22.1. Far away and long ago and we are faced, effaced, with a frozen imaging, an ancient chariot suspended in the vast Argentine Pampa; it fixes itself steadily before dawn or dusk, we are not sure which, some kind of question about history from the standpoint of the faced effacement, whether something is rising or rather setting, dice-tossed into auxiliary prairie, the awakening that is the condition of the reinsinuation of the dream by underhanded means.
22.2. A Gaucho sits by his fire.
22.3. Time breaks itself in pieces, science of scarcity and absurdity of bean-count, to take the reinsinuated dream serious, like a meter maid or old aardvark arriviste, the Old World conjured for a dead man now born, i.e. Why does He return to this sad place once decorated by man? Himself, His aerial mother, His brothers His sisters. À la recherche. Things past, or adjacent theretofore.
22.4. Like the graceful Blanca, strange and ambitious, who let the man devour himself with passions, get caught up in the netting, trapped in his britches, after kissing her up against dawn or dusk, we are not sure which, all is linked…she knows that the weak let doubt destroy their hopes and she is surrounded by shrouded women to whom she is nebulously bound; she is one of them, a woman in a gossamer mask. The flower of nightmares. Black widow. Her man his death she brings. Because he is weak.
22.5. He too is bound by tragic memory, a world a word a logos where monsters are also ever-present, but not necessarily feminine or shrouded, they come and go within and without…as when they buried His dog and He saw His own Self in the pit before the dirt was piled on top. It was not the fact that He then came to terms with His own mortality, not that He apprehended in death its promise to someday take Him…this is not the frightening looming obelisk-of-heavens hallucinated-afore that frightens…rather that He was or is already dead…Somewhere.
22.6. He is told that “death makes no distinctions” but realizes that it cannot be so simple or complex because, in such an equation, such an absurdity-of-bean-count, life goes unaccounted for, dropped for convenience, bottom of a well.
22.7. A distant version of Himself unveils that He only ever wanted “to live, live eternally.” He sees that he is already succeeding but that He must also die eternally.
22.8. The devil looks on but the devil is a child like Him and is neither shrouded nor imposing; the child-devil too rides in all directions, but does so on horseback.
22.9. And in the devil’s wake appears war also on horseback and it brings the Gaucho to his knees to bleed on this treasured maternal soil, once decorated by man. War is Mars and not Mars and it leaves a dead prisoner out front of his family’s estancia, dead eyes piercing downward through earth as the dead man hears beyond the veil of the postmortem the Gaucho pronounce solemn last rights for the world, purely formalized ritual: “The war, again the war.”
22.10. Neither Darwin nor captured birds may sate His hunger for eternity and He is afraid to defend Himself.
22.11. Another bird is caged. Margarita is dead; “so beautiful…dead.”
22.12. He comes together from every place in time to greet death and tears appear again, he asks his mother: “Why did Margarita die if she was so full of life?” Faced, effaced, with a frozen imaging, an ancient chariot suspended in the vast Argentine Pampa, it fixes itself steadily before dawn or dusk, we are not sure which, history rising or setting. He is answered with His real question.
22.13. He comes together from every place in time to greet the Gaucho, realizing that “many years have passed” but none have, and He turns to Himself and the Gaucho and says: “I have come to say goodbye to everything.” But the land, that which was once decorated by man, auxiliary prairie, does not bid farewell.
22.14. Suddenly we see, faced effaced, erasure beyond censure, or the reverse and perhaps also in reverse, a frozen imaging of an ancient chariot suspended in the vast Argentine Pampa…and it is suddenly free to approach, the horizon narrows, the barrels spins, the joints lock-up, a contraption the mechanic has fixed, almost as though by accident. The Gaucho and his fire are permitted to go out, history sundered in sunders and put to bed and the madness and the grave exhalation of the grave itself and of a spread-open not knowing.
22.15. The past and future are slowly escorted out by the present or its rough equivalent. He wonders in his chariot whether the sun is rising or setting.
22.16. Both and neither and God’s aura or God’s rough equivalent and this of course is enough. Somewhere He is dying. And being born.
No comments:
Post a Comment