On a Bench
As taken from: The Body’s Long Madness, 1st Draft, pg. 304 to 306)
But Valerie does not anticipate the future with dread of difficulty. One must fight, one must make sacrifices that will push one’s art to ring true. There is no more than one focus now, one desire, one future, one possibility, one task at hand and Valerie looks towards it, smiling at her fate, smiling at the lion’s jaws, smiling for the torture she will endure. For who is it that will ring her through the rack time and again but herself? She knows, for she is ultimately all roles at once. She experiences the arguing within like a child forced to listen to parents spit and dispute, helpless. Only after she has gone full circle will she be allowed to take part in the glory, only after she has suffered completely.
To write fills her thoughts like a plague. Sentences stream by in complete disconnection, one a long way from the other. Descriptions creep up on her when she’s not looking, dialogue assaults her from nowhere. And what to do with it all? Keep on throwing it in the garden shed? That elderly couple over there, sitting under the ripe chestnut tree, shaded from the mid-day sun, the woman stroking the man’s hand from a habit that has sprouted from their years of love. They do not talk for they have nothing more to say besides the banalities of gossip and weather. When they do talk they do not look to the other but speak in an undercurrent that is carried to the soul. Their faces are adorned with wrinkles but their expressions are not that of pain and old age, they bear happiness in their etchings for their eyes still glitter with the effect of life passing by. No needs and no hurry. Their contentment should be bottled or become infectious, especially for us, the young. The other hand of the man is resting on a tall cane. He is stout and has had plenty of good, full years. Those two have lived through the war. They have seen their people hunger, they have seen their friends slaughtered by fighting but that was long ago and the wars now a-days are fought far away. She is dressed in a classic dress of calico, her face and hair done-up out of habit. They have come out for their afternoon passegiata as they have for many years before. This is their neighborhood; my how it has changed! “Do you remember when. . .” But maybe, with age, every new fashion looks the same for the world will always be in a state of change.
The tree the couple sits under has mottled bark. Greens and grays and tans splotched round its trunk and climb to its heights. The leaves are large and variegated. The branches hang low and heavy. There is a fountain next to them, one of those elaborate fountains of Rome placed intermittently around the city to satisfy the thirst of many. The water gurgles from its nose in a constant fall, splashing into the grate with accuracy. Men, women and children stop to drink of its water; bending down to plug the large stream with the palm, the water shoots, a delectable arch from a small hole on the top. Weren’t those Romans ingenious!
The sidewalk is alive despite the lunch hour. The shops are still open and there are many passing by with loaded bags. Bodies set to permanent filter, there comes passing every shape and size. How can one even grasp the population of the world? How can one estimate such numbers? As a species, we seem to emerge from every nook and cranny, for all our weaknesses there is just as much indestructibility. Like termites maybe; burrowing our way to the center of the earth in competition of who will get there first. There are the women with their noses so high in the air that they must be attempting to get a sniff of god’s ass. They walk their miniature dogs as a live accessory, like the shoes and the perfectly matched coats. She drags the poor pooch along as she sets out to buy more. Younger girls with darkly painted eyes, tight shirts and tight pants, offering themselves to anyone who looks. Sometimes Valerie wonders why they do not dare to walk naked; they would spare themselves half the time and half the trouble. They walk as if they were offering themselves up as a gift. With their heads so empty how can their body possibly be alive? To never think about what you are dealing with, Valerie wonders, how can they get by? Blindly. From one feeding to the next, does it really matter who is devouring who? As a species we are insatiable. No matter if this course is tossed away unfinished, on to the next! All that is material is subject to such a finicky fancy, clothes, shoes, women, men, food, even books, even music, even art. Our thoughts always four steps ahead of where we are at the moment. No one looking to what is here now; everyone focused so far, far ahead.
Society is the court on which we play. The rules are there to tie together all the participants. To make the game more harmonious or so they say. How could such a complicated matter function without rules? They would have us believe that we would flounder, that we would murder our brother without a second thought or even on a whim; not realizing that with the various standards of social standings gone our competitive nature would not have any fodder on which to feed—there would be no cause of ill will towards brother and neighbor and there, is what we call unity and love. For as a species we are infinitely more capable than termites to lift up our standings: to love our neighbor as ourselves. Why do we stick so closely to the rules?
Valerie has hit her head against this brick wall too many times to count. And the answer always remains the same—there is no answer—just how things are and if she can’t change the world than maybe, by some sheer force of will, some infinite source and drive, will give her allowance to make a scratch, for her words ring true in her heart and if she finds this to be true of herself than it must, it must be true of others. But where are they? Her words may act as a line of communication, a telephone wire that all may tune in to if they have let themselves fall open enough.
She takes her lessons seriously. The suffering she endures will bring her closer to the cross. What she is bargaining for is life everlasting in her lifetime. What she counts on is her fingers moving swiftly across the page. There is no other truth. There is no other way. Onward! To all time!
The way unravels itself slowly. One must patient, one must not rush that which takes increasing intervals of knowledge to learn. Stepping onto the next step is never as simple as all that.
Valerie’s mind races from her spot on the bench. Sometimes, when standing up, she feels as if she has gone to the ends of the world on a return trip. Exhausted, her mind lies limp in its casings. Oh! how good it will be when she will be released from all this. How glorious will be the time when the words will fall to the paper. Release and ye shall be released.
Bracciano, Italy
November 2007
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