in the midnight oil she had been programmed to burn at those times everyday when people need to conduct these business as if it’s taboo to do it and all that she survived on a mountain of faith, immovable, she thought, it was hot, the clock was racing, breaking down, smoking cigarette after cigarette, still, nothing, not a penny left but all inside, together, there were thirty two of them, sparkling and identical as the day they were coined and found by White Phoenix who cared for them as if they were her children or something most precious like new pets, everyday, she washed them in a perfumed well of pure clear spring water, humming lush lullabies and rocking the basin in rhythm, drying them in 15th century finely hand stitched and timely hand painted 100% Moroccan silk handkerchief passed on from generation to generation, new as the day it was made to last forever, she would blush, laughing, kissing and rubbing the pennies with her spirits, a minute each, she would give them the same treatment and refusing to name them so she knew each of them individually and affording each one an equal cup of tenderness, filled to the brim, not by might, not by faith, she knew, there would be thirty three pennies when she pushed all of them out, cringing and gulping when she thought about how the pennies were going to come out of her anus, head or tail, chronologically and logically, she expected, they would still be same as the day they were found, mint and gleaming. A wrath of lightning flashed across the heavens. The baby kicked. Knock! Knock! Knock!
“TIME! TIME!”
“Paul! Tell John I need more time. I’m preparing. It will be midnight. Buy everyone a bottle of gin and a packet of cigarette. Be prepared. When I come out, I shall not wait. Tell them to be vigilant in their stations. Cameras must be rolling. Everything must be in place. Very quickly, I will walk to my station and perform the act as required. Go now.”
“TIME! TIME!”
“PAUL! WAKE UP!”
Paul was standing outside the wagon, a cup of coffee in his hands, shivering in the snow, feet a drumming, ears a humming, it was so cold, he was covered from head to toe in a suit of ram wool with just a slit window for his eyes to look out so he knew where he was going and not trip over things he wasn’t supposed to be tripping over for there were so much things in the set and he loved his job because it’s all imaginary and unreal, the furniture, the houses, the forest, lakes, hair, castles, it’s all temporal, the dialogues, the intercourses, the killings, it’s all show business. When it’s finished, it disappears. No matter how beautiful, it would be destroyed, even Karakorum, even Brussels. Wool, it sounded as
- Re: Red: Black Magic Woman # Zero Point Negro( for maya's birthday)posted on 04/26/2009
上两张意大利酒吧的装饰画,金牛座的xirui祝玛雅MM生日快乐! - Re: Red: Black Magic Woman # Zero Point Negro( for maya's birthday)posted on 06/10/2009
This is really good!
The Old Fox - Re: Red: Black Magic Woman # Zero Point Negro( for maya's birthday)posted on 06/11/2009
hey huli, how are you? Have you published any of your novels? Red is a great poet and writer, he lives in Chiang Mai, Thailand with his family.
You can get his book from amazon.
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(c) 2010 Maya Chilam Foundation