Thursday, August 27, 2009

Un Solo Hombre Ha Nacido

The bootmaker’s wife worked for the Eire Abu Society pandering to opera enthusiasts and highbrow charity types. The man in the hat met the bootmaker’s wife after the Feast of the Lamb, the two enjoying a good laugh together. As he was a sensible man the curate congratulated Gretchen Micomicona on her stately mission, to become the heiress to the Vincennes Glove Co. The bootmaker’s wife swore up and down that a woman of such illusory beauty should not be allowed to set foot in the Vincennes Glove Co. ‘the Eire Abu Society does not recognize such sexual shenanigans. Women like you should be sent to the mines… ply your dark trade there, madam, and leave us alone’. While this was happening the man in the hat sat facing the Waymart clock waiting for the little hand to pass the big hand. He felt uncomfortable around angry people, preferring the tick tock of the Waymart clock to arguments, won or lost, that made fools of everyone except he. Gretchen Micomicona let go with a gush of anger ‘how dare you, madam!’ the bootmaker’s wife shrinking in fright. The curate of Churchdown Cecil Basingstoke, known for his high teas and low morals, chastised the bookmaker’s wife and Gretchen Micomicona, the blood in his temples reaching untold of duress.

Under a hodgepodge of eel skin, left behind after the dogmen harvest their catch, under a fichus tree, one of many that surround the aqueduct, the man in the hat found a notebook; and in the notebook was written the following:

Un solo hombre ha nacido, un solo hombre ha muerto en la tierra.
Afirmar lo contrario es mera estadística, es una adición imposible.

In all the world one man has lived, one man has died.
To insist otherwise is nothing more than statistics, an impossible extension.

Jorge Luis Borges

As curious as curious can be the man in the hat read on, hoping to discover the secret, a simple fraction, an into or out of, something he could say he’d learned but couldn’t say how or why. Sursee Aargau belittled the dogmen for leaving behind ‘such a god’s awful mess’, the grassland surrounding the aqueduct littered with eels skins and belly guts.

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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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