vagabond plain

What form to choose for a hymn, or is it an elegy? You, on a pedestal. I, where the leaves fall.

There we are, in front of a cavity. And what is it, besides a hole in the ground? A stain of darkness, perhaps. Colour perhaps, but saturated. You be me guest and throw. Toss the stone, and we listen, until it reaches its end.
I am next. Help me lift this rock. And we toss it together in one accord. Several swings until we reach a certain gravity. Yes, you can have my chair. Don’t mind me, look at the clouds. Yes, let’s move there. Lofty but undefined. Fluent, but reserved.

And if you ask me about myself, I don’t see but driftwood. And then I hold on to it. Yes, I understand. You discern neat order, rhythm, custom, habit. Springs and cogs, churning. Consuming themselves until no more. And yet, I tell you. That it is not. No Protestant ethic, no hidden vocation. Fear, maybe.

Ah, the strife of ambition. Perhaps we should fish? Why peruse this hole with our questions? Let us caress ourselves. The sun tickles and reveals but itself. Yes, throw.

You departed, and there was a return. The return to a plain that is hidden when fright is all there is. There you had it. A courtyard in a city. A city in a desert. A damned people, in the backyard of virility.

You gesture, and I assume this to be the birth of an idea. No mystique, no sensuality. Just a mind on its promenades.

We are enclosed by reeds. This is our kingdom, which is to say, here rules but growth. When the wind lends us a gust, the heads nod violently. Yes, they affirm our presence. Stay.

When we first spoke, suspicion whispered. I know these methods, they tickle, you thought. They wring any secretion from a towel, already barren, son of the relentless sun. Better to keep your distance when the well-fed knock. Better to fasten your shutters when the bedrock cracks on which this monastery towers. And yet, there was insistence, which is not unknown. But this persistence is akin to something different. Shared wounds and knowledge, of a sort.

Where we stand, there is a small clearing. And next to it, this hole in the ground, which I surmise is a pond.
Which is a trap in disguise? No. These suspicions have to be addressed in the other column. This is where we live.

And this is where we spit.

Or was it the other way? Don’t mind me.

If I were asked, I would coin it: “Plain of Vagabonds”. But this title is already gone. And also, there is no one but us.

And the title seems to summon a multiplicity, not a unity. Which might say, there is everything and us. No algebra, but perhaps still wizardry. Another name then. Later, then.

Let us tend to your brainchild, thirst (first). 1: Next to our sea. There lies the city. And thus, garbage piles on our borders. And these borders are but evasive zones. Buildings, feeding into the reeds. Reeds, expanding to soiled grounds. You salivate. We collect the junk. We pile it up, next to our hole in the ground. It will be a tower of filth. We mount it, and from there we will finally surmise the expanses of our kingdom. Yes.

And there I still was, demanding an entry. Maybe less emphatic, or even more. Little by little, the dust settled, and we rested on its comfortable bed. Below us that wretched city. Above us, the grey of night. And there, I embarked on a recitation of the things that gnaw through my thin skin. On the promises of another time, another place. On the potential of thought. On the sobriety of these canons, in front of us. On the prisons we build, to capture ourselves.

And yet, it was little. Redundant even, for we could have merely listened. To two bodies, accepting their vicinity. Learning about the chance of an encounter. Understanding the obligation it implies.

And here goes the hammer. Whack this wall apart, for it is too heavy. Yes, into two. For, two are lighter than one. You give me one, and you take the other. Thus, we spent the afternoon. Witnessed the passage from beige to brown, affirmed by the stalks, by the tall grasses, their lofty demeanour. Our pile was miserable, but why should it matter. This is enough, you said. With the fists clenched, you affirmed. Here, we’ll build.

You were fast to accept. There is no return now.

A few meters above the reeds, we inspected. There we need to raise our ruins. Not as a testament to desolation, no. But an acknowledgement of the fleeting demeanour of integer thought. You are quick to mark the outlines. Head over there and flatten the grasses. We need to see where to pile the junk. Where to dump, and to craft. From rabble.

Also, where to return to? This was the question you asked. You needed to leave, better now, better fast. And yet, your departure was still to take years. Two. Two more. And yes, you persisted. The waves came crashing. The hands came flying, the dog kept barking, and old relations were rejuvenated.

Whack and crack. It does not take long to track the remnants. Adrift in our sea, the wreckage waits. But we will be quicker. Before the outside expands, we will leave. A field of fragments.

You left. In company.

A giant bludgeon rests in your hands, and you send it flying. You break up the fragments. And I? I gather them in my pushcart, lorry them to their places, neatly assigned. And it is not long before you declare: now it is time, now we shall climb.

Please excuse my reduction. For we both know, there is a drastic lacuna. A scorching gap. And we won’t discuss details because we never can. We will never measure the depths of agony. But still, you left. She left. And there was paralysis.

I lose my footing and you grab my arm. Look, we did well. You intone: Fire, against fire. Yes. They will be aghast. A city, in ruins. Sculptures, in a sea of reeds. You gesture: there, there, and there. And we scurry, off we go. Carrying the last remnants, our pile of junk shrinks, gives rise to numerous heaps, dispersed, in the reeds. Now it is time, to construct the ruins of a city of dreams.

A few months before, we didn’t know. And you wanted to concede: I can no more, and it shall end. I sought answers; you sought finality. Both of us, numb. You left and I insisted. The ending dawned.

Here is the mortar, I’ll grind the pain. You suggest adding molasses. And I budge, add the molasses. It’s thick.
We have plenty of rubble. Yes, remove the bag from my shoulders. Ease the weight. You toss. Across the ground, assembled. And here goes a trickle of sweetened grief. Do you think it will hold? You mutter. It will. No, it will sweep away, you changed your mind: onto the shoulders of others, drowned by its weight.

And indeed.

A brief moment, the structures, precariously erect, until the pain seeps through. Flickering, before our eyes: a monument of passing. Of a past not forgotten. Of a present, not solely rotten. And we take a break. Before we tower, the remaining heaps. Small sanctuaries, collapsing under their own weight.

And now you find yourself, and I find myself. And we encounter. What do we encounter? Well, this we leave for another day, another time, another plain.

We both nod. What a fine place. Desolation but living. Promising nothing, but insisting. And here it is, our city of rabble. Only present for a flickering while. And we leave.

What now? You are not certain. And we leave, for we know we will meet where we shall find rest.