Brushing the dust from your clothes, you make your way into the town, as if
it has been waiting for you all your life, but the town knows nothing of your
existence, even after you have spent years wandering its streets. Footsteps
clump past your tiny room each night.
The same door slams shut at the end of the corridor. Someone calls
your name. The voice is always behind you, no matter how many times you turn
We button up our collars and coats. A woman stares out from behind a curtain.
Attitudes have hardened. You stutter at the crucial moment, the frame of a
dead language pressed over your tongue. There is still a possibility to draw
back, assume a role in order to
survive. Faith steers shy, nourishes itself, like a heart, in darkness. All
kinds of trivia enter the story: your cough in the empty street, a stone in
your shoe as we reach the edge of the city. The tale unfolds, a far cry from
what we expected.
NOT WHILE WE CARE
A man flew down the corridor. Perhaps he had something to say, but if he had,
he didnít stop to say it. So runs the thread. The prodigal returns to a house
smelling of stewed apples, although his mother, unknown to him, has been dead
for ten years. Not all the senses meet as once designed. The process takes
the form of a doorbell ringing, dots joined up on a graph, a meaning
discerned for the first time where previously the pattern was invisible.
Empty of resources, a new beginning is possible, no winner, no loser. A
perceived end has nothing to do, finally, with us.
AND LASTLY THE BEGINNER
A sense of playfulness helped us in our industry. Helpless as a freshly
peeled egg, another time you held up your hand, made obscene gestures to
passers by on the wooden pavement in the little town. Still, we were made to
feel welcome in each place we came to, an affection perhaps spoken too soon
since no kiss was allowed to land on your sleeping face, a loving moment bent
out of all proportion. No insult could last. Absent-mindedly we walked on
ice. You came to believe in the importance of the moment, twisting to reach
out while you still could, knots untied.
WITHOUT A WORD
A figure ran towards me in grey light. I watched you disappear into the
forest, afraid, yet ready for whatever the message might contain, perhaps a
whisper of waves as I wondered how I could have lived any other life, the old
patterns broken, nothing yet to take their place, though the rest would
return soon enough if we scared into acceptance. Small fish darted in dark
spaces, trust up for grabs. A
sharp cry contained all crucial elements. Footsteps drew closer. Eyes closed,
Ian Seed 2005