A DISCUSSION OF GABRIEL MARQUEZ'S SHORT STORY A VERY OLD MAN WITH ENORMOUS WINGS
In Marquez's story A Very Old Man with Enormous Wings, many thought the old man in question was perhaps an angel, not just a man with wings, and his appendages, attached to his back, were so inhuman, and so old, that instead of life they reminded one of heaven, of being together with God, but yet he sat there so aloof, tired, beside himself, that one couldn't help but think of falsehood.
And that I couldn't help but think; angels live at the North Pole, the very old man must have lived there, one day, flapping his wings, but couldn't he always bear the mutedness of the distance, how there isn't a way to fly away, and he thinks back to the days when he sat on the ground, dispassionate, old, on the ground fenced in by Pelayo, sick and slowly dying, and the people, they watched him everyday, paying five cents to see him every time, and he was not amused by them.
Because in the coldness of the fall and rain the old man thought he was dying, not of sickness, but of beauty, of the fields and the countryside, many things he sees in it, as he dreamed his thoughts away, duck, rabbit, deer, were far away in the fields, what was close, was the brook, what remains, the hope, yielded and yielded, to places of nowhere, and were the old man any weaker, he would have cared, but being old, he had not cared much.
Because he had flown in that day just to see the family, because he was dying, and he didn't feel sure enough that he would see all of them, together, all ecstatic, because they were young again, and who cares about life but to see someone grow up? But he would be a curmudgeon, he warned himself, and none of them would recognize him. And the family that day was so filled to burst with noise that nobody noticed at first, and the weather was thunder and lightning, and so nothing was heard.
The first person to catch sight of the old man, lying there, was forty-four year old Pelayo, the honest and noble one, as the people know him, Pelayo didn't know whether the old man was a bird, or a drunk, who didn't know his way home, and so he waited for a second, before he could decide. When he decided that it was both a man and a bird, and perhaps an angel, Pelayo withdrew his breath for a second again, and gasped like a young child. The thing did not run away, when it saw him, instead it sat there, and seemed like it would not move again.
Who cares whether it's a bird or an angel, the man Pelayo must have decided, as long as the thing wouldn't move, whether it be real or mystical, Pelayo thought, he would be here to endure the old man as well. As the weather above moved and moved, Pelayo didn't understand what it was to have wings, perhaps the old man would understand better, and of course, he did. Angels and angels, the old man in his place would not say, how hard that was, and would it all fade away, in the end, angels and angels, I am dying, to the fall and the drop of the earth, to the understanding of this man. When it shall let me pass, Death, I shall remember the losses that I accrued, forever I shall remember the wars. And of the children, and the young man. And Pelayo, in his home.
And what of this, the old man wants to say, didn't say, didn't try to say, I am an angel, a being that has two wings, and an aura of light, from heaven, what I say, what I say to them, when I appear, in my heavenly appearance, whether it be I, or them, the all-important ones, or my useless limbs, what does it matter. Am I that tragic, for other things of great importance, am I too ashamed to show them my wings, just hanging there, for the waiting of too many days, am I losing my angelhood, because I hear sounds, am I too lost, because of my age.
I was never going to be there, amongst the depths, this town is unwelcoming for angels, just like any other place, and I, and I, among them, will never come closer, to the things of importance, they made me an angel, to divide among these people, I am losing, losing my distance, and the change they will never make, again.
And then what. What about it, what is here, in relation to far away. What am I looking at, looking for, what is the element I am waiting for. The man comes out of his house, as always, his family, as always, and in my dwindling strength, in the weather, I had to fall, completely, into the courtyard. What is in the yard, the war, the years of striving, I, I, old, laughing almost, but with enough giving, in my body, still, sat there, waited, waited, looked at the family, waited till the crowd arrived, I did not care, whether, I was to lose my life, here in it, at all. Because what is the noise, what is the lone part of it, what is the middle, but some pieces, pieces I don't care about at all. The human was my fall, yet he was, yet he was, a child, in relation to I.
When I look at the man, he did nothing, yet he was close to us, yet he was a bit wise. I did not know how that family suffered, such as they, such as I, but I believed in Pelayo's wife, in the way she made it home.
When I look at the various infinite faces, at their mouths, I couldn't help but think of the past, I am almost blind, but I see their innocence, because on the left is a house, on the right are the plains, and what is in the middle divides the two. The wind couldn't angle it any better. The grass is innocent as well.
I have three teeth in my mouth, still, I am at the world. The second angel, my friend, thought nothing, instead of much, I wouldn't think it for the world to entertain him, him with his thoughts of admonishment, always, or effacation, I would never have paid much attention to this country, if it weren't for some gestures of the wind, they made me come so far, in order to rest on a place of my disassembling, where I can sit, and think of decay.
The rabbit that I see, sometimes, around me, couldn't run any faster, is he the smarter one, or am I just thinking of the heart of the beast, where the unconquerable difference is, and what if tomorrow, in the light of day, I see birds, birds that wouldn't fly away, birds that wouldn't perch, anywhere, for the duration of their strength, they were not all birds, to start off with, perhaps they were earth-bound. I wouldn't think it mattered that they were flyers, all of them, I wouldn't think it flighty, at all.
If we all fall to the ground, like this, if we were all indicted to fall, wordlessly, commonly so we don't suffer, I don't feel anything, I don't care, the world is just a place for pain, we don't remember. And I am not uncommon, like an injured animal itself, I looked at myself like an animal, today, I looked at myself. It was the mirror that didn't speak, I saw my whole self, I was not young. The many things that were my spirit, once, which brought me higher, I have no desire to look at, again. You were once the mayor of your family, your town, I was once shining, untoucheable, no one thought to lessen me, the bird did not fly near. Who is the man that strived to be unexplainable, his corobarry of words, streaming out of him, defeating him…
If to say, if to say, that one man is more explainable than the other, how do I explain myself, across the vast landscape, architecture, how do I know, the silences, how do I talk of, again and again, what I know, what it would take, how I begin to think up the words, the gestures, whoever would listen, as I talk of these people, of myself, again and again the wheel turns in Don Quixote's mind, again and again I attempt words that have no meaning, again and again I lose myself, once, twice, against the darkness, against the rises and falls of the sea…
To no avail.
Meanwhile I have forgotten what it was to feel the rain. As I sat there cold and irreparable, chained up in a chicken coop, in Pelayo's yard, I waited, and waited until everyone knew about me, and our kind. When angels are to be seen, by people, in plain daylight, as if we are not unreal, myths, spirits which are rumors; when we have a buzzard's wings, a remote language, a tumultuous heart, then is it an unreal place, or real amongst the unreal; and is God someone real, and then what about all the people's realities, their striving, their mortality.
I let them know about our ancient souls, what we wanted or do not want, our destiny toward heaven, something of our work, and if they cared, more, or less, we will unroll the pages of their lives.
But they did not want to know, anyhow, but instead hold these ineffable grins, lighting up the sky, possibly, and in turn I did not want to undo their innocence, their wishes upon a world they knew, their constant longing.
Because in this world, such as now, angels such as I appear and disappear, sometimes, and are to be seen, sometimes, as old men, but nobody can speak to us, still, nobody can understand us, perhaps, because of the vastness of our wings. But it was good to still retain some of their hope, their longing, they want somehow to see the flapping of our wings, still, and still I have heard of a place where angels do not exist, where despair and darkness covered the sky, where cries of God return unanswered, and I was broken again and again, there, in the reaches of an obscure land, there was nothing but Death.
And I am listening still, I am listening still to the whirl of the wind, at night, I am waiting, still, I am waiting for my dissolution, in this land where they do not care for me, in this land, in this land, where the real meets the unreal, where I can appear and disappear, live and die.
And do they hear me, do they hear still my silent prayers, my prayers to my God, my prayers to a God who is still looming, and Pelayo, everyday, working on his farm from dawn till dusk, and angels, would live by the North Pole, and the warm sunlight that is between themselves, and I, and my aged eyes.
Warlirosa, the old man rhymed, softly. Walirosa, those that would pass endlessly through the land, before us, before the end, before us, before the end… Walirosa, Walirosa…
(The angel, with tears in his eyes)
-
LIFE AND DEATH: AN UNIVERSAL STORY
We are always trying for life. When death goes on. When we are born, to the bright
lights, what are our questions, who will answer them, and what about tomorrow, life we want to
speak the words but cannot do it. It is impossible, life always seems impossible, with the
mountains placed in front of us, so that we cannot even see the horizon. With our first breath we
take in the entire universe, we want to, looking at it, be the light that we see, the indescribable
first light, its brightness. Our mother and father, how are they, their warmth and comfort is
everything, their words…
The fall of life. It always comes at you, sometimes forever. I couldn’t bear it, anymore,
it is so much. I could die but the sounds of death is forever, the sounds of death is forever… We
can no longer understand their tautness, their large scale of music, any sentences, any echo…
But that is not all. The darkness of life, the complete darkness of life, goes on, for so
long, that one cannot remember its beginning. When we know first of anything noticeable, we
are so surprised, the light is our own discovery, we think, and then we are always interested in it,
and feel as if it is a part of us, the light, intermittent, so brief, the newborn baby thinks, like life
itself, so brief, so unsure, like life itself. And we are the ones who’s young, we thought, and we
are the ones who are beginning. The wind changes, outside, there is no moment when it’s not
blowing, and the flowers are bright. How happy are we all, the child thought to himself, it is as
if we are one.
The clouds are so beautiful, the rocks, the child makes his first move, toward the light,
and then falls asleep…
He hears a story of the first man on earth, how that was fine, anything was fine, and then
he laughed as his parent sang to him, and he thought, and thought, and slept, and slept…
What is the sound of it? Is it tenable? Do we give it everything? He thought. And slept.
The soundless world comforts him as he sleeps. He slept the whole year. As time passed.
At five, the boy, who they named John, was brought to a school, he sat there and
contemplated the lessons, and wrote, and wrote. He wrote about life, and thought about the
world, much, it was indescribable, he thought, and wordless. The boy’s teacher, a stern man,
examined him, many times, watched him closely, thought it was important to teach him, the boy
brightened up at the sight of the teacher, he wanted to answer every question.
John’s father took John to meet other kids of his age, his father wanted him to talk to
them about everything, you must learn from them, John’s father told him, you are an important
kid. John looked at his father, with tears in his eyes, he understands what his father is trying to
tell him, he will follow him, John thinks. At last I will follow my father, he is my father. The
darkness outside chants interminably, John thinks of life and death, and the distance grows
closer.
In the end, John thinks, how will we look at ourselves, the place, its only mirror, the
things that it holds, what about tomorrow. The music he wrote one time was so wonderful, he
played in such beauty, such invisible rhythm, the notes danced in his head when he played, with
no one listening he made the most elegiac music, and it reverberated down the hall…
John waits, listlessly, the things that danced near him went away and away, he could not
find, in that whole hour, the rooms, he could not remember anything that close. When the author
spoke, he spoke as if forever, John listened and saw all of it, and was amazed. He wanted to ask
a question, but kept silent. The author looked at him, he saw something in the boy. The boy
looked at him, and thought of a question, in his mind.
Philesias, the boy said to him, in his mind, how do you know me, how is your song, you
know poetry that no one can speak of, are you this powerful.
Philesias makes a wide gesture and begins to pray, half-way, then the day dimmed and
the sun rested on the horizon. The clouds, moving together, began to gather rain, the day, after
much raining, became cold, Philesias was indivisible, as he played on, his music, in front of the
audience, the boy nodded in approval, again and again.
The boy nodded off to sleep listening to Philesias’ music, he listened as the day faded, he
listened to it as the moon moved, Philesias wrote so much music that was indescribable, that
didn’t fade. His everlasting score moved the audience so much, forever and forever they
dreamed, hoping to go nowhere and somewhere, hoping for another composer. In the music, as
Cerberus howled, all attention was paid to the lady with a bright green dress, her attention is
elsewhere, toward the center of the mausoleum. In the opera that the writer/musician imagines,
there was a story about life and death, the music played on forever, and there was no choice but
to listen. A child of six came up to the crowd, and stood and watched. Timeless was his face,
and he took in everything. A young student began taking notes, he thought of thoughts to put
down, he wrote briefly, and listened carefully.
The crowd wandered, the music rose and fell with force, Philesias played with such
symphony, such such symphony, we didn’t know this music, the audience said, what is this
music, what is this music, was it, was it powerful. The music. Was it supposed to be powerful.
Was it profound. What is this music. Philesias played such music that it drew away the
audience, and it was unexplainable, he turned the air, and the music went on and on…
In a moment of pause, John looks towards the heavens. “The heavens is stormy,” he
says. “Heaven is at war.” Says Philesias.
And then the day ended, the audience filed out into the streets, there were mourners there,
standing on every corner, John walked with Philesias toward the university library, everything
was quiet. John, Philesias said him, “I am the author, I want to make my book last past all
time.” “We all want that,” John replies, “you are dreaming.” “It was a dream,” Philesias says,
self-reflecting, “it was a dream.” “The things you want in a dream,” John says. “The things you
want in a dream.”
John visits another child his age, an old sage the kid claims to be, the boy says to John,
“About Sissyphus, that’s human, I think that’s human.” “Sissyphus is immortal,” I say to him,
“the whole humanity is Sissyphus,” he states, seriously. “Human effort,” the boy argues, “when
explained, is us trying to push our civilization up a hill, like Sissyphus, we always give up near
the top of the hill, and our civilization comes back down to the same place. The same valley. If
we push our civilization (our rock) up to the highest point, then it will automatically roll down to
the next valley, and rest there, our journey is hills and valleys, pushing us up the hill, and resting
in a valley, that’s Sissyphus the historian, that’s the myth.” The boy waves his arms around.
“You’re lying,” John says to him. “No,” the boy replies, “I am telling the truth.” “I am serious.”
“Then it’s the times,” John says.
John walked, seriously, the architecture to his left, the famous architecture, of a person,
as large as a five-story building, as tall as a building, not as large, but also thin, he was the most
famous person in the world, like that, he was liked by everyone. People admire him, as he is a
giant, as he walks. His steps were unnameable, like the wind. People past the statue, and found
nothing, in the immediate distance. In the distance were hazy images, John thought he was
dreaming.
When the day ended, the moon and the night were so far away that even the child
couldn’t see them, he didn’t understand how far away they were. Together they were
inseparable, intertwined. The child couldn’t see them, he was blind, he thought, “yesterday I
saw the giant,” the boy says, “he was enormous. After him, I could not see which to which…”
“And then I met the monster,” his friend replied, from far away. “It was not large. It was
not enormous. I defeated it. The entire thing.”
“Let’s defeat another monster,” John says, “let’s go, let’s go,” his friend replies. “I show
you Hafa.”
In the endless breeze after the battle John found his friend Michael, who was dreaming of
angels. His face shone from his imagination. Michael likes art, he says. Art is both ephemeral
and real, contained and free. Discussing the painter Edgar Degas with John, Michael says, “All
he does is paint teenage dancers again and again and again.” The artist motions to the floor.
John took a deep breath, the world overflowing with nautiluses.
At a get together John met T. S. Eliot and William Shakespeare and Franz Kafka in a
group of four. They were perhaps those people in past lives. Perhaps they were T. S. Eliot and
William Shakespeare and Franz Kafka. They were strange people, good friends, full of ambition
and wisdom.
“Numbers,” T. S. Eliot emphasized, “numbers, numbers, 1222 is the time, 1222 is the
day, when we were lost,” T. S. Eliot says to Jennifer, who had just come into the room, Jennifer
looked back at him. “I am the daughter of Cerra, queen of the Nefu kingdom, I am a prophet,
my daughter is Saya.” “The dance,” Shakespeare suggests. “Tomorrow,” John says. John
looked at her. “I am not innocent, about life,” says Jennifer. Franz is mourning his life
tragically, again, all of a sudden.
A line of women show up next to Jennifer Lee. John looks at them carefully. “Each
woman is a city,” says Shakespeare. “I want to talk about them.” “Zarathustra,” Angela of the
diamonds says, “we like you.” “We like you we like you.” Says Jennifer Lee. “Women, we are
flawed.” Says Jennifer. “Look,” Shakespeare says, “we have this nation. Will you head the
nation.” “We will do it.” Says the women.
John’s mother told him to always be righteous. He listened to her. She told him all
stories about his past. John listened. Voices and voices go on, in a dream, John felt a bit weak,
after listening to his mother. “Son, I am telling you the story of this earth,” John’s mom said. “It
is a disharmonious place.” “It is full of people that are different from each other.”
John remembers something. “I’ll take you to this boy.” Says his mother. Joanna
takes John to a young boy, John watches him when he sees him, I am a kid who plays with
cockroaches, he says to John, “cockroaches are people too, I read from the Bible about
cockroaches, cockroaches are people too, I heard, I have coffee with this cockroach.” John sees
the boy having coffee with a cockroach, the boy with a big chair and a big cup, the cockroach
with a small table and a small cup, just his size, as the cockroach drinks his coffee, it talks to the
child, mildly, “How is the weather?” The cockroach says to the boy, the boy doesn’t answer, but
considers.
John considers the civility of the cockroach, the oldest insect in the land, he listens to the
cockroach talk, the cockroach talks about philosophy, mostly, and he likes to play chess, he says,
sometimes.
“Now Aegeus,” says the cockroach, “how great a genius is he. How much of a hero is
he.” The cockroach says. John takes a sip of his tea. “I don’t like this idea.” John replies. “I
know shark kids who play video games on a tv under water, in the bottom of the ocean.” Says
the boy.
A kid of nine years old steps over the boundary of the door and into the room. His name
is Richard. He looks angry. The room played music. “I am wondering at your stupidity,” John
said to the kid, from across the room. “Are you the evil dictator himself!” The kid looks at him,
and doesn’t reply. “You evil,” John said, “I will conquer you!” John charges at the kid like a
warrior, as if for the last time, the kid didn’t move. “I want to rule the world!” Yells the kid.
The African knight was ordered to defeat Richard at once. He showed up at the dorm
room, with his blade and shield, indomitably shining. However, when he reached there, John
was already dying. The African knight picked John up, it looked hopeless. The only thing
keeping John from dying was a man named Gail. Gail was mysterious. He knew nothing, John
thought. Gail healed John and John woke up, after an hour of wavering between life and death.
Gail was a mysterious figure. Perhaps a genius of science. When John was healed, Gail left.
John ignores his bad health and meets the people of the world, to talk to them. He
wanted to meet the people for some specific reason. The people are the majority, he thought to
himself. We must keep to them. Forever he thought about how to talk to them, to understand
them.
“How are the people,” John talks to the people. The smartest of the people answer. “I
cannot answer you. Are you boasting. Are you pompous.” “We don’t want to talk to you.”
Says the people. “Why not.” Stutters John. “What about our humanity.” They say.
John pauses, startled. They pause.
“We are so despairing over our obscurity,” the people say. “There is a man amongst us
so genius that we all look toward,” says the people. “That man.” Somebody says. “You’re not
really sure how great a genius he is. You’re not really sure if he is Beethoven himself. You’re
not really sure if he is Shakespeare himself. You’re not really sure he is Franz Kafka himself.
You’re not really sure if he is the saint himself.” “That is human poverty,” says John. “We
don’t know.” Says the people. “What time is it,” says the people. “What time is it.” “Hey
people what time is it.” “Hey people what time is it.” The people all said. “Hey what time is
it.” John thinks to himself. He could not answer. “What time is it.” John considers. “What
time is it.” The people said nothing but sail still. John sat there and thought of the times. “What
time is it.” “What time is it.” “WHAT TIME IS IT.” The pounding of time pounded on and on.
When it was time to let go, John let it go, with his father, he went on and began to love a
girl his age, her name is Lily.
Lily is like the sea, thinks John, and goes on. Indivisible and boundless strings of the sea.
I would know her forever. And forever.
“Life is short,” John says, “we want to take all that is out of life,” “Why is life like this?”
John asks his father.
John sat in class and read poetry in his literature book, while the teacher taught. A girl
next to him smiled to herself. She must be dreaming, John thought to himself, of flowers or
something.
“I want to be nice,” says Sid. “I hate this. I hate this!” “I found a Great Wonder of the
World,” he said to me, “I imagined it. It is a new one. The Eighth Wonder of the World, a new
one.” “That is endless,” I say to him. “I know, it is endless.” “Can we ever make something so
promising,” I ask him. “It’s a future,” he says to me. “In the future we will have darkness that
turns into day. Things that will go on. And… And…” he chanted, jumping up and down. I felt
a humanity for him then that will never fade, his genius for wonder, his great imagination. He is
capable of nothing but the opposite of fear, I want to be good, he keeps thinking.
John started to cry after that, he cried for the boy. What is suffering, he cries to himself,
what is suffering. Then he fainted.
When a pale whale rose out of the sea, it spun in the air forever, and spun, John watched
him as he rose in beauty, and his dark gray whale’s back splattered against the sea. John saw
him and admired him, and liked whales in general, for him, for how he may rise against the sea,
and his eternity. Whales are never this large, are they, thinks the boy, they can never rise
against the sea. “Are whales forever,” says the boy. The whale don’t reply. How large are you,
does your story ever end.” The whale still doesn’t reply. How large are your eyes, are they
everything. When I look at the edge of the stars, is it still bright.
I am not large. The whale echoes. I sleep. All day. In the water. The water sleeps so
well. Indecisively. I go back and forth. And there is no rain. Only the ocean. And not so cold.
There is no weather. But a blue. I swim back and forth. I swim back and forth forever. Forever
is so old, I thought. It’s unthinkable. When I look at all the fishes in the ocean, (I am the wisest
whale ever) what do I see, in this life? Is it only water? That is absolutely nothing, says John.
There is nothing, without my world. There is nothing, without my world. There is poetry, says
John. The whale remains silent. When I go back and forth in the water, in the ocean, there is
nothing there, there are leaves, there are fragile leaves, floating in the water, and I was there,
communing with it, it was so gentle…
“1222 is the time, when we were lost,” John says to Gwen. “The whole civilization was
lost, its every incept, every precept, every concept, the whole universe.” “We were lost?” Gwen
asked. “Yeah. I thought of it today.” “That long ago?” “Yeah. All the time.” “Those evil.”
“They are unconquerable.” “We are broken. Forever.” “Yes.” Passionately Gwen says. “Yes
John. Yes.” “I knew. I kinda knew.” “You want this forever?” “No I don’t. I don’t know. I
know. Yes.” “You are not cynical. Not yet.” “I. I am.” John pauses his breath for the first
time. “My life was so gentle. Back then. I secretly like things gentle.” “We used to be decent.
We used to be poor but decent!” “That’s our fall,” says Gwen. “Our fall.” “Our fall from
what?” “We don’t know! We are stupid!”
And then the music went on. And there were twelve oranges by John’s father’s backyard
garden. One of them fell from the tree in winter. The music ignored everything about humanity
and went on. It went on and on. The people of music went on and on. Each constellation is like
the Orion constellation. When one fell…
Arthur and John looked at the sky. All the stars were living and dying. Arthur saw a
river somewhere in the sky, still flowing. A river of star paths, a river in the sky. The river was
unreachable, even while traveling by light and year. Even if by light. Even if by light. Even if
one falls. Down to the earth. Even as that.
I play the tenuous strings of my heart, the great poet says, and it was forever, even if it is
not by me, not by us, not broken, or invincible. I bring the love of my life a flower, and then we
married.
What is cloudy man? Arthur asks. As time went on we didn’t even remember our own
beginning. What is cloudy man? John thought of that as well. One of them is Lance, says
Arthur, I believe.
John then saw a line of words in the night sky, passing him by, and then followed by a
meteor, that spun in the air and the air, nothing followed it except a thin wisp of sky, and a
millennium of nothingness.
“Space is nothing, John thinks, other people on other planets must be nothing. We are
ancient, indivisible, invisible,” says Arthur, “we cannot even remember when our planet began,
other unspoken planets,” “The pain that drives us, we cannot march against, or do anything,
against our history, our past.”
“Or anything,” Arthur chirps, sarcastically, “or anything. What do we know of the rain.
What do we know of this life.”
“Our lost.” “Our lost.” “Is it humanity. Our lost… Humanity??”
Mary found Jesus again. John is lost for words. Arthur is lost for words. The
Neanderthal giant showed up, looking at Jesus. The wise apes showed up, looking at him.
“Jesus,” chants the chorus. “Jesus, Jesus, Jesus,” babies chanted. “You are here.”
Aladdin puzzles on Jesus’s arrival. “What is he doing here?” Jafar plots another look at
Jesus. Princess Calloway wouldn’t say a thing, after looking at him. She wonders about the
waves of the wind, the ocean in its magnificence and mystery, what things are mysterious, what
things aren’t mysterious, the pope enters the picture, looks at princess Calloway, the dalai llama
is nowhere to be found. The Chinese Monkey flies by and takes a look at Jesus, “Wa toa wa
toa,” he says. He bounces against the land and flips upward toward heaven.
Ephemeral giants came to talk to John, with Jesus still a newborn. They want to talk
about a new being arriving in the world. They had a conversation with an unicloptic titan, on
site, about how Jesus’s future will be like. Sigmund Freud took notes and didn’t want to talk
about how these times are tough, tough for anyone, he analyzed Jesus’s first words to be
dialectically opposed.
Liz came into the city and took John away. Under her breath, she whispered to John, this
place is too dangerous for you, let’s go somewhere we are not recognized. Jesus should take
front and center. Against all devices. Did you find him? No, I was at hand, says John, I want
him to be the follow and wisp of the wind.
John goes away, and follows Liz, they left Jesus, John’s father came, and took them in.
John played and studied, played and studied, and a year passed.
One day, as he was reading a poem, John’s father comes in and looks at him. “I’ll take
you to two people,” his father says to him. John visits a man, a mute brown man, a middle-aged
adult with brown skin, he was taller than most, John looks at him, startled and completely
amazed. The middle-aged man with brown skin. “Is he like me?” Says John. “Is he like me?”
He exclaims. There was a pause in John’s thoughts after that. After that, John’s father takes him
to meet a seventy year old brown old man, who is dying of old age. “His father!” John cries,
“his father!” John cried. Both men liked John, both, John thought, were severely traumatized.
The old man was such a figure, John thought, that, that, he could even meet the land and
the ocean, I was dying, John thought, dying of life and death and the world… The old man
conveyed something to John, and he thought, and he thought, he fell and was baptized by the
world, by its fire…
Silence for an entire year, for John. And he thought of Jesus and the pigs.
In a winter’s day, on some random day, the boy woke up and saw a swallow outside his
window. He felt better again, and he looked out his window, and breathed in relief.
Whenever there was comedy, the boy thought, he would laugh forever, he would… He
would…
A year later the John disappeared. No one could find him. They looked everywhere and
it is rumored that he left for another land. In his place is a wreath of flowers, his parents, and his
friends and his woman talking about him, for a while, and he was remembered, sometimes,
amongst a few moments in a beautiful woman’s mind, remembered for his laughter, for his care
and goodness, and for him talking about life and death…
In Marquez's story A Very Old Man with Enormous Wings, many thought the old man in question was perhaps an angel, not just a man with wings, and his appendages, attached to his back, were so inhuman, and so old, that instead of life they reminded one of heaven, of being together with God, but yet he sat there so aloof, tired, beside himself, that one couldn't help but think of falsehood.
And that I couldn't help but think; angels live at the North Pole, the very old man must have lived there, one day, flapping his wings, but couldn't he always bear the mutedness of the distance, how there isn't a way to fly away, and he thinks back to the days when he sat on the ground, dispassionate, old, on the ground fenced in by Pelayo, sick and slowly dying, and the people, they watched him everyday, paying five cents to see him every time, and he was not amused by them.
Because in the coldness of the fall and rain the old man thought he was dying, not of sickness, but of beauty, of the fields and the countryside, many things he sees in it, as he dreamed his thoughts away, duck, rabbit, deer, were far away in the fields, what was close, was the brook, what remains, the hope, yielded and yielded, to places of nowhere, and were the old man any weaker, he would have cared, but being old, he had not cared much.
Because he had flown in that day just to see the family, because he was dying, and he didn't feel sure enough that he would see all of them, together, all ecstatic, because they were young again, and who cares about life but to see someone grow up? But he would be a curmudgeon, he warned himself, and none of them would recognize him. And the family that day was so filled to burst with noise that nobody noticed at first, and the weather was thunder and lightning, and so nothing was heard.
The first person to catch sight of the old man, lying there, was forty-four year old Pelayo, the honest and noble one, as the people know him, Pelayo didn't know whether the old man was a bird, or a drunk, who didn't know his way home, and so he waited for a second, before he could decide. When he decided that it was both a man and a bird, and perhaps an angel, Pelayo withdrew his breath for a second again, and gasped like a young child. The thing did not run away, when it saw him, instead it sat there, and seemed like it would not move again.
Who cares whether it's a bird or an angel, the man Pelayo must have decided, as long as the thing wouldn't move, whether it be real or mystical, Pelayo thought, he would be here to endure the old man as well. As the weather above moved and moved, Pelayo didn't understand what it was to have wings, perhaps the old man would understand better, and of course, he did. Angels and angels, the old man in his place would not say, how hard that was, and would it all fade away, in the end, angels and angels, I am dying, to the fall and the drop of the earth, to the understanding of this man. When it shall let me pass, Death, I shall remember the losses that I accrued, forever I shall remember the wars. And of the children, and the young man. And Pelayo, in his home.
And what of this, the old man wants to say, didn't say, didn't try to say, I am an angel, a being that has two wings, and an aura of light, from heaven, what I say, what I say to them, when I appear, in my heavenly appearance, whether it be I, or them, the all-important ones, or my useless limbs, what does it matter. Am I that tragic, for other things of great importance, am I too ashamed to show them my wings, just hanging there, for the waiting of too many days, am I losing my angelhood, because I hear sounds, am I too lost, because of my age.
I was never going to be there, amongst the depths, this town is unwelcoming for angels, just like any other place, and I, and I, among them, will never come closer, to the things of importance, they made me an angel, to divide among these people, I am losing, losing my distance, and the change they will never make, again.
And then what. What about it, what is here, in relation to far away. What am I looking at, looking for, what is the element I am waiting for. The man comes out of his house, as always, his family, as always, and in my dwindling strength, in the weather, I had to fall, completely, into the courtyard. What is in the yard, the war, the years of striving, I, I, old, laughing almost, but with enough giving, in my body, still, sat there, waited, waited, looked at the family, waited till the crowd arrived, I did not care, whether, I was to lose my life, here in it, at all. Because what is the noise, what is the lone part of it, what is the middle, but some pieces, pieces I don't care about at all. The human was my fall, yet he was, yet he was, a child, in relation to I.
When I look at the man, he did nothing, yet he was close to us, yet he was a bit wise. I did not know how that family suffered, such as they, such as I, but I believed in Pelayo's wife, in the way she made it home.
When I look at the various infinite faces, at their mouths, I couldn't help but think of the past, I am almost blind, but I see their innocence, because on the left is a house, on the right are the plains, and what is in the middle divides the two. The wind couldn't angle it any better. The grass is innocent as well.
I have three teeth in my mouth, still, I am at the world. The second angel, my friend, thought nothing, instead of much, I wouldn't think it for the world to entertain him, him with his thoughts of admonishment, always, or effacation, I would never have paid much attention to this country, if it weren't for some gestures of the wind, they made me come so far, in order to rest on a place of my disassembling, where I can sit, and think of decay.
The rabbit that I see, sometimes, around me, couldn't run any faster, is he the smarter one, or am I just thinking of the heart of the beast, where the unconquerable difference is, and what if tomorrow, in the light of day, I see birds, birds that wouldn't fly away, birds that wouldn't perch, anywhere, for the duration of their strength, they were not all birds, to start off with, perhaps they were earth-bound. I wouldn't think it mattered that they were flyers, all of them, I wouldn't think it flighty, at all.
If we all fall to the ground, like this, if we were all indicted to fall, wordlessly, commonly so we don't suffer, I don't feel anything, I don't care, the world is just a place for pain, we don't remember. And I am not uncommon, like an injured animal itself, I looked at myself like an animal, today, I looked at myself. It was the mirror that didn't speak, I saw my whole self, I was not young. The many things that were my spirit, once, which brought me higher, I have no desire to look at, again. You were once the mayor of your family, your town, I was once shining, untoucheable, no one thought to lessen me, the bird did not fly near. Who is the man that strived to be unexplainable, his corobarry of words, streaming out of him, defeating him…
If to say, if to say, that one man is more explainable than the other, how do I explain myself, across the vast landscape, architecture, how do I know, the silences, how do I talk of, again and again, what I know, what it would take, how I begin to think up the words, the gestures, whoever would listen, as I talk of these people, of myself, again and again the wheel turns in Don Quixote's mind, again and again I attempt words that have no meaning, again and again I lose myself, once, twice, against the darkness, against the rises and falls of the sea…
To no avail.
Meanwhile I have forgotten what it was to feel the rain. As I sat there cold and irreparable, chained up in a chicken coop, in Pelayo's yard, I waited, and waited until everyone knew about me, and our kind. When angels are to be seen, by people, in plain daylight, as if we are not unreal, myths, spirits which are rumors; when we have a buzzard's wings, a remote language, a tumultuous heart, then is it an unreal place, or real amongst the unreal; and is God someone real, and then what about all the people's realities, their striving, their mortality.
I let them know about our ancient souls, what we wanted or do not want, our destiny toward heaven, something of our work, and if they cared, more, or less, we will unroll the pages of their lives.
But they did not want to know, anyhow, but instead hold these ineffable grins, lighting up the sky, possibly, and in turn I did not want to undo their innocence, their wishes upon a world they knew, their constant longing.
Because in this world, such as now, angels such as I appear and disappear, sometimes, and are to be seen, sometimes, as old men, but nobody can speak to us, still, nobody can understand us, perhaps, because of the vastness of our wings. But it was good to still retain some of their hope, their longing, they want somehow to see the flapping of our wings, still, and still I have heard of a place where angels do not exist, where despair and darkness covered the sky, where cries of God return unanswered, and I was broken again and again, there, in the reaches of an obscure land, there was nothing but Death.
And I am listening still, I am listening still to the whirl of the wind, at night, I am waiting, still, I am waiting for my dissolution, in this land where they do not care for me, in this land, in this land, where the real meets the unreal, where I can appear and disappear, live and die.
And do they hear me, do they hear still my silent prayers, my prayers to my God, my prayers to a God who is still looming, and Pelayo, everyday, working on his farm from dawn till dusk, and angels, would live by the North Pole, and the warm sunlight that is between themselves, and I, and my aged eyes.
Warlirosa, the old man rhymed, softly. Walirosa, those that would pass endlessly through the land, before us, before the end, before us, before the end… Walirosa, Walirosa…
(The angel, with tears in his eyes)
-
LIFE AND DEATH: AN UNIVERSAL STORY
We are always trying for life. When death goes on. When we are born, to the bright
lights, what are our questions, who will answer them, and what about tomorrow, life we want to
speak the words but cannot do it. It is impossible, life always seems impossible, with the
mountains placed in front of us, so that we cannot even see the horizon. With our first breath we
take in the entire universe, we want to, looking at it, be the light that we see, the indescribable
first light, its brightness. Our mother and father, how are they, their warmth and comfort is
everything, their words…
The fall of life. It always comes at you, sometimes forever. I couldn’t bear it, anymore,
it is so much. I could die but the sounds of death is forever, the sounds of death is forever… We
can no longer understand their tautness, their large scale of music, any sentences, any echo…
But that is not all. The darkness of life, the complete darkness of life, goes on, for so
long, that one cannot remember its beginning. When we know first of anything noticeable, we
are so surprised, the light is our own discovery, we think, and then we are always interested in it,
and feel as if it is a part of us, the light, intermittent, so brief, the newborn baby thinks, like life
itself, so brief, so unsure, like life itself. And we are the ones who’s young, we thought, and we
are the ones who are beginning. The wind changes, outside, there is no moment when it’s not
blowing, and the flowers are bright. How happy are we all, the child thought to himself, it is as
if we are one.
The clouds are so beautiful, the rocks, the child makes his first move, toward the light,
and then falls asleep…
He hears a story of the first man on earth, how that was fine, anything was fine, and then
he laughed as his parent sang to him, and he thought, and thought, and slept, and slept…
What is the sound of it? Is it tenable? Do we give it everything? He thought. And slept.
The soundless world comforts him as he sleeps. He slept the whole year. As time passed.
At five, the boy, who they named John, was brought to a school, he sat there and
contemplated the lessons, and wrote, and wrote. He wrote about life, and thought about the
world, much, it was indescribable, he thought, and wordless. The boy’s teacher, a stern man,
examined him, many times, watched him closely, thought it was important to teach him, the boy
brightened up at the sight of the teacher, he wanted to answer every question.
John’s father took John to meet other kids of his age, his father wanted him to talk to
them about everything, you must learn from them, John’s father told him, you are an important
kid. John looked at his father, with tears in his eyes, he understands what his father is trying to
tell him, he will follow him, John thinks. At last I will follow my father, he is my father. The
darkness outside chants interminably, John thinks of life and death, and the distance grows
closer.
In the end, John thinks, how will we look at ourselves, the place, its only mirror, the
things that it holds, what about tomorrow. The music he wrote one time was so wonderful, he
played in such beauty, such invisible rhythm, the notes danced in his head when he played, with
no one listening he made the most elegiac music, and it reverberated down the hall…
John waits, listlessly, the things that danced near him went away and away, he could not
find, in that whole hour, the rooms, he could not remember anything that close. When the author
spoke, he spoke as if forever, John listened and saw all of it, and was amazed. He wanted to ask
a question, but kept silent. The author looked at him, he saw something in the boy. The boy
looked at him, and thought of a question, in his mind.
Philesias, the boy said to him, in his mind, how do you know me, how is your song, you
know poetry that no one can speak of, are you this powerful.
Philesias makes a wide gesture and begins to pray, half-way, then the day dimmed and
the sun rested on the horizon. The clouds, moving together, began to gather rain, the day, after
much raining, became cold, Philesias was indivisible, as he played on, his music, in front of the
audience, the boy nodded in approval, again and again.
The boy nodded off to sleep listening to Philesias’ music, he listened as the day faded, he
listened to it as the moon moved, Philesias wrote so much music that was indescribable, that
didn’t fade. His everlasting score moved the audience so much, forever and forever they
dreamed, hoping to go nowhere and somewhere, hoping for another composer. In the music, as
Cerberus howled, all attention was paid to the lady with a bright green dress, her attention is
elsewhere, toward the center of the mausoleum. In the opera that the writer/musician imagines,
there was a story about life and death, the music played on forever, and there was no choice but
to listen. A child of six came up to the crowd, and stood and watched. Timeless was his face,
and he took in everything. A young student began taking notes, he thought of thoughts to put
down, he wrote briefly, and listened carefully.
The crowd wandered, the music rose and fell with force, Philesias played with such
symphony, such such symphony, we didn’t know this music, the audience said, what is this
music, what is this music, was it, was it powerful. The music. Was it supposed to be powerful.
Was it profound. What is this music. Philesias played such music that it drew away the
audience, and it was unexplainable, he turned the air, and the music went on and on…
In a moment of pause, John looks towards the heavens. “The heavens is stormy,” he
says. “Heaven is at war.” Says Philesias.
And then the day ended, the audience filed out into the streets, there were mourners there,
standing on every corner, John walked with Philesias toward the university library, everything
was quiet. John, Philesias said him, “I am the author, I want to make my book last past all
time.” “We all want that,” John replies, “you are dreaming.” “It was a dream,” Philesias says,
self-reflecting, “it was a dream.” “The things you want in a dream,” John says. “The things you
want in a dream.”
John visits another child his age, an old sage the kid claims to be, the boy says to John,
“About Sissyphus, that’s human, I think that’s human.” “Sissyphus is immortal,” I say to him,
“the whole humanity is Sissyphus,” he states, seriously. “Human effort,” the boy argues, “when
explained, is us trying to push our civilization up a hill, like Sissyphus, we always give up near
the top of the hill, and our civilization comes back down to the same place. The same valley. If
we push our civilization (our rock) up to the highest point, then it will automatically roll down to
the next valley, and rest there, our journey is hills and valleys, pushing us up the hill, and resting
in a valley, that’s Sissyphus the historian, that’s the myth.” The boy waves his arms around.
“You’re lying,” John says to him. “No,” the boy replies, “I am telling the truth.” “I am serious.”
“Then it’s the times,” John says.
John walked, seriously, the architecture to his left, the famous architecture, of a person,
as large as a five-story building, as tall as a building, not as large, but also thin, he was the most
famous person in the world, like that, he was liked by everyone. People admire him, as he is a
giant, as he walks. His steps were unnameable, like the wind. People past the statue, and found
nothing, in the immediate distance. In the distance were hazy images, John thought he was
dreaming.
When the day ended, the moon and the night were so far away that even the child
couldn’t see them, he didn’t understand how far away they were. Together they were
inseparable, intertwined. The child couldn’t see them, he was blind, he thought, “yesterday I
saw the giant,” the boy says, “he was enormous. After him, I could not see which to which…”
“And then I met the monster,” his friend replied, from far away. “It was not large. It was
not enormous. I defeated it. The entire thing.”
“Let’s defeat another monster,” John says, “let’s go, let’s go,” his friend replies. “I show
you Hafa.”
In the endless breeze after the battle John found his friend Michael, who was dreaming of
angels. His face shone from his imagination. Michael likes art, he says. Art is both ephemeral
and real, contained and free. Discussing the painter Edgar Degas with John, Michael says, “All
he does is paint teenage dancers again and again and again.” The artist motions to the floor.
John took a deep breath, the world overflowing with nautiluses.
At a get together John met T. S. Eliot and William Shakespeare and Franz Kafka in a
group of four. They were perhaps those people in past lives. Perhaps they were T. S. Eliot and
William Shakespeare and Franz Kafka. They were strange people, good friends, full of ambition
and wisdom.
“Numbers,” T. S. Eliot emphasized, “numbers, numbers, 1222 is the time, 1222 is the
day, when we were lost,” T. S. Eliot says to Jennifer, who had just come into the room, Jennifer
looked back at him. “I am the daughter of Cerra, queen of the Nefu kingdom, I am a prophet,
my daughter is Saya.” “The dance,” Shakespeare suggests. “Tomorrow,” John says. John
looked at her. “I am not innocent, about life,” says Jennifer. Franz is mourning his life
tragically, again, all of a sudden.
A line of women show up next to Jennifer Lee. John looks at them carefully. “Each
woman is a city,” says Shakespeare. “I want to talk about them.” “Zarathustra,” Angela of the
diamonds says, “we like you.” “We like you we like you.” Says Jennifer Lee. “Women, we are
flawed.” Says Jennifer. “Look,” Shakespeare says, “we have this nation. Will you head the
nation.” “We will do it.” Says the women.
John’s mother told him to always be righteous. He listened to her. She told him all
stories about his past. John listened. Voices and voices go on, in a dream, John felt a bit weak,
after listening to his mother. “Son, I am telling you the story of this earth,” John’s mom said. “It
is a disharmonious place.” “It is full of people that are different from each other.”
John remembers something. “I’ll take you to this boy.” Says his mother. Joanna
takes John to a young boy, John watches him when he sees him, I am a kid who plays with
cockroaches, he says to John, “cockroaches are people too, I read from the Bible about
cockroaches, cockroaches are people too, I heard, I have coffee with this cockroach.” John sees
the boy having coffee with a cockroach, the boy with a big chair and a big cup, the cockroach
with a small table and a small cup, just his size, as the cockroach drinks his coffee, it talks to the
child, mildly, “How is the weather?” The cockroach says to the boy, the boy doesn’t answer, but
considers.
John considers the civility of the cockroach, the oldest insect in the land, he listens to the
cockroach talk, the cockroach talks about philosophy, mostly, and he likes to play chess, he says,
sometimes.
“Now Aegeus,” says the cockroach, “how great a genius is he. How much of a hero is
he.” The cockroach says. John takes a sip of his tea. “I don’t like this idea.” John replies. “I
know shark kids who play video games on a tv under water, in the bottom of the ocean.” Says
the boy.
A kid of nine years old steps over the boundary of the door and into the room. His name
is Richard. He looks angry. The room played music. “I am wondering at your stupidity,” John
said to the kid, from across the room. “Are you the evil dictator himself!” The kid looks at him,
and doesn’t reply. “You evil,” John said, “I will conquer you!” John charges at the kid like a
warrior, as if for the last time, the kid didn’t move. “I want to rule the world!” Yells the kid.
The African knight was ordered to defeat Richard at once. He showed up at the dorm
room, with his blade and shield, indomitably shining. However, when he reached there, John
was already dying. The African knight picked John up, it looked hopeless. The only thing
keeping John from dying was a man named Gail. Gail was mysterious. He knew nothing, John
thought. Gail healed John and John woke up, after an hour of wavering between life and death.
Gail was a mysterious figure. Perhaps a genius of science. When John was healed, Gail left.
John ignores his bad health and meets the people of the world, to talk to them. He
wanted to meet the people for some specific reason. The people are the majority, he thought to
himself. We must keep to them. Forever he thought about how to talk to them, to understand
them.
“How are the people,” John talks to the people. The smartest of the people answer. “I
cannot answer you. Are you boasting. Are you pompous.” “We don’t want to talk to you.”
Says the people. “Why not.” Stutters John. “What about our humanity.” They say.
John pauses, startled. They pause.
“We are so despairing over our obscurity,” the people say. “There is a man amongst us
so genius that we all look toward,” says the people. “That man.” Somebody says. “You’re not
really sure how great a genius he is. You’re not really sure if he is Beethoven himself. You’re
not really sure if he is Shakespeare himself. You’re not really sure he is Franz Kafka himself.
You’re not really sure if he is the saint himself.” “That is human poverty,” says John. “We
don’t know.” Says the people. “What time is it,” says the people. “What time is it.” “Hey
people what time is it.” “Hey people what time is it.” The people all said. “Hey what time is
it.” John thinks to himself. He could not answer. “What time is it.” John considers. “What
time is it.” The people said nothing but sail still. John sat there and thought of the times. “What
time is it.” “What time is it.” “WHAT TIME IS IT.” The pounding of time pounded on and on.
When it was time to let go, John let it go, with his father, he went on and began to love a
girl his age, her name is Lily.
Lily is like the sea, thinks John, and goes on. Indivisible and boundless strings of the sea.
I would know her forever. And forever.
“Life is short,” John says, “we want to take all that is out of life,” “Why is life like this?”
John asks his father.
John sat in class and read poetry in his literature book, while the teacher taught. A girl
next to him smiled to herself. She must be dreaming, John thought to himself, of flowers or
something.
“I want to be nice,” says Sid. “I hate this. I hate this!” “I found a Great Wonder of the
World,” he said to me, “I imagined it. It is a new one. The Eighth Wonder of the World, a new
one.” “That is endless,” I say to him. “I know, it is endless.” “Can we ever make something so
promising,” I ask him. “It’s a future,” he says to me. “In the future we will have darkness that
turns into day. Things that will go on. And… And…” he chanted, jumping up and down. I felt
a humanity for him then that will never fade, his genius for wonder, his great imagination. He is
capable of nothing but the opposite of fear, I want to be good, he keeps thinking.
John started to cry after that, he cried for the boy. What is suffering, he cries to himself,
what is suffering. Then he fainted.
When a pale whale rose out of the sea, it spun in the air forever, and spun, John watched
him as he rose in beauty, and his dark gray whale’s back splattered against the sea. John saw
him and admired him, and liked whales in general, for him, for how he may rise against the sea,
and his eternity. Whales are never this large, are they, thinks the boy, they can never rise
against the sea. “Are whales forever,” says the boy. The whale don’t reply. How large are you,
does your story ever end.” The whale still doesn’t reply. How large are your eyes, are they
everything. When I look at the edge of the stars, is it still bright.
I am not large. The whale echoes. I sleep. All day. In the water. The water sleeps so
well. Indecisively. I go back and forth. And there is no rain. Only the ocean. And not so cold.
There is no weather. But a blue. I swim back and forth. I swim back and forth forever. Forever
is so old, I thought. It’s unthinkable. When I look at all the fishes in the ocean, (I am the wisest
whale ever) what do I see, in this life? Is it only water? That is absolutely nothing, says John.
There is nothing, without my world. There is nothing, without my world. There is poetry, says
John. The whale remains silent. When I go back and forth in the water, in the ocean, there is
nothing there, there are leaves, there are fragile leaves, floating in the water, and I was there,
communing with it, it was so gentle…
“1222 is the time, when we were lost,” John says to Gwen. “The whole civilization was
lost, its every incept, every precept, every concept, the whole universe.” “We were lost?” Gwen
asked. “Yeah. I thought of it today.” “That long ago?” “Yeah. All the time.” “Those evil.”
“They are unconquerable.” “We are broken. Forever.” “Yes.” Passionately Gwen says. “Yes
John. Yes.” “I knew. I kinda knew.” “You want this forever?” “No I don’t. I don’t know. I
know. Yes.” “You are not cynical. Not yet.” “I. I am.” John pauses his breath for the first
time. “My life was so gentle. Back then. I secretly like things gentle.” “We used to be decent.
We used to be poor but decent!” “That’s our fall,” says Gwen. “Our fall.” “Our fall from
what?” “We don’t know! We are stupid!”
And then the music went on. And there were twelve oranges by John’s father’s backyard
garden. One of them fell from the tree in winter. The music ignored everything about humanity
and went on. It went on and on. The people of music went on and on. Each constellation is like
the Orion constellation. When one fell…
Arthur and John looked at the sky. All the stars were living and dying. Arthur saw a
river somewhere in the sky, still flowing. A river of star paths, a river in the sky. The river was
unreachable, even while traveling by light and year. Even if by light. Even if by light. Even if
one falls. Down to the earth. Even as that.
I play the tenuous strings of my heart, the great poet says, and it was forever, even if it is
not by me, not by us, not broken, or invincible. I bring the love of my life a flower, and then we
married.
What is cloudy man? Arthur asks. As time went on we didn’t even remember our own
beginning. What is cloudy man? John thought of that as well. One of them is Lance, says
Arthur, I believe.
John then saw a line of words in the night sky, passing him by, and then followed by a
meteor, that spun in the air and the air, nothing followed it except a thin wisp of sky, and a
millennium of nothingness.
“Space is nothing, John thinks, other people on other planets must be nothing. We are
ancient, indivisible, invisible,” says Arthur, “we cannot even remember when our planet began,
other unspoken planets,” “The pain that drives us, we cannot march against, or do anything,
against our history, our past.”
“Or anything,” Arthur chirps, sarcastically, “or anything. What do we know of the rain.
What do we know of this life.”
“Our lost.” “Our lost.” “Is it humanity. Our lost… Humanity??”
Mary found Jesus again. John is lost for words. Arthur is lost for words. The
Neanderthal giant showed up, looking at Jesus. The wise apes showed up, looking at him.
“Jesus,” chants the chorus. “Jesus, Jesus, Jesus,” babies chanted. “You are here.”
Aladdin puzzles on Jesus’s arrival. “What is he doing here?” Jafar plots another look at
Jesus. Princess Calloway wouldn’t say a thing, after looking at him. She wonders about the
waves of the wind, the ocean in its magnificence and mystery, what things are mysterious, what
things aren’t mysterious, the pope enters the picture, looks at princess Calloway, the dalai llama
is nowhere to be found. The Chinese Monkey flies by and takes a look at Jesus, “Wa toa wa
toa,” he says. He bounces against the land and flips upward toward heaven.
Ephemeral giants came to talk to John, with Jesus still a newborn. They want to talk
about a new being arriving in the world. They had a conversation with an unicloptic titan, on
site, about how Jesus’s future will be like. Sigmund Freud took notes and didn’t want to talk
about how these times are tough, tough for anyone, he analyzed Jesus’s first words to be
dialectically opposed.
Liz came into the city and took John away. Under her breath, she whispered to John, this
place is too dangerous for you, let’s go somewhere we are not recognized. Jesus should take
front and center. Against all devices. Did you find him? No, I was at hand, says John, I want
him to be the follow and wisp of the wind.
John goes away, and follows Liz, they left Jesus, John’s father came, and took them in.
John played and studied, played and studied, and a year passed.
One day, as he was reading a poem, John’s father comes in and looks at him. “I’ll take
you to two people,” his father says to him. John visits a man, a mute brown man, a middle-aged
adult with brown skin, he was taller than most, John looks at him, startled and completely
amazed. The middle-aged man with brown skin. “Is he like me?” Says John. “Is he like me?”
He exclaims. There was a pause in John’s thoughts after that. After that, John’s father takes him
to meet a seventy year old brown old man, who is dying of old age. “His father!” John cries,
“his father!” John cried. Both men liked John, both, John thought, were severely traumatized.
The old man was such a figure, John thought, that, that, he could even meet the land and
the ocean, I was dying, John thought, dying of life and death and the world… The old man
conveyed something to John, and he thought, and he thought, he fell and was baptized by the
world, by its fire…
Silence for an entire year, for John. And he thought of Jesus and the pigs.
In a winter’s day, on some random day, the boy woke up and saw a swallow outside his
window. He felt better again, and he looked out his window, and breathed in relief.
Whenever there was comedy, the boy thought, he would laugh forever, he would… He
would…
A year later the John disappeared. No one could find him. They looked everywhere and
it is rumored that he left for another land. In his place is a wreath of flowers, his parents, and his
friends and his woman talking about him, for a while, and he was remembered, sometimes,
amongst a few moments in a beautiful woman’s mind, remembered for his laughter, for his care
and goodness, and for him talking about life and death…
