Light burns itself in the ruins of my mind. I suspect that before long night will fall, but I can’t be sure. I turn away from the mirror – sometimes my own reflection scares me: the smooth shaven skin and youthful appearance belie the age of the man inside. Feelings seem to weigh heavier on me than they do others; something that no one can understand. Not even the one person who could have made a difference but who now is gone.
I move away from the dark red walls that surround the mirror and into the cool living room where darkness crawls over every curve of furniture, lamps shadow themselves leaving the walls behind them void. Outside the moon glows shining its presence against the flapping velvet curtains as they obey wind calls that whip them about over the open veranda; the intensely black sky sparkles with untouched starlight. The city below lies in shadow where people hide too – and away from me. Gone. Like the joy I felt in and around her. But I know she must be down there somewhere, perhaps even thinking about me.
I turn from this scene as well, unable to comprehend the demands of the world out there. No one ever explained the things that could have helped me avoid so much heartache, but then I guess my inability to learn from these mistakes is the reason why I am alone (so I have been told).
I move to the small table in the middle of the dimly lit room and kneel before it. At the centre of the table two candles burn a hands length apart. Light meets between them, crosses over itself and grows. Outside the wind howls. I ignore these calls and focus more intensely on this inner world. Here is the only truth I can believe in – how can I not believe in a truth?
I always felt twice the age that I was, growing older by the minute, reaching out hands that no longer connected with those around me. The unchanging reflection of the young man didn’t fit the profile of he who looked through the eyes. There was always sadness.
For this I was given medication and was asked to change the way I lived, but the way I lived was what made me who I was and I could no longer trust the motives of those who wished to change the very essence of who I am. Instead I found someone who gave me a practice, helped me to look inside and to share with me that which I was but they are gone and I wonder why.
To be left alone in this emptiness and sun-dried place; burnt alive and left to die, I struggle on in search of that person.
The glow of candlelight heats the space between us and I remember the market place, so vibrant with colour and noise; the many people with voices at full roar, bargaining and shouting offences. Anything and everything for sale – my own shoes, but no, I think I will keep these. The faces all look the same, hair dark black but shining in the hot brilliance of the sun. Clothes don’t fit the forms they cover, always too small or too large. But the people in their crowded lifestyles buy and sell what they can and make do with what they have. To live is the goal, the only goal worth living for.
I see a flicker of hair, blonde over pale shoulders; a blood-red low cut dress that disappears into the crowd. I find it odd – she never liked that deep blood-red colour. “It is the colour of life!” I say. “It reminds me of death” she hands back. “How can you be so negative!” I demand. And now I wish for things never said.
So I want her to return, be at my side; to remind her not to take me so seriously, but how is this possible when she was the only one who didn’t accuse me of not being too serious? I begin to walk as a voice behind me cries out, “no sir, you must buy these carrots, best quality - they make you see in the dark!” I ignore these desperate attempts at a sale and follow the flashes of blood red as marketers move from side to side, blocking my way and demanding my attention. I push them aside, angry and frustrated as that blood-red dress moves further and further in front of me. My feet clutter over the cobblestones of the city as I pick up pace dodging and skipping past men and women who think it is their duty to stop me in my tracks. “Come sample my coffee beans, richest in the city” they say, “three for the price of one – buy now or never”. But I must put aside and forget the tempting lure of these voices; my only goal is to catch that blood-red dress and demand answers from the person who gave me so much and then decided to leave without thought of the one she was leaving. For how can one leave without explanation and expect the other to carry on as though nothing happened?
I quicken my pace as the marketplace dismantles itself; thinning in the hot morning sun, and fading from my conscious view. The blood-red dress further ahead of me turns under the city arches and slips away on the other side, the last I see is blonde hair flickering into nothing.
The poor line these streets, bodies sprawled across makeshift beds and seating, but they seem so happy, laughing at each other’s jokes. A face looks out at me so familiar, like someone I knew. A man who had no partner, no other to share himself with, so much of his life spent alone. He was truly poor. But this man’s laugh is joyous, and he smiles as though he has never seen a day of sorrow.
I hurry along, running past them now as they watch in muted wonder. Some confused want to reach out and rip away my clothing but I rush past stopping underneath the arches. Beyond lies wasteland, sand and dust peppered with bodies in search of their own lives. I take a look back into the city and the poor people straggling at its sides. That familiar face stares back at me, smiling and in control of itself.
I turn and step out onto the loose sand as it shifts and moves into new patterns under my feet. A settlement to my right boasts a drinking fountain and I walk towards it. Mud-brick houses so old and weary stand up next to each other, yet ready to fall. Some houses don’t have enough room to move between them and they might as well be joined together, the exteriors are soft enough to achieve this but what would be the point this far through their lives? I see people in the darkness behind windows move about and close their shutters.
The water at the fountain is warm, almost sickening to taste, but I splash it over my head and neck: relief from a sun that burns brighter in every moment.
A cracking sound comes from the buildings around me and a voice calls out “hey, mister!” I turn and see a young boy, possibly ten, black hair, dark skin, sitting on clay steps that lead up to a dwelling. I stand before him and cast my gaze down. He squints back up at me.
“So little life, such desolation. How have you come to be alive in this world?”
The question hangs in the air unanswered, while the boy looks up at me smiling. “Why did you leave?” he asks.
“I had to.”
“That’s not what your friends believe.”
I reach a hand up and feel the growth of stubble on my face. “If that’s what they believe, they can’t be true friends then.”
The boy chuckles – like an old man. “A friend once told me that the only friend you can trust is the friend you are to yourself.”
I feel as though I should have remembered this. “What was his name?”
“Longitude.”
I turn and see the track I have walked extending back to the city. It is too far to make a trip back. The sun grows larger, it seems, stretching out across the sky. I feel a twitch in my shoulder, an old injury flaring up again.
“The truth,” I say, thoroughly believing it, “is that I struggled for so long trying to achieve ends unachievable. I gave myself to others, carried them if needed be, but only found myself in the place I first begun.”
“Yes, time does weigh one down does it not?”
“Why do you have an answer for everything I say?”
“Because everything you say is lateral.”
I look about me seeking an away from this person.
“I must go.”
“Goodbye then.”
As I turn I see the red dress and blonde hair flitter out from behind a house at the end of a wide path. I follow the path between a row of houses but around the corner sits a middle-aged woman with a faded red bandanna tied over her light brown hair. Before her is a clay mould where she is shaping pots and bowls. Her clothes are a dirty brown colour with not a single shade of red in them.
“It is too hot for this today.”
But she continues shaping the pots and placing them in her kiln one by one.
“Did you see a young girl in a red dress come around this corner?”
“Oh, no, there are only clay pots and a cooking stove around this corner.”
“Then where did she go?”
“You will note that the bowls have round sides, they are not square or have corners but are singular in their appearance. This is so what goes in finds peace and calm. Liquid stills itself in a smoother motion.“ Her fingers dip into the bowl of water beside her and splash the sides of the clay bowl she is moulding. “Who is she?”
“The one person who can answer my questions for me.”
“Questions sometimes answer themselves.”
“But I was left alone, used by people I trusted and betrayed by one so dear to me.”
“Did you leave behind what you were looking for?”
“I left them, she left me.”
“So you search for this lost one now?”
“Yes that is right.”
“Will she remember you?”
“It has not been very long.”
“I have heard this before, but no one believes me when I say it. I wish you luck in your search. The lost one is the hardest one to find.”
“Thank you, and now I must be off.”
I walk away ignoring the sound of pottery cracking and pass fewer people as I walk out into open desert country. Across tracks so old and worn by time and those who have passed through here long before myself. Trees hang over the roads mourning my passing, a lone bird squawks above me and flies back to the safety of the city. Outcroppings scattered here and there turn from a light green to a dullish brown.
The landscape turns barren the further I enter into it but in the near distance a man is tending a field. I resent the smile on his face. In such conditions with so little life from which to draw nutrition for his crops he should be angry at his predicament. But his smile is all encompassing of his proud body posture as well. I even feel slight envy at his shaven appearance – it reminds me of the full beard that I have now acquired. He watches with curious fascination as I walk up to him.
“There is no one here to benefit from what you are doing.”
The hoe continues punching at the dirt.
“What is this thing that you are doing?” I ask.
“What thing is it that needs to be done?”
“Well,” I say, “there is so much I don’t understand.”
“The thing you need is answers then.”
“That’s why I’m looking for the lost individual.”
“This is the thing you wish to find.”
“Are you the lost one?”
“Oh no, I was found a long time ago.”
“Where?”
“Everywhere.”
The sun grows large, almost encompassing the whole sky. I turn and walk in a new direction, amongst ruined houses that seem to dwell in their own loneliness; it pains me to see such strangeness – as though time has changed the way everything looks, demanded that age must take an effect. Doors lean up against each other, archways fall into pillared clumps; treasured possessions mix with rafters and collapsed walls.
In the distance a building crumbles giving way for more sunlight to stream into the newly opened spaces. Every piece of darkness that inhabits the edges of this landscape shimmers into heat waves the closer I get to it. The harsh sunlight burns away any hope of finding shade to sit in. Trees and plants wither and die as I pass them. My legs tire and my eyesight strains at the new found distances it has to envision.
A cathedral bell rings.
I turn and see its flashy designs, a dome at one end and mosaic glass windows, all waiting for me not far off. The sight of the steeple with its pointed cross high atop the spire makes me smile. I start to walk towards it, covering the ground with hobbling footsteps, but the closer I get the smaller it seems until it is no bigger than a cottage church. I see blackness enclosed behind windows – it is more frightening than the directionless light that now surrounds me. But I so wish to be away from this world and its dry and desperate unchallenges.
As I get closer I notice cracks forming in the walls. I try to hurry, to get inside before it falls but my dragging feet slow me and that darkness behind the windows is so frightening that I no longer believe that I can make it.
Great heaving breaths puff out of me, I stagger and stumble; the cathedral front breaks apart and falls. The black inside escapes out in a rush upwards only to be burnt away into nothing by the light outside. The rest of the building crumbles in on itself, arches and aisles, one after the other fall and join with the dust on the ground.
I crawl up to the sand covered broken doorways, a pulpit leaning on its side, snapped timber wall and roofing make their place in the open now. Light glitters off the ditched cross in amongst the ruins.
Sadness moves me to tears. They trickle down heavy cheeks and settle in the strands of my scraggly beard.
I try to stand but feel a stiffness and strong aching in my leg. A solid piece of turned wood lies half buried at my feet. Crouching down to pick it up my hand stirs sand away from the ground revealing something blackish underneath. I clear away as much sand and dust as possible, exposing a see-through surface. Down below a man kneels in front of a small candle-lit table, eyes closed and brow furrowed. Shadows flicker across his face as velvety curtains blow out over the veranda. It is night time down there.
Dust settles across the surface and I raise myself leaning strongly on the stick. In this world I cannot walk properly. It does its best to cripple me but I am stronger than it thinks. I fear it may take me in the end though – it has taken all else. I walk: my sandals almost burned through from the scorching heat underneath; my clothes: mere rags that hang from skin and bone. If it weren’t for my skeleton…
But here is my third leg beside me as I traverse a landscape unknown to these eyes but familiar in appearance; passing strange formations that spring out against a flattening land. Here and there bones mingle with rotted and dried wood, a cooking stove rests with broken bowls about it.
Time passes also, and I feel muscles weaken, each step drags more sand ahead of me; eyes no longer cast their gaze out at a horizon that blends in with its own yellow sky, but to the ground before me. Beard reaches down to navel, mouth pouts in sadness and isolation. Wrinkled fingers reach up and touch the coinciding wrinkles across my face, over my forehead and under my eyes. More wrinkles grow the flatter the land gets.
I walk up to an area with rutted seat looking bumps in the ground. A rectanglish frame leads me into it and I sit down on one. The colour of the land seems softer, slightly richer, an almost deep orange - and less harsh. The sky has since lost its brilliance and dulled to a light grey; horizons are defined again.
Around me there is quiet. The people have gone – long since departed. I wonder why I am the only one left, did I travel for too long? But now I wish to stop, sit down and rest. I feel too tired to continue walking onwards in search of something that I may never find. All this time and I wonder now what it was that I was trying to find. Was it even worth it?
I notice a book half buried in the bump of sand in front. I pull it out. The dry leather cover is cracked and ripped making the words unreadable – or giving the illusion that there are words to be read.
I rest the book on my lap and open the cover.
There are words – many of them. They rush at me with a sense of unease, an urgency born of this world.
The story of a woman who lived in doors making garments for herself. “I make cloth,” said the woman, “to shelter that part of me which doesn’t know any better.” Those who knocked at her doors would receive no answer but merely hear the sounds of a person concentrating so intensely on what she was doing that anything else that happened around her was immediately put out of mind. But a time came when the walls of her house started closing in and the garments no longer protected her so she ran away. Where she went silence followed, but only from behind.
I look behind me and see night dropping in quietly from high above the horizon. The desert floor shimmers into an orangey-red colour as I turn back to the book resting in my lap. Some more words come to me.
There were three eyes until one needed a place
to hide, so it went inside.
Others stayed without and knew of their place
but found working with themselves
A lonely business so they too closed
and went inside.
But inside all three become one, and all
visions are present – neither gift nor separate.
A succession of visions they say truly is
a lonely business.
For here is the one who must face the truth,
must face his ego
And the wings that will carry him places.
Carry me far away, carry me further still;
Leave me to lie, cry and dry
And to look out the windowsill.
Leave me?
Where to,
Where I am
I am,
I.
There is a shimmering on the horizon, like curtains blowing outwards; two structures reach upwards and at each pinnacle light from this world is being sucked into them. The ruts of sand are one smooth edge that reaches outwards before me. I wonder at all I have seen while here: my desires running further ahead of me until all sight has been lost, my body taking its own directions and moving forwards – ever on. That which I wanted was so far out of reach, untouchable, so much to the extent of losing sight of myself.
I look about over the vanishing desert plains as my world comes back to me, gently fading into my field of vision, and realise now that I forgot to sleep and I realise then that I forgot to wake; to share the night with day.
So tired I sleep and alone I dream, waking to a night where dawn is rising, sharing light with darkness and moments between.
I move away from the dark red walls that surround the mirror and into the cool living room where darkness crawls over every curve of furniture, lamps shadow themselves leaving the walls behind them void. Outside the moon glows shining its presence against the flapping velvet curtains as they obey wind calls that whip them about over the open veranda; the intensely black sky sparkles with untouched starlight. The city below lies in shadow where people hide too – and away from me. Gone. Like the joy I felt in and around her. But I know she must be down there somewhere, perhaps even thinking about me.
I turn from this scene as well, unable to comprehend the demands of the world out there. No one ever explained the things that could have helped me avoid so much heartache, but then I guess my inability to learn from these mistakes is the reason why I am alone (so I have been told).
I move to the small table in the middle of the dimly lit room and kneel before it. At the centre of the table two candles burn a hands length apart. Light meets between them, crosses over itself and grows. Outside the wind howls. I ignore these calls and focus more intensely on this inner world. Here is the only truth I can believe in – how can I not believe in a truth?
I always felt twice the age that I was, growing older by the minute, reaching out hands that no longer connected with those around me. The unchanging reflection of the young man didn’t fit the profile of he who looked through the eyes. There was always sadness.
For this I was given medication and was asked to change the way I lived, but the way I lived was what made me who I was and I could no longer trust the motives of those who wished to change the very essence of who I am. Instead I found someone who gave me a practice, helped me to look inside and to share with me that which I was but they are gone and I wonder why.
To be left alone in this emptiness and sun-dried place; burnt alive and left to die, I struggle on in search of that person.
The glow of candlelight heats the space between us and I remember the market place, so vibrant with colour and noise; the many people with voices at full roar, bargaining and shouting offences. Anything and everything for sale – my own shoes, but no, I think I will keep these. The faces all look the same, hair dark black but shining in the hot brilliance of the sun. Clothes don’t fit the forms they cover, always too small or too large. But the people in their crowded lifestyles buy and sell what they can and make do with what they have. To live is the goal, the only goal worth living for.
I see a flicker of hair, blonde over pale shoulders; a blood-red low cut dress that disappears into the crowd. I find it odd – she never liked that deep blood-red colour. “It is the colour of life!” I say. “It reminds me of death” she hands back. “How can you be so negative!” I demand. And now I wish for things never said.
So I want her to return, be at my side; to remind her not to take me so seriously, but how is this possible when she was the only one who didn’t accuse me of not being too serious? I begin to walk as a voice behind me cries out, “no sir, you must buy these carrots, best quality - they make you see in the dark!” I ignore these desperate attempts at a sale and follow the flashes of blood red as marketers move from side to side, blocking my way and demanding my attention. I push them aside, angry and frustrated as that blood-red dress moves further and further in front of me. My feet clutter over the cobblestones of the city as I pick up pace dodging and skipping past men and women who think it is their duty to stop me in my tracks. “Come sample my coffee beans, richest in the city” they say, “three for the price of one – buy now or never”. But I must put aside and forget the tempting lure of these voices; my only goal is to catch that blood-red dress and demand answers from the person who gave me so much and then decided to leave without thought of the one she was leaving. For how can one leave without explanation and expect the other to carry on as though nothing happened?
I quicken my pace as the marketplace dismantles itself; thinning in the hot morning sun, and fading from my conscious view. The blood-red dress further ahead of me turns under the city arches and slips away on the other side, the last I see is blonde hair flickering into nothing.
The poor line these streets, bodies sprawled across makeshift beds and seating, but they seem so happy, laughing at each other’s jokes. A face looks out at me so familiar, like someone I knew. A man who had no partner, no other to share himself with, so much of his life spent alone. He was truly poor. But this man’s laugh is joyous, and he smiles as though he has never seen a day of sorrow.
I hurry along, running past them now as they watch in muted wonder. Some confused want to reach out and rip away my clothing but I rush past stopping underneath the arches. Beyond lies wasteland, sand and dust peppered with bodies in search of their own lives. I take a look back into the city and the poor people straggling at its sides. That familiar face stares back at me, smiling and in control of itself.
I turn and step out onto the loose sand as it shifts and moves into new patterns under my feet. A settlement to my right boasts a drinking fountain and I walk towards it. Mud-brick houses so old and weary stand up next to each other, yet ready to fall. Some houses don’t have enough room to move between them and they might as well be joined together, the exteriors are soft enough to achieve this but what would be the point this far through their lives? I see people in the darkness behind windows move about and close their shutters.
The water at the fountain is warm, almost sickening to taste, but I splash it over my head and neck: relief from a sun that burns brighter in every moment.
A cracking sound comes from the buildings around me and a voice calls out “hey, mister!” I turn and see a young boy, possibly ten, black hair, dark skin, sitting on clay steps that lead up to a dwelling. I stand before him and cast my gaze down. He squints back up at me.
“So little life, such desolation. How have you come to be alive in this world?”
The question hangs in the air unanswered, while the boy looks up at me smiling. “Why did you leave?” he asks.
“I had to.”
“That’s not what your friends believe.”
I reach a hand up and feel the growth of stubble on my face. “If that’s what they believe, they can’t be true friends then.”
The boy chuckles – like an old man. “A friend once told me that the only friend you can trust is the friend you are to yourself.”
I feel as though I should have remembered this. “What was his name?”
“Longitude.”
I turn and see the track I have walked extending back to the city. It is too far to make a trip back. The sun grows larger, it seems, stretching out across the sky. I feel a twitch in my shoulder, an old injury flaring up again.
“The truth,” I say, thoroughly believing it, “is that I struggled for so long trying to achieve ends unachievable. I gave myself to others, carried them if needed be, but only found myself in the place I first begun.”
“Yes, time does weigh one down does it not?”
“Why do you have an answer for everything I say?”
“Because everything you say is lateral.”
I look about me seeking an away from this person.
“I must go.”
“Goodbye then.”
As I turn I see the red dress and blonde hair flitter out from behind a house at the end of a wide path. I follow the path between a row of houses but around the corner sits a middle-aged woman with a faded red bandanna tied over her light brown hair. Before her is a clay mould where she is shaping pots and bowls. Her clothes are a dirty brown colour with not a single shade of red in them.
“It is too hot for this today.”
But she continues shaping the pots and placing them in her kiln one by one.
“Did you see a young girl in a red dress come around this corner?”
“Oh, no, there are only clay pots and a cooking stove around this corner.”
“Then where did she go?”
“You will note that the bowls have round sides, they are not square or have corners but are singular in their appearance. This is so what goes in finds peace and calm. Liquid stills itself in a smoother motion.“ Her fingers dip into the bowl of water beside her and splash the sides of the clay bowl she is moulding. “Who is she?”
“The one person who can answer my questions for me.”
“Questions sometimes answer themselves.”
“But I was left alone, used by people I trusted and betrayed by one so dear to me.”
“Did you leave behind what you were looking for?”
“I left them, she left me.”
“So you search for this lost one now?”
“Yes that is right.”
“Will she remember you?”
“It has not been very long.”
“I have heard this before, but no one believes me when I say it. I wish you luck in your search. The lost one is the hardest one to find.”
“Thank you, and now I must be off.”
I walk away ignoring the sound of pottery cracking and pass fewer people as I walk out into open desert country. Across tracks so old and worn by time and those who have passed through here long before myself. Trees hang over the roads mourning my passing, a lone bird squawks above me and flies back to the safety of the city. Outcroppings scattered here and there turn from a light green to a dullish brown.
The landscape turns barren the further I enter into it but in the near distance a man is tending a field. I resent the smile on his face. In such conditions with so little life from which to draw nutrition for his crops he should be angry at his predicament. But his smile is all encompassing of his proud body posture as well. I even feel slight envy at his shaven appearance – it reminds me of the full beard that I have now acquired. He watches with curious fascination as I walk up to him.
“There is no one here to benefit from what you are doing.”
The hoe continues punching at the dirt.
“What is this thing that you are doing?” I ask.
“What thing is it that needs to be done?”
“Well,” I say, “there is so much I don’t understand.”
“The thing you need is answers then.”
“That’s why I’m looking for the lost individual.”
“This is the thing you wish to find.”
“Are you the lost one?”
“Oh no, I was found a long time ago.”
“Where?”
“Everywhere.”
The sun grows large, almost encompassing the whole sky. I turn and walk in a new direction, amongst ruined houses that seem to dwell in their own loneliness; it pains me to see such strangeness – as though time has changed the way everything looks, demanded that age must take an effect. Doors lean up against each other, archways fall into pillared clumps; treasured possessions mix with rafters and collapsed walls.
In the distance a building crumbles giving way for more sunlight to stream into the newly opened spaces. Every piece of darkness that inhabits the edges of this landscape shimmers into heat waves the closer I get to it. The harsh sunlight burns away any hope of finding shade to sit in. Trees and plants wither and die as I pass them. My legs tire and my eyesight strains at the new found distances it has to envision.
A cathedral bell rings.
I turn and see its flashy designs, a dome at one end and mosaic glass windows, all waiting for me not far off. The sight of the steeple with its pointed cross high atop the spire makes me smile. I start to walk towards it, covering the ground with hobbling footsteps, but the closer I get the smaller it seems until it is no bigger than a cottage church. I see blackness enclosed behind windows – it is more frightening than the directionless light that now surrounds me. But I so wish to be away from this world and its dry and desperate unchallenges.
As I get closer I notice cracks forming in the walls. I try to hurry, to get inside before it falls but my dragging feet slow me and that darkness behind the windows is so frightening that I no longer believe that I can make it.
Great heaving breaths puff out of me, I stagger and stumble; the cathedral front breaks apart and falls. The black inside escapes out in a rush upwards only to be burnt away into nothing by the light outside. The rest of the building crumbles in on itself, arches and aisles, one after the other fall and join with the dust on the ground.
I crawl up to the sand covered broken doorways, a pulpit leaning on its side, snapped timber wall and roofing make their place in the open now. Light glitters off the ditched cross in amongst the ruins.
Sadness moves me to tears. They trickle down heavy cheeks and settle in the strands of my scraggly beard.
I try to stand but feel a stiffness and strong aching in my leg. A solid piece of turned wood lies half buried at my feet. Crouching down to pick it up my hand stirs sand away from the ground revealing something blackish underneath. I clear away as much sand and dust as possible, exposing a see-through surface. Down below a man kneels in front of a small candle-lit table, eyes closed and brow furrowed. Shadows flicker across his face as velvety curtains blow out over the veranda. It is night time down there.
Dust settles across the surface and I raise myself leaning strongly on the stick. In this world I cannot walk properly. It does its best to cripple me but I am stronger than it thinks. I fear it may take me in the end though – it has taken all else. I walk: my sandals almost burned through from the scorching heat underneath; my clothes: mere rags that hang from skin and bone. If it weren’t for my skeleton…
But here is my third leg beside me as I traverse a landscape unknown to these eyes but familiar in appearance; passing strange formations that spring out against a flattening land. Here and there bones mingle with rotted and dried wood, a cooking stove rests with broken bowls about it.
Time passes also, and I feel muscles weaken, each step drags more sand ahead of me; eyes no longer cast their gaze out at a horizon that blends in with its own yellow sky, but to the ground before me. Beard reaches down to navel, mouth pouts in sadness and isolation. Wrinkled fingers reach up and touch the coinciding wrinkles across my face, over my forehead and under my eyes. More wrinkles grow the flatter the land gets.
I walk up to an area with rutted seat looking bumps in the ground. A rectanglish frame leads me into it and I sit down on one. The colour of the land seems softer, slightly richer, an almost deep orange - and less harsh. The sky has since lost its brilliance and dulled to a light grey; horizons are defined again.
Around me there is quiet. The people have gone – long since departed. I wonder why I am the only one left, did I travel for too long? But now I wish to stop, sit down and rest. I feel too tired to continue walking onwards in search of something that I may never find. All this time and I wonder now what it was that I was trying to find. Was it even worth it?
I notice a book half buried in the bump of sand in front. I pull it out. The dry leather cover is cracked and ripped making the words unreadable – or giving the illusion that there are words to be read.
I rest the book on my lap and open the cover.
There are words – many of them. They rush at me with a sense of unease, an urgency born of this world.
The story of a woman who lived in doors making garments for herself. “I make cloth,” said the woman, “to shelter that part of me which doesn’t know any better.” Those who knocked at her doors would receive no answer but merely hear the sounds of a person concentrating so intensely on what she was doing that anything else that happened around her was immediately put out of mind. But a time came when the walls of her house started closing in and the garments no longer protected her so she ran away. Where she went silence followed, but only from behind.
I look behind me and see night dropping in quietly from high above the horizon. The desert floor shimmers into an orangey-red colour as I turn back to the book resting in my lap. Some more words come to me.
There were three eyes until one needed a place
to hide, so it went inside.
Others stayed without and knew of their place
but found working with themselves
A lonely business so they too closed
and went inside.
But inside all three become one, and all
visions are present – neither gift nor separate.
A succession of visions they say truly is
a lonely business.
For here is the one who must face the truth,
must face his ego
And the wings that will carry him places.
Carry me far away, carry me further still;
Leave me to lie, cry and dry
And to look out the windowsill.
Leave me?
Where to,
Where I am
I am,
I.
There is a shimmering on the horizon, like curtains blowing outwards; two structures reach upwards and at each pinnacle light from this world is being sucked into them. The ruts of sand are one smooth edge that reaches outwards before me. I wonder at all I have seen while here: my desires running further ahead of me until all sight has been lost, my body taking its own directions and moving forwards – ever on. That which I wanted was so far out of reach, untouchable, so much to the extent of losing sight of myself.
I look about over the vanishing desert plains as my world comes back to me, gently fading into my field of vision, and realise now that I forgot to sleep and I realise then that I forgot to wake; to share the night with day.
So tired I sleep and alone I dream, waking to a night where dawn is rising, sharing light with darkness and moments between.
- Gisborne, 18 December, 2001
