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divine-ethnography-blog · 6 years ago

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you’re such a strange, unearthly thing.

like a child stripping leaves into skeletons, you whispered those dead words to me: ‘you are blind like the lion in its youth.’

they do not ring the church bells at night, but in my mind there is still a phantom toll keening through the crisp air at the turn of every hour. here it strikes: the wind leading your hair in a merry dance. here it strikes: the snow as it falls to rest on our barren faces, stinging, burning, red. here it strikes: the gunmetal clenched in my fists, slick, cold. and one last toll: a stray dog, from the edge of town, and its quiet, mournful howl.

this is a dream, isn’t it? but sleepless. how long has it been since i slept that i now dream on my feet, with my eyes wide open and a cigarette dangling between my teeth?

a dream. the moon above, the gravel below, the gun in my hand, and it all sways to the tune of that forlorn dirge from the dirty mutt at the edge of town.

there is a cemetery on the other edge of town, where the cur will not follow. we go there to pray. our legs make do, though i do not feel them move. nothing follows. not the dog, nor the dog’s lament; it fades with each step. your hands are in your pockets. mine let the cigarette hang loosely in my lips. you are smiling, i am still. behind the flurries of snow, everything is a moon-soaked blur.

somewhere long the way, in the haze, between the singing and the gravestones, my dream has a dream. no snow, no town, no dog. no gun. i can smell the sea. i can taste the salt on our skin. this is a dream, i think. my eyes are closed. hear it strike, but only once: the waves lapping at the shore, tender, laughing, a gentle purr.

act i scene i:

[SCENE.— the skyline of an industrial city, made of red brick and smoke. 3 BODIES lounge on an iron beam that rests on the rooftop of their apartment building. BODY 1 has a pack of cigarettes and bottle of cognac. BODY 2 and BODY 3 pass a handle of dark rum between them.]

body 1. this world is not a world for love. it’s a world for the living. [sighing, it takes a sip of cognac.] like the poem: ‘sumergido en sombras, eludiría el alcance del Dios.’

body 2. what horseshit. [turns to BODY 3, rolling its eyes.] pass the rum, would you?

body 1. what horseshit? what horseshit? [BODY 3 passes the bottle to BODY 2, who takes a drink. BODY 1 shakes its head.] living is running, trying to enough momentum to get from one mistake to the next without being caught by the consequences.

body 3. [scoffing] what's that got to do with love at all, let alone whether or not this is the world for it?

body 2. [nodding in agreement] and since when are love and living...what's the word? um...mutually exclusive? yeah, mutually exclusive. [takes another drink.]

body 1. [gestures at the sky while taking a drag of its cigarette.] i think that's fairly obvious. as far as i'm concerned, it goes something like this: love is sometimes sweet, sometimes savory, and always savored. [drops cigarette and crushes the end beneath its heel.]

body 2. and to savor anything, you have to stop and let the world in.

body 1. [lighting another cigarette.] exactly.

body 2. [resting chin in hand, a la Rodin.] ok, ok. i can buy that.

body 3. you'll buy anything right now, asshole.

body 1. that we can agree on.

body 2. what, that i'm an asshole? [rolling its eyes again.] where's the fuckin' news?

body 3. anyway. why living and not love? you never said.

body 1. simple. original sin.

body 2. please, elaborate.

body 3. what that means, i think, that we're all cunts from the moment we open our eyes, and we all fuck up too much to not be running— ergo, to not be living. right?

body 1. [takes a drag of its cigarette.] right.

body 2. [frowning.] i dunno. not sure i see it.

body 3. i mean, me either. but you at least have to admit it's plausible, right?

body 2. yeah, sure. plausible.

body 1. it would make sense, is all i'm saying. it makes sense to me.

and then my dream is awake again. in the cemetery there is a single gravestone made of marble. the others are shadows flickering in the corner of the eye. there in the cemetery i fall to my knees and pray: lord, take these unsteady hands into yours again. i must do what must be done. give me strength to pull the trigger. this i pray. amen.

your hand on my shoulder. my head bowed. you say nothing. i say nothing. your face is red, a subtle blushing. my face is a new face, caked with snow like a mask, pale and white. time passes as heavy breaths, exhalations made quiet by the furor of the wind. i raise my whitened face to the sky. more breaths. more wind. in the distance the stray is howling again. maybe it never stopped.

we lumber to our feet and follow the canine elegy. through snow we trudge along the empty streets, me like a ghost with my pale face, you in an intimate dance. a stray thought: i am like or i am? is there a difference? the howling stops for a moment. an owl ghosts its speckled wings above us. but these streets crave dissonance, not silence. the howling resumes. it gets louder and louder and louder. above the snowfall, the moon hangs loosely— lonely, lovely, losing its shape in the back of my mind. louder and louder and louder.

down the alley to the left, a faint padding. i raise the gun and step into the alley, into the faint glimmer spilling from the windows.

the cigarette falls from my lips. i pant. my tongue lolls. i stand with the dog, muzzle to muzzle. there is a face in the stray’s face that is vaguely familiar. almost like…almost like…no, not you. someone else. a different story— something more empty, more sad. i place the barrel to its head. can’t be helped. i must do what must be done. it whimpers, moans. whose face is that? its eyes widen. pleading. it’s pleading. who are you? what do you want? but i know the answer to that. i may not recognize the face but i know those eyes well. those were my eyes once. i see this pale mask reflected in those pools of brown. it whimpers again. ay, pobrecito. i know, i know. believe me when i say i know. i shoulder the rifle and take aim. here it strikes, that final toll.

act i scene ii:

[SCENE.— having finished their alcohol, and to escape a sudden shower of rain, the 3 BODIES retire to the fire escape to finish off BODY 1's pack of cigarettes. BODY 2 sits on the stairs, while BODY 1 and BODY 3 lean on the railing in front of him.]

body 3. by the way, don't forget the funeral is tomorrow.

body 1.

oh, right. that's tomorrow. sad, huh?

body 3. yeah, well. had to be done, right?

body 1. that doesn't make it less sad.

body 2. maybe it does, maybe just a little bit. you can take some comfort knowing that there was a point to all this, right? [pauses and stares incomprehensibly into the distance for a moment before continuing.] maybe that's not what I'm trying to say. no, no, it is. a purpose. things are less tragic when they have a purpose.

body 3. exactly. better for something than for nothing.

body 1. i guess. but then again— captain ahab, captain nemo. there's no difference, right? both died for naught.

body 2. [in a sing-song voice.] ahab died for naught. nemo died for naut.

body 3. what? oh. oh! [laughs and shakes its head.] jokes aside, nemo never actually died. or at least not for sure. that was just in the movie, i think.

body 1. and that makes it an invalid comparison?

body 3. maybe not invalid, per se, but perhaps less valid than you would think. better to compare like with like.

body 1. i suppose. [tilting its head, it shrugs.] at any rate, either way it's still a little bit sad at the very least. but i'll be there. it'll be good to see his face.

body 2. [to BODY 3.] yeah, thanks for the reminder. [turns to BODY 1.] and don’t forget to bring your body.

to this day, i cannot say what became of you, nor of the dog. like all dreams, it begins to fade the moment i wake. there is a gun that rests on my mantelpiece. it has been there since i was a child. has it ever been fired? i wonder, i wonder.

for all experience is imagined— even the memories, especially the dreams. this is nothing more than that: only a memory, simply just a dream.

#writerscreedchallenge #spilled ink #poetry #or something

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