Waiting for the Tress

 “Odysseus is the greatest expatriate ever” M. Kundera

I am contemplating on journeying most of the time. At a noon far away… anywhere. A child emerges from the hazy trees. I was on the way to find him. The old and the new are waiting, and they will become the new. One, two, hazy. The road was lengthy; and indefinite like the path of an explorer.

Catharsis. Returning home from the crowds. What is a journey? It is a sensation that goes on night and day, a search for fullness. Does it belong to eternity? Most of the time, freedom succeeds death. We are forgiven and we return; that is because we are dead and we need to return to our bed.

Together with me, in a far away country. A little trip in order to avoid arriving. A notebook that I have brought with myself when I came into a new life: a Raphaelesque Head Exploding. I heeded little importance to it when I first took it in my hand. It looked more like me as I wrote; for some time, I had even been thinking it was me.  It is as if we are connected to each other with a linear reality. Or the interval for starting to write… I was enchanted since it coincided with a mysterious intersection.  

I am where I know. I never was where I had been present. I thought I was far away from home, in a land of prairies and dust.  Icy waters still.  I came to the past; now, to the time holding the child.

 “From a certain point onward there is no longer any turning back. That is the point that must be reached.”  F.Kafka

The movement grows weary during moments of run down immersion. In reality, falling is scary, like waking up from a nightmare. Sometimes, you cannot get rid of fear no matter how groundless it is. The relationship between departure and return is one where they are dependent on each other no matter how different they seem. Return coincides with departure and sets off. The discovery of the fraternal twin of reality.

“It was as if I was someone who didn’t know the ancient language of the boughs in the night” L.Aragon

The child is scared when the trees are dark. I hear them in the land of universal voices and solitude. They stand where the sky and the land collide. The land of memories and recollections before the oblivion… A few drops of silence. Like a stranger from space who has landed on the earth but has been left and forgotten on this earth at this off beaten track of the gigantic universe. I fled from the games of marriage. The air is still. I am watching the lizards and the snakes. The crowd makes my words stick to my throat: Resistance. “Yes, I am confusing the now and the past”; a poet father had said. My grandfather is an authentic day recorder; wallowed in the “dust of time” in the bags of white flour with their old agendas in the back room: What a melancholic day… 16.11.09

I am observing where I am closer to. I forgot the language of the trees as much as I forgot my own language. Their dance is ecstatic; the wind blows from one momentary touch to another. The whiteness in the sky has gotten out of its cocoon and we have begun weaving the new return hand in hand.

“It is time it were time / It is time.” P. Celan 


Madison, Wisconsin, USA