Bess, you is my woman. The fan blades absurdly turn, while winter continues outside, the coffee shop’s nutty air following its orders.
This shop has no internet, I found out too late. But for all intents and purposes, I am alone too.
Bess, is not actually my woman, you know? My woman is gone to work, and I cannot touch her. I cannot feel her hair with my lips, or trace her hips with my hands. Or even ask her if she’d like a tea, or a “mate”.
The though that has me pegged to this bench right now, is: transitions. I spent my life wondering about the exact limits of things. When does waking end and sleep begin? Even in the most violent of deaths, is there and actual divide? I am, with Zeno, obsessed by the eternal loop of divisions. Even in the sudden there must be a place that is not before nor after.
This place, like awaking, where you are neither a dead or an alive cat, holds an important degree of freedom. It is a freedom condemned to remain untapped, because of its fleeting nature, but its potential affects me.
The though behind the though is loneliness, of course. All true thoughts are destined to go there. You cannot share your transitions. Freedom, by its essence is cruelly detached and contains within the requirement of loneliness.
Today Camus’ suicide posit doesn’t seem to be the question. Neither does Hamlet’s choice of states.
The question is, at this point in time, with the air rotating clockwise while the coffee roasts in the back, is there any question we could ask, that will yield a satisfactory answer?
prose
The rainy season is upon us…
The rainy season is upon us, the people under the skies and the pathos of Vancouver Island.
There is really only two seasons around here: the drier, tempered few days we call summer and the unending years that constitute each winter.
The light dampens, the spirit sinks and the plants first get sickened by rot and the die. Next year we, the eternal optimists that keep a garden in this wheather, will plant new ones.
The few that survive, the ones we call peremnials, are like old friends to us. The winter survival we shared, the little green the gave us in the dreary days, we thank them, and try to repay with care.
So, this is what I wrote last week, under the spell of the rain:
I am waiting for death – not mine.
The death of a garden we nurtured all spring and summer.
Autumn is here.
Winter is not death: it is afterlife.
With its dry air and the utter depth of its emptiness,
winter is a macabre heaven.
Autumn is the dirty, wet, muddled process of dying.
Muddy spring is the incessant fucking of two wild creatures in heat.
We are at the metro station, going south towards sterile,
but we will come out at the other end after a while.
Some trains have a circular route,
some don’t.
There’s Something to talk about!
Well, it seems to me right and proper to start at the beginning…. The beginning, of course, is an arbitrary point just like any other… but is also the best way to call the idea of immersing oneself in a story at once – and the beginning was…
… most likely it was when Alice dropped by for a cup of coffee – I’d just leaned that the cute bronze pot with the wooden handle was actually called an Ibrik and this awaken a thereto dormant passion for Turkish Coffee – she dropped by, I was saying, bringing the exciting but hopelessly mistaken news: I was dead
Needless to say, I immediately made sure the opposite was actually true and, stirring the foam in and pulling the IBRIK out of the flame for a brief moment to allow the coffee grinds to settle, I begin to wonder what item from my rather scarce wardrobe would be adequate for the extraordinary circumstances… Alice was ecstatic. The black satin dress she bought when his mother died was still unused, courtesy of his cataleptic mother’s revival. Here at last she’d found the awaited occasion to wear it.
Truth be told, I did not stray too far out of my way to convince her I was alive – or that even in the event of my death, our relationship was not of such depth as to require mourning garments. I knew her well enough to know that nothing could dampen her enthusiasm, so the Ibrik returned to the stove and I started seriously considering about the bonanza of happy secondary effects my timely death should entail.
A tiny step for (a) man …
… an even tinier step for a blogger: I finally uploaded my “Paleontolomía” page. It should have taken me two hours and it ended up taken over 3 months!However, I will fight on and continue the improvements on mi literature site – it’s a promise. In the meantime, I leave you all in good health – or so I hope.