Cease worry about the time when a thing was done; cease worry about time, it is the thing being done. Definitions shall fall down ripe, of their own weight, like fruit. Drop definitions! Uproot the great tree of things past, the birds in the branches have stopped singing, the spiders stopped spinning, squirrels are still. Heave-ho. Gentle white house in the twist and wind of a way to the sea, gate swings open lurking in the mind, girl runs down the step, ribbon in hair is tied in a bow, down another step, barefoot to the tree to clasp with both hands the stringy growths from the branches and to let go off the ground —— who cares about America —— to cling with both hands to those aerial roots and be lifted off the feet by the momentum.
No photo album, no telltale sign. She is brushing away a drawing in the sand by the sea with her hand and her foot. There is no such thing today. Now will it be so tomorrow? Who knows what strange thing this is. We ought to consult the thought of another but what we even once knew seems to vanish. Forces gone, images surface like weed caught in a tide but no helping hand, no welcome, no handshake to hold them. They are free.
Roots of the great tree flow down from the branches. Swing, swing, borne aloft on an arc a little for a while, hands raw from the grip on what is not forever. Hands soiled from the sap. Aerial roots are good for a push and a leap.
Tree overswung by a gale from the western sea, lying on its side. Branches take root, the new grows up from itself, roots hang down from the new branches, the figs are dull red, filled with seed, they burst when they hit the ground being ripe, and sometimes a tree becomes an intertwined forest. Aged women come for kindling under the trees uncertain if the vast is one or many, they call out at dusk when the red light is going —— Theodolinda, Escholastica, Mafalda, Matilda, Carmelina, Santanna, Angelina, Eremita ——each one to the other, they call out making certain that the other is there.
Noise overhead speaks of no meaning. Planes brushing past each other, impinging, no certitude of intent. Then thuds, squeaks, something falls on the floor. Metal balls, small as playthings, drop and roll repeatedly, drop and roll, someone is doing it, drop and roll, somebody there to pick up the drop and begin again or an infinity of globules to roll noisily. Aimless bed-shiftings on the floor above, then chairs pulled, drawers slowly drawn open, the squeak shatters nerves, adjustments in the arrangements. Lights are out.
O Mafalda, Theodolinda, Emilia, Lazarina, Baptista, Santanna, Caetano —— suns burning out at some time, galaxies rushing away from each other —— does it end, Aurora, Dolorosa? All will grow cold and dark, and then? Something else? O God, must one hold this in the heart! Strike the dharma drum of sweet dew. Show the way to nirvana.
TWO
A drummer is on the road outside going to join a wedding band. Brass buttons shine on the player's suit, shiny braid on the sleeves catching rays of a sun that is setting.....
Helena Joshee
Panjim, Goa
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