Tuesday, March 31, 2009

Ari, Quepay

Taking a wide berth the alms man opened the morning news, and spreading it across his lap read the following: “This morning at 27½ minutes past the noontime the sky will fall. Authorities suggest staying indoors until 28 minutes past the hour”. The radio announcer, transmitting from the hillsides of Montlimar in the Rhone-Alpes, cleared his throat and said ‘…Tukums Tukuma…’, the radio catching static, the word ‘KOPIDEJA’ clanging and crashing and banging in his head, ‘…Ari, quepay…’ he screamed, the static getting brasher, louder ‘…Arequipa Quechua…’. The train came to a stop, the alms man placing the newspaper on the seat opposite, the sky blue yellow blue. Looking upwards he took in the majesty of the sky. Looking sideways he reached for the door handle. Looking downwards he took hold of his carpetbag and detrained, the redcap lending him a stiffened shoulder. On the opposite platform a child with eyes black as peppercorns darted in and out of the shadows, the loudspeaker over the station door announcing 'KOPIDEJA', LAST STOP BEFORE MONTLIMAR’. He ran into a man holding a sign, "I'm not made to philosophize, I don't have the heart for it. My heart is more like a machine for making blood to be spilled in a knife fight..."[1] He asked the man where he could find a cool draught to slake his travel-weary thirst.
[1] Camilo José Cela, La Familia De Pascual Duarte, Círculo de Lectores, Barcelona, 1972

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"Poetry is the short-circuiting of meaning between words, the impetuous regeneration of primordial myth". Bruno Schulz

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