A fictional rendition of the story of King Dasharatha from the Ramayana

Dasharatha could hear the mynas and macaques above him mixed with the squawking peacocks. The young king could not remember this large pond and was happy to find such a serene spot. Wearing only a dhoti, he kneeled down next to the water and splashed some on his burnt face.  “This is a good place to rest for the night,” he sighed, as he placed his bow and things down beside the large tree. He squinted around and between the trees feeling like he was being watched.

Consent

In his earliest years Dasharatha was told by the palace’s pundits (priests), “The spirits of the Gods are with you and growing as you grow. They are with you as no man before.”  During his coronation, a hawk was seen hovering over him. This cemented their belief (and therefore his) that he was destined to lead his people in conquering and settling new land.

Dasharatha‘s palace guru (teacher), Bhargava, was responsible for his education, which included lessons on governance, philosophy, and religion. Bhargava also taught Dasharatha how to hunt.

There was one thing that the Guru was unwilling to teach his pupil. A skill that few beings that walked the Earth were privileged to have. Bhargava was reluctant to share this special skill with him because Dasharatha was from the warrior caste and might be susceptible to the improper use of this knowledge. After many years of Dasharatha’s begging and promising not to misuse the skill an old Guru Bhargava finally gave in and taught him. The skill was a special type of archery. By just hearing the sound of the target, no matter where it was, the archer could shoot it. He did not need to see the prey or enemy.

Ever obedient to his guru, as the years passed, Dasharatha did not consider using the special skill outside the presence and watchful eye of Bhargava.

The years passed and Dasharatha became King. Times were good in Armagarh under Dasharatha’s reign, and there was finally peace with the other clans after a long history of bloodshed. During these calm times, Dasharatha, being a warrior, fell victim to his restlessness and often went off hunting alone. He often came upon several large and fearsome creatures, and had the opportunity to kill them, but he never did. Each time he was about to release his arrows he suddenly lost the desire to hunt. He felt the targets were too easy and not a challenge to his superior archery skills. Over the years he became increasingly bored and frustrated that he was unable to engage in a real challenge by practicing the secret skill and began to question Guru Bhargava’s cautiousness.

Ceremonies

Kneeling by the large pond, Dasharatha again began questioning his guru. “That old Bhargava worries too much,” Dasharatha muttered to himself. The young King sighed, and reminded himself of his promise. Picking up a branch, he scratched a circle in the dirt around the tree up to the edge of the still pond. Tossing the branch aside, he stepped into the circle and uttered a few protective prayers under his breath. He flopped down against the tree. Dasharatha watched the sun set between the hills in the distance when he heard some rustling from the path behind him. A bearded Sadhu (holy man) with grey, matted hair walked by him with a walking stick. He wore a spotted deerskin hide and his bag clanked every time he took a step.

The Sadhu stopped and turned to look back at Dasharatha. “I hope you aren’t going to rob me because the Gods would consider that…inauspicious,” he smiled, showing his yellow teeth.

Dasharatha appreciated the old man’s humor. Gesturing to his bow and quiver, he replied, “No Sadhu, I am hunting. Although you are scaring away my animals with all that noise you are making. You seem a little out of the way though. Where are you off to?”

The Sadhu recognized the hunter as the young King of Armagarh. “I am on my way to your palace from our settlements in the south. We have been attacked while performing our sacred ceremonies.”  He looked away from Dasharatha to look at the pond and then looked up at the dusky sky. “Your Highness, you have found a nice spot and if you don’t mind I will also rest here tonight.”

Corruption

Dasharatha started a small fire between the tree and the pond. The old man watched quietly in the orange glow as the King walked around in the dark picking up some more branches to keep them warm.

“That’s a very nice bow your Highness. I imagine that you don’t want for much. Why would you want to hunt?”

Dasharatha dropped the branches into the pile next to the fire. “It’s in my family’s nature to be spirited and determined.”

“Yes, and courageous, I suppose.” The Sadhu continued, “I imagine that as the King of Armagarh, you can do whatever you please, and can have whatever you wish.”

Dasharatha squatted across the fire from the old man. He snapped a few twigs before tossing them into the fire. “That is not the case. I have learned an amazing skill from my guru that I am still not allowed to use.”  Dasharatha explained his archery skill and how his guru made him promise to never use it outside of his Guru’s presence.

The old man got up suddenly and exclaimed, “I am so impressed and blessed to have found you! It is a powerful skill not only for hunting but for protecting our rights to these lands that our tribes have fought so hard for. King Dasharatha, we need you to lead your armies with this great Gods given skill!”

Dasharatha looked steadily at the excited old man. It bothered him how the Sadhu did not avert his eyes. It annoyed him that he put this thought into his mind, he knew that he could easily do this. After many centuries of his people wandering and then arriving in this land, they had finally started to mix and live peacefully with the ancient inhabitants. He could not understand why there were all these sudden attacks by them.

His spies had told him that Ravana, the old King of Lanka was busy with the internal affairs and building of the infrastructure of his own kingdom. He had also heard about the great things that King Ravana did, like the amount of time he spent time in the mountains with yogis learning meditations. Dasharatha did not agree with many of his pundits who insisted that it was their people’s duty, coming from their Gods, to continue on and conquer Lanka along with their Gods.

Leaving these thoughts, he looked away and laughed. “I may be King, but I must always follow my gurus.”

“Your skill would make you a greater king and it is going to waste.”

Waving his hand, Dasharatha replied to the Sadhu, “My greatness will not come from this power alone, but by respecting my role. Besides, there is nothing lost or wasted in this life.”

The old man became quiet and stared into the embers of the fire as if annoyed about how the conversation was going. The pot of water on the fire started to boil and a breeze made the night feel colder.

“We are going to need a bigger fire. I will collect some more wood.” Dasharatha got up and started looking around the large tree. When he had his back to the fire, the Sadhu sprinkled some brown powder into the water from the tip of his fingers. The old man then poured some of the hot water for himself and Dasharatha.

“You probably don’t even know how to perform this special archery skill without your guru with you.”

Dasharatha came back to fire and dropped a few more branches into the pile. He was growing tired and ignored the obviously baiting comment. He took the hot water from the Sadhu and chuckled, “Either way, I am glad to have your company Sadhu. I did not get your name…?”

The old man’s black eyes went from the pot back to fire and he watched the embers glow. “I am also pleased to meet you. I hope you guess my name.”

“What a strange person,” Dasharatha thought to himself. He leaned his head back against the tree and closed his eyes.

Substance

The glow of the fire formed an orange halo in the blackness of forest that surrounded them. The holy man was asleep on his side with the flames lapping against his back. Dasharatha’s head started to nod when he heard the deafening sound of what seemed like hundreds of elephants in the distance. The sounds were then followed by the shouting and marching steps of soldiers, their rattling swords and the beating of drums. His throat tightened. They were the sounds of King Ravana’s army. The fire went out, and the pond’s surface and the top of the large tree caught on fire as streaking torch tipped arrows rained down on them. Dasharatha and the old man both quickly scattered behind the trunk of the large tree.

The Sadhu frantically looked to Dasharatha and nudged the bow and quiver towards him, “Now is your chance to prove that your power works! Show me! Save us and I will tell all the people how a great King cut down King Ravana and his army!”

Dasharatha’s body was drenched from his sweat and his blood boiled with anger. He slowly reached for his bow and felt it at the tip of his fingers. “How could I be such a fool thinking that there was peace?!” he exclaimed.

“It is okay if you do this! Seek refuge in the knowledge of Brahman and perform this action with your heart fixed on the Supreme Lord!”

Arrows continued to rain down all around them and the ground shook harder from the approaching army each second. Dasharatha closed his eyes and forced his hand away from the bow. The old man’s eyes widened, “No! What at are you doing? You are going to doom us all!”

It somehow became very evident to Dasharatha that this was a test. He drew on his teachings and quoted, “Should even my enemy arrive at my doorstep, he should be attended upon with respect. A tree does not withdraw its cooling shade even from the one who has come to cut it.”

A sudden heavy wall of rain poured down for several minutes and put out the fires. Dasharatha sat in the steaming ashes completely puzzled about what was happening and also about why the Sadhu was now nowhere to be seen. Dasharatha looked down at his drenched dhoti and, exhausted, he fell over into the mud asleep.

Temptation

Dasharatha was awoken by the earth rumbling underneath his body. “Is this another attack?” he asked himself while pulling himself up against the wet tree.

The ground beneath him surged into the air until he was coming to the height of the tallest mountains and could see the Gods’ kingdoms nestled in the clouds. For the first time could see his own kingdom’s settlements and outposts on the tip of the land bordering the island of Lanka. He even had a vision of all the kingdoms of the world including those of the snake, bear and monkey people. Their glory stood before his eyes and his jaw dropped in awe.

The Sadhu stepped forward with his walking stick to stand next to him and paused as if also to appreciate the view. “All these shall be yours; you shall be the king of all the earth if you obey me and use your power.”

Dasharatha was shocked and quickly became aware of the absurdity of his surroundings. He pushed the Sadhu to the ground and stood over him, “Leave me and my kingdom. I am King and will serve my role. Go and perform your rituals and superstition elsewhere!”

Instantly, as if awoken from a dream, they were back next to the tree and the large pond. The old man smirked and became quiet again. The sun was now slowly coming up with the sounds of the morning birds chirping. As Dasharatha watched, the Sadhu got up, dusted himself off, and started to walk, disappearing into the forest. Dasharatha looked down to notice the footprints all over the inside of his protective circle and that the Sadhu had left behind his walking stick. “I still don’t know his stupid name,” he muttered.

Regret

After getting some sleep Dasharatha washed himself in the pond and then meditated under the shade of the large tree. The sun was hot again and the macaques of the forest were back to their howling. He smiled as he got up, becoming pleased with himself. He thought about how the Gods probably witnessed his mystical trials with what was probably a demon in disguise. “I can’t wait to tell Guru Bhargava about all this! He might also finally now trust me to use the skill without him.”

Dasharatha bent over to pick up his pot from the ground and drank what was left of the water. He walked up to the pond and started rinsing the pot when he noticed the growing cloudiness within the pond. He took a step back. He started to hear a hum. His reflection remained still as the reflections of the tree and sky transformed behind him into something unworldly. He looked up to see that the sky was still blue. Dasharatha stepped further back, frightened. The entire pond transformed into the deepest darkness, chaos, and what felt like infinite vastness. Knowing this was not his imagination, he felt as though his heart was going to jump out of his chest. The sound of the hum grew louder.

A deep and familiar voice spoke to him, “Oh, so you can see me?”  Dasharatha could not tell if the voice was coming from inside him or from inside the pond. As painful as it was he could not turn his eyes away from the churning images. He felt horror and euphoria at the same time. It was sublime. The voice spoke again, “Would you like me to reveal myself to you?”

No words could form in Dasharatha’s head or leave his lips. He felt that he was being pulled apart into pieces the size of grains of sand, as if he kept watching that he would disappear.  “Was this…?” he thought. It hurt too much. “Please, no!” he finally cried.

The images disappeared; the pond returned to the reflections of the tree and blue sky. The normal sounds of the forest returned. Dasharatha looked at his hands. He then touched his chest and his legs. Oddly he felt fine, like nothing had happened, and cautiously stepped out of his circle feeling exhilaration. “I can’t wait to get back to my palace and tell my wives about these mystical experiences!” Dasharatha thought. He eagerly grabbed his bow and stopped in his tracks.

Cocking his ear up to listen carefully the young king thought he could hear a small deer several miles away. He looked down at the Sadhu’s walking stick and kicked it into the brushes. “Haven’t I proven myself to the Gods? After these trials, isn’t killing a small deer a harmless enough act?” Dasharatha launched his arrow and pushed on into the forest as a small boy with the darkest blue skin watched intently from a branch of the tree.

The new student came to consult with his advisor in order to establish his curriculum. The professor tried to point out to him the nobility of culture and while doing so was attempt­ing to discover the freshman’s tendencies,

“What is your prospective major?”

“I did not make up my mind yet.”

“Is there something that attracts you especially?”

“Well, you know, not really. Gee! Nothing turns me on.”

“Do you mean that everything amounts to the same for you?”

“Yeah, more or less.”

“Perfect, we are going to make out of you a Renaissance man,”

“What do you want to say by that?”

“That we are going to try a bit of everything.”

“Like what?”

“An introduction to philosophy, a course of universal history, human geography, theory of music . .

“That’s plenty.”

“And next term Sanskrit, Hebrew, Greek, Latin.”

“Why all dead languages?”

“That is only the beginning, then you will take Italian, Spanish, Provençal, Catalan, French, German, Esperanto.”

“Why an artificial language?”

“To correspond with your Asiatic and Scandinavian friends, unless you prefer to study Swedish, Chinese, Urdu instead.”

“No, that’s enough for the first year. And then?

“Perhaps Biology, to know the mysteries of life, and later Physics and Chemistry, and all natural sciences.”

“That seems quite a lot”

“But you want to be an accomplished young gentleman who can hold a decent conversation when called to the Learning Skills Center for a check up”

“And what about my body? Didn’t the Ancients say “Corpore sano sine mentis?”

“You mean “mens”. No, let’s forget that, of course you’ll have to play ball, swim and lift weights but let’s not under­estimate the importance of mathematics.~

“But I know my four operations pretty well”

“With modern maths you have to start again from scratch and go up to cybernetics, randomness, stochastic series,and computer science.”

“It’s quite a program, and then?”

“Of course, you have to be introduced to the science of finance, know your economics, be able to budget the deficit of the Ministry of Treasure in the next quinquennium, perhaps even to convert your miles, pounds, gallons into their metrical equivalent.”

“Is this a new fad?”

“According to my butcher it’s a new form of torture, but how would we be able to sell our coke to the Russian before the Chinese stole our market?”

“True. But after all that can I obtain my B.A.?”

“Yes, but you have to think in terms of an M.A. if you want at least to become a garbage collector, or in terms of a Ph.D. if you want to be on the welfare payroll in 2020”

“And what else can I study if I want to be more than a Ph.D.? A member of the Academy or something like that?”

“You have to become more familiar with numismatic and pedology, philatelics and tribology, astronautics and ento­mology, Bask and Schwitzerdutsch, Ugro-Finnic languages and structuralism, linguistics and phenomenology.”

“And after that?”

“After that you can publish articles, books, treatises, essays, encyclopedias on your findings.”

“And after that?”

“After that you will be invited to the White House for a reception with Gallo wine and cheddar cheese.”

“And after that?”

“Think of God and study all religions, schismastic and charismatic.”

“And after that?”

“After that, well, after that perhaps you can rest.”

“But why také the trouble to go through all that instead of resting right now, to begin with?”

P.S.There is a variant conclusion to the story. “Besides, Professor, I know that at this point Ionesco would give me a toothache, but the Super Bowl is on, so may I be excused to watch it? We’ll continue this some other time,..”

I have a recurrent dream in which I am flying over a large body of turquoise water. The air is balmy, the water is deep, transparent, welcoming.  Just as I am about to plunge, I wake up.

I have been flying every since I was a little girl, back when propeller planes where the norm  and the word security evoked a mother’s embrace, a glass of warm milk and the certainty that all was well with the world.

All is not well with the world today, yet I continue to fly because as we all know, or should know, flying is the safest mode of transportation per passenger mile. Yes, that is how statisticians calculate our chances of making it or not making it at the end of the run.  But we do make it and we do repeat our performance year after year, holiday after holiday, conference after conference or as the whim strikes us.

But flying is not what it used to be. In many ways it is much better, smoother, safer. In other ways, the thrill has become mundane, the aggravations that precede a flight a trifle annoying, not to say distasteful, the rewards taken for granted. But that is not the airplane’s fault, but our own. We have become jaded with flying, with  what was Da Vinci’s greatest dream  and the stuff of which myth and  legend  are made. Garuda , half-man and half eagle, carried the wisdom of the Vedas on his wings to inspire generations  of Hindus in their search for the truth. Icarus suffered a meltdown when he flew away from Crete and carelessly got too close to the sun. Quetzalcoatl, half-serpent, half-bird, flew away from his Aztec home only to sail back centuries later in the guise of a bearded Spaniard.

My own experiences with flying are more modest, but no less visceral for that. When I was a little girl, my parents had a little cabin in the mountains to which we retreated over the long winter break from school in Mexico City. To get there, we had to take the milk plane, or more accurately, the chicken plane, for I remember the hens cackling in their cages at the back of  the small plane. People gave little thought to what we now call security concerns, but Mexico in the late forties was in the throes of a foot-and-mouth epidemic that threatened to decimate the livestock of the country and its economy as well. In order to prevent the spread of disease, passengers had to wipe their feet on a sawdust  trough soaked in disinfectant before boarding the plane. I tripped and fell flat on my face. A kindly airhostess, for that is what female flight attendants  were called in those days, picked me up, carried me to the plane, took me to the lavatory and wiped my face and dress clean. I don’t remember my body having hurt, but I still remember the injury to my pride.

Flying became an exciting adventure when our whole family  went to India in 1949. My Indian-born father had been invited on a long-term agricultural  mission and we were to fly after him. First we rode a bus from Mexico City to New York, which took several days and several nights. It is all a blur in my mind.  Then we flew from New York to Europe, via Gander, Scotland and Belgium. In Gander we stopped to refuel. It was winter and the trek from the plane to the small terminal was rather longish. I had never seen snow in my life, so I scooped some in my bare hands and was surprised by the way it stuck to my palms making them bleed. After living in Canada for thirty-two years I now know better and wear nothing but mittens in different thermal grades.

At some point in our week-long trip we flew over Istanbul, but for some reason, did not land there. I still remember the sight of a brightly-lit crescent moon coasting dark waters. It  looked like a diamond necklace,  a fitting sight for passengers riding in a Super Constellation. Many years later in Canada during the eighties  I would  get to see an old Super Constellation converted into a pesticide-spraying plane for agricultural use. That was a far cry from a plane that had  proper beds in first class and lavatories with several stalls and washbasins surrounded by ample counters. But it looks like the beds at least are making a comeback.

In 1965 I had to fly from New Delhi to Mexico City via Italy. This was my first experience with jet planes and with the fear of remaining stranded in the middle of nowhere without the proper documentation  or sufficient money in your pocket.  After an overnight stay in Rome I headed back to the airport in the airline bus (yes, in those days the airlines would provide transportation from their downtown office to the airport free of charge) where I discovered I had been bumped off due to overbooking. The term didn’t exist then, but the concept was beginning to creep into airline culture. My desperate tears, my obvious lack of money and the fact that the next connecting flight was one week away softened the heart of the airline employee who upgraded me to first class where I was treated to champagne.

In the sixty-odd years  that I have been flying as a passenger, I have had many adventures, all of which ended very well. During a flight to India over the Middle East the pilot said: “Oops, we have to move over, the military say we are encroaching on their airspace”. I was not paying attention to the announcement because  I was busy snapping a photograph of a plane flying over our right wing as if wishing to give it a friendly nudge. We had just been intercepted!

During my first flight to the Soviet Union in the late seventies the plane took off from Mirabel Airport in Montreal as if it were a fighter jet, straight up. I was later told that any Aeroflot aircraft, while civilian, could be quickly stripped of its seats to become a fighter jet in no time, and that commercial  pilots  were actually  military pilots in mufti. I do not know whether this was true or not, but I found the flight thrilling.

During a recent flight from Montreal to Chicago, our small feeder airline  plane suddenly dipped its left wing, dived towards lake Michigan and then quickly  recovered its altitude and  righted its course again. I heard a few muffled cries from the passengers, one of which might have been my own. But it was nothing. Or rather, it was something, something to be thankful for:  our deft pilot had just managed to stop us from getting sucked into the wake of a large jet. Such close calls are the effects of decreased vertical and horizontal separation between planes, which in plain language translates into crowded skies. But not to worry, highly sophisticated equipment and an ever-vigilant satellite navigation system make sure that planes do not collide. Not often, anyway.

On another flight from Chicago to Montreal, bad weather forced the cancellation of hundreds of flights throughout the United States and Canada but I managed to get the last plane out of O’Hare. Climbing out of that heavy snowfall felt like trying to surface  through whipped cream but when we cleared the weather system, we were rewarded with the sight of an unbroken circular rainbow made up of several rings. Apparently all rainbows are complete circles but we are seldom high enough in the skies to see the complete picture. Yes, Dorothy, it is indeed possible to fly over the rainbow…  .

Such sublime experiences, however, don’t have to be the result of bad weather. I once took a short sightseeing flight along the Himalayan range out of Katmandu airport. As soon as we were seated, the pilot warned us not to get up when we neared the range to have a better look since the passengers seated on the wrong side would get a good view on the return leg. When the snow-capped mountains appeared in all their glory most passengers disregarded the captain’s instructions and almost tilted the small plane to one side. Perhaps because I had  behaved myself and remained seated I was rewarded with an invitation to the cockpit to get a better look. Perhaps. I can now understand why so many people have risked their lives and some of them lost it, just to get a glimpse of Mount Everest radiantly facing the sun.

Talking about cockpits, have you ever eaten an ice-cream cone while sitting on the jump seat watching the plane moving along the centerline of the tarmac? I have, courtesy of  the airline that had bumped me off, and very rightly so, for having arrived late. But they let me ride in the cockpit so I wouldn’t miss my business appointment  the following morning. Unfortunately, by the time we left Malaga and reached Madrid, I had no more ice-cream left.

Flying in a chopper is, pardon the pun, a choppy experience, especially if the craft is hovering over Niagara Falls. There you feel as if the cataracts are sucking your  innards  out of your body. Stomach-churning is the only description that comes to mind. But hey, who wouldn’t pay this price to see  the Falls away from their tacky surroundings! On another helicopter ride I was surprised to see the snow that still lingered on the crest of Whistler Mountains even in summer.

Gliding is what I imagine heaven feels like. The sight of a Quebec pasture with tiny cows  while you are sitting in the cockpit of a glider is an almost mystical experience. After you get over the initial shock of  disengaging from the motorized plane  that tows you up, and the sensation of  having your umbilical cord abruptly cut off,  you are ready to enjoy absolute silence and stillness. And the landing is as easy and as gentle as that of a timid  paper plane landing on the teacher’s desk.

Flying in a balloon is similar to gliding, but with a touch of elegant retro glamour. I did not get to fly over the Loire Valley in France, but did experience the luminosity of the Arizona desert at sunrise. Our pilot miscalculated and made us land on a golf-course which annoyed the golfers but a good-will toast from our stash of  mimosas  mollified their irritation.

Flying as a passenger is one thing. Piloting your own plane is another.  After going to ground school for weeks trying to understand the physics of flying,  the mechanics of the cockpit and the vagaries of the weather, I took one glorious thirty-minute flying lesson out of St. Hubert Airport on the South Shore of the  St. Lawrence River. I taxied on the runway until the instructor ordered “take-off!”. I understood it was now or never, so I did just that. I took a deep breath and took off. Just like that.  Once in the air, the plane started bucking like a skittish horse. I tried to hand over the controls to the instructor who ignored my pleas and told me it was quite normal on account of the breeze. He then instructed me to turn around a low hill and to return to the airport where he would land the plane for me. While we were up there he asked me to admire the scenery which I was too terrified to do. The following morning, when I woke up stiff and aching,  I understood that the instructor had been merely  trying to get me to relax.  I have not taken any more flying lessons because you have to drive  to get to the airport and I am afraid of driving.

I have been talking about the joys of flying but have not mentioned airports. Airports are a necessary evil. They  have become cities onto themselves with their own shops, places of worship, clinics, hotels, streets, plazas, food-courts and even jails. Yes, there are mini jails in some airports where the customs and immigration authorities have the power to detain unruly passengers or stop undesirable people from stepping onto foreign soil. They are then handed over to the proper authorities. But that is a well-guarded secret. Forget I said anything.

Once while waiting for our plane to depart  from Amsterdam on our way to New Delhi, I asked a novice  flight attendant why our flight was delayed. He explained that a couple of passengers were missing. I asked him whether he had tried the Casino (yes, there is a Casino  and even a museum at Schiphol Airport). He answered he hadn’t had a chance. What I had meant to say was that the passengers were most probably delayed there! When the flight attendant saw me fiddling with my eyeglasses because a screw had fallen off its hinges, he volunteered the Captain’s services to fix it.  “Does he have the necessary tools?” I asked. “His cockpit is fully equipped” he told me proudly.

So while  modern airline crew members might not wipe the muddy face of a weeping child you can be sure they will certainly  fix her eyeglasses sixty years down the road. That is a comforting thought.

Yet I would rather dream of flying over a large body of   turquoise water than actually have to endure the vicissitudes of post 9/11 travel. Really.

“Hello, did you just say that there is a special on flights to the Caribbean? Get me two tickets please!”

Welcome to the Hotel Chanson de Geste, for once again it is pillow mint in Paris time, where the Frosty Jacques and Tom Peepers crowd the Sunday street like savages to supper, and sing how they’ll stand tippy-toes on the brink of infinity, or thereabouts, and tell in tune how they value their lives no more than a pigeon and no less than a prince. It’s here I first see you, smiling above the godless heights of their lowdown voices. It’s here I stitch my narrative threadbare.

I don’t know you, and because of this, I don’t know myself. In this glorious nowhere, where once memories gathered murk, we drink of dandelion and burdock, talking of towns we once walked, and play innocent in a deceased century of monocle-fogged ankle-gazers, looking to let their minds race around the swell of honeydew, beaded between your nape and nectar.

For you, I’d gladly stumble seven deadly snowbanks, buttons undone and daring, snow-blind to icy looks and cold stares, my warm front moving in my old country ways, and sway away from highballs and holy-rollers, to perchance Freudian slip into someone more comfortable, someone cannibal-friendly.

I watch you watch me climb a streetlamp above the minstrels and music. In carnival-text I testify to all the white-laid and paper-cut people of how they’ll live long with lives tucked inside short pants, their thoughts shivering like a couple of elderly, tweed passengers in their skull, taken hostage for seventy-oddball years, where the candy-bright kiss-and-makers are hollow on the outside, always looking inside where wolves at the door look out for lambs dressed to slaughter their thirst for long-wrist, mutton-mouthed mamas, with nipples making points where t-shirt slogans suffer, and the fruits of their labor are kiwi-fuzzed and parted in Bengali-pink promise, to break in and steal away heartfelt words like big, brass bandits.

I pause, inhaling all of France in winter in a lone breath. The gypsy troupe rap their fingers across their flugelhorns and trumpets. My eyes lock down on a blurred, papier-mâché man in the crowd, seizing something inside him that punches through his public face, and with my human tongue I inform him that if he puts down a towel, life pulls up its pants, and if he takes a wander to wonder why, that old kitten-sack river rolls belly-side up, exposing an imposing ex, posing with her new, cricket-faced, arm-scratched beau, and they shall look through each other with September in their eyes and June on their lips.

The papier-mâché man collapses like a marionette cut loose. I descend the streetlamp and make my way through the crowd, toward your secretarial smile and wishing well eyes, toward the woman that sees me as I see myself, the darling one who finishes sentences I’ve yet to begin. The gypsy troupe open their throats and wail of ancient legends. I en-wrap your coffee-warm hand in mine, and in silent surrender we ascend the steps of the Hotel Chanson de Geste, for once again it is pillow mint in Paris time, and our time begins now.

Of late, however, this hitherto productive sea has been churning, spewing out not fresh fish but stale discontent.  Several moons ago a satyr who lives in the boot kissed the hand of a madman who lives in a bunker presumably for  having initiated him into the mysteries of the bunga bunga. Or was it to exchange gold for oil? And many more moons before that another descendant of the Pharaohs fell off  his seat as his heart was  pierced by a shard of metal leaving his seat vacant which was promptly warmed  by his best man. This new Pharaoh only gave up his seat when it became too hot. Such stories are the stuff of which epics are made.

Why should people, people started asking,  starve to death  in a land that has  produced a  diet that health gurus claim ensures longevity? So the inhabitants of this land of plenty surrounding this deep blue sea  have learned a new word: R-E-V-O-L-T. First somebody whispered this word to someone else who  twitted it to a third person who pressed the send button and copied it to a fourth person until it hit  Facebook. Images went viral, imaginations were inflamed.  People took to the streets. Because, you see,  newspapers can run out of newsprint and TV screens can go blank  and journalists can meet untimely death, and the internet can suddenly freeze, but the voice of the people cannot be silenced.

Actions have consequences. Some bad rulers have been run off the land, others have been kicked into the sea and some have taken flight. Blood has trickled and then flowed, tainting the once azure waters the color of rust.  Who will replace them is a question that sages are still pondering.

But if actions have consequences, how come it is only the people under the boot who are restless? Not so! Take a closer look at the mappemonde. Inside the boot you will see the women with their brooms chasing away the satyr who once kissed the hand of the madman who taught him the bunga bunga.

I now know for sure that Santa Claus does exist, provided you believe in him, and that my parents were indeed very much mine, thanks to the laws of consanguinity and bonding. You see, my sister had only been trying to test the dual tenets of transparency and freedom of information.

Or had she?

© Ludmila Armata

Les rayons du soleil sont diffus en cette matinée fraîche. Ils dissipent l’humidité du printemps naissant et jettent leur lustre sur l’angle de ce muret en perçant un filet de lumière qui se glisse dans l’interstice de la façade de pierre pour couler le long d’une fente et aboutir comme une lame de rasoir là où on voit danser des fibres de poussière. Cet espace créé devient la cible d’un cafard qui avance gauchement, trébuchant sur la paille désordonnée, et traverse le faisceau lumineux pour être aperçu par ce barbu grisonnant qui cherche à l’atteindre en allongeant le bras droit. Il lui manque un doigt pour le toucher, mais comme il se dresse voulant se donner plus d’extension, il tire sur la chaîne déjà tendue et la douleur aiguë causée par les fers qui enserrent son poignet devient insupportable, l’obligeant à renoncer à sa proie. Le cafard continue sa route et s’éloigne irrévocablement hors d’atteinte sous l’observation hagarde du supplicié dont la pointe d’élancement se noie bientôt dans sa carcasse marquée de maux de différentes intensités qui se mêlent, se superposent et finissent par n’être qu’une masse informe et endolorie, secouée par des gémissements que depuis longtemps personne n’entend plus. Il s’efforce de deviner la plaie cachée par les fers qui menottent son poignet gauche et glisse le petit doigt pour sentir s’il reste encore de la chair sur ses os, mais la partie couverte de son avant-bras est tellement ankylosée que même en grattant avec son ongle noirci, la sensation est presque absente. Sous l’ongle, une pâte poisseuse se ramasse et son odeur putride lui fait monter plus d’acide dans l’estomac, le forçant à se tordre davantage.

© Ludmila Armata

Par moments, il regrette les premiers temps où des pensées plus claires lui venaient. Il se disait alors que, malgré les souffrances de son corps, son esprit lui appartenait. Les passages de son bourreau qui ouvrait sa geôle pour offrir à des spectateurs sadiques une séance de torture avec une chaîne ou une pierre lui avait rompu la colonne vertébrale et enlevé toute sensation des jambes. Maintenant, il se pisse dessus sans ressentir la chaleur de son urine et de son sang. Après ces séances répétées, il se disait qu’il lui restait sa dignité que personne ne lui enlèverait jamais. Mais ses pensées sont plus confuses à présent, et il n’a que faire de sa dignité et de son humanité qu’il avait crue permanente. Ce qui l’obsède, c’est ce cafard qui ne semble pas décidé à s’éloigner pour de bon. Il sillonne le foin, s’enfonçant dans la pourriture pour resurgir un peu plus près, presque à portée de main. Il avait essayé de mettre fin à ses jours en s’étranglant, mais ses chaînes n’étaient pas assez longues. Puis, il avait essayé de s’éclater la tête contre la pierre, mais il n’arrivait pas à cogner assez fort, trop frêle qu’il était devenu. Il aurait dû s’y prendre quand il avait assez de force, car tout ce qu’il réussit à faire c’est s’infliger des ecchymoses, puis s’éveiller après avoir perdu connaissance, l’oeil presque fermé, maculé de sang gluant et de croûtes qu’il doit gratter pour se libérer la vue. En ce moment, il peut voir le cafard se rapprocher et cela lui donne un grand espoir, l’emplit de joie même.

© Ludmila Armata

Quelle fût son extase lorsque l’insecte, ayant grimpé au bout d’un monticule de paille, perdit l’équilibre et retomba sur le dos en ballotant les pattes dans le vide pour se trouver à sa merci.  Il dégagea prudemment un petit tas de foins, et jouant du doigt, réussit enfin à se saisir du cafard. Bien agrippé entre les ongles noirs du pouce et de l’index, il l’éleva comme un trophée et l’observa dans le filet de lumière qui s’était déplacé vers lui. Il voyait cette petite bête impuissante se débattre et se sentait le coeur d’un conquérant. Il voulut faire durer ce plaisir, mais la faim le tenaillait trop et déjà ses sucs digestifs se mettaient en marche, lui causant encore plus de crampes. Alors il porta l’insecte à sa bouche et se mit à le grignoter et à tâter de sa langue les jus salés qui se libéraient, avec la saveur exquise de noisette qui se répandait sur ses papilles, en avalant peu à peu cet inestimable et précieux repas.

© Ludmila Armata

© Ludmila Armata

© Ludmila Armata

Ludmila Armata is a Montreal artist who has travelled the globe and taught art. Her works are represented by Gallery d’Este in Montreal.

His days went relatively quickly as a routine that was almost infallible. A very early wake-up call by the nurse. She would invariably find him deeply asleep, and wouldn’t believe his claims to have spent an interminable sleepless night. How could he make her understand that he did not want to be caught by death in the dark, abruptly? That he superstitiously or fearfully waited until dawn before closing his eyes and telling himself: “I survived one more night”?

The nurse would take his temperature and give him a blue pill, the first of a  dozen multicolored tablets he was obliged to ingest every day, weekends included: pink, yellow, many that were white — all of different shapes. They looked like candies. Yes, the nurse was like a mother, like the mother of his childhood that would bring him mint, lemon and orange candies to placate his restlessness when he had to stay in bed for a full day or more. But the nurse did not smile, was not affectionate, and was very matter-of-fact.

Then it was time for his bathroom routine. At first, they shaved him and washed him in bed, but he was very uncomfortable being touched by a human being other than his wife, and insisted that he could make an effort and get up to groom himself. The room was spacious because he was alone and he enjoyed his own private bathroom. The matter was debated by the family: could they afford paying a small supplement in exchange for comfort? They said “yes”,  (perhaps?) because they knew he would not last long.

Then it was time for breakfast, and, with it, more  medication. Coffee or tea were both undrinkable and were accompanied by unappetizing canned fruits swimming in a barrel of syrup, eggs that he hated, cereals immersed in milk (cream, for some reason, was not available). He hardly touched any of it.

After the ceremony it was time for therapy. He had to sit in a wheelchair and was pushed through a labyrinth of corridors to the “Blue Room”. Perhaps that was not the real name of the place, but he called it that because of the color of the lamp that had ultraviolet rays which would burn his stomach for exactly 60 minutes. At least, he had a tan, but the heat was worse than the hot August sun of his younger days partly spent lying on the beach.

When the session was over, he usually would run to the bathroom; his breakfast was then eliminated, one way or another.

After that came the massage session, which he hated because the big, muscled woman turned him around like a pawn and rubbed him energetically with her heavy, vulgar hands, trying to make jokes to which he did not laugh at all. Next came the “socializing” session. All the guests of the clinic were pushed into a big salon when they could play chess (everybody would beat him because he knew only one opening move or one defense strategy), cards (he had never learned that kind of game), sing (which he abhorred) or chat (nonsensical small talk about their state of health), TV programs or sad whisperings about fellow inmates (if that was not a prison, why couldn’t they go home?). It was even murmured that some were betting on who would die next. Everyone was spying on everyone else’s appearance, visible loss of weight or hair, hand trembling and anything else, including things that were imperceptible to the “normal” people (visitors, doctors, staff). The “happy hour” was not conducive to better humor on his part. Soon it was noon and time to return to bed for lunch, another excruciating moment: he expected a better choice of cooks in such an expensive private clinic, but no matter how hard they tried, the food was bland. There was a complete inversion of value: everything that needed to be well cooked was undercooked, while what was best eaten “al dente” was overcooked. The gravies were ugly and tasteless, the color of meat or poultry was always grayish. Happily, his son would occasionally bring him a Camembert with a baguette and a flask of Médoc. On those days, he could even take a nap. Otherwise he would try to watch some stupid program on TV, which had the effect of a soporific. He was amazed at the idiocy of television – an international phenomenon because even the more culturally ambitious countries did not fare better. He always thought that television would be visible only when it would work as a short-wave radio and one could zap for some specific country and channel. This was technically possible but against the interests of too many multinational companies.

That day, his son came and brought the usual presents. The giver was as happy as the receiver. The conversation was brief, as usual. His son could not stand the atmosphere of a hospital. Moreover, he always had an appointment, a telephone call, an urgent meeting. Such was his life, and he had to watch time nervously in order to be punctual for the imminent commitments. If he only had a little more time, he could listen to his father’s premeditated confession. He would be the only man left in the family, and the one in charge of taking care of all the details: the life insurance, the safety boxes, the personal library, the correspondence, the manuscripts. Perhaps they could have a talk during next weekend, but he didn’t want to postpone his decision too long. Why did he hesitate? His destiny was marked, it was only a question of months, perhaps less. Why shouldn’t he take charge of his own life himself? Why wait for the big event? Why not decide when to finish it?

He had already inquired, had written to Dr. K. who agreed to assist him during his last moments. Why remain attached to this vegetative, non-productive existence? Why not die with dignity, having made an independent and mature choice? There was nothing he could do anymore for anyone. At times, he regretted not seeing one more time his far away daughter, but, why? After all she shouldn’t see him in this condition. It was much better to lie to her as he had done so far: signing letters that had been typed by his son. She had called, occasionally, long-distance, but they were able to hide the truth: “no, your father is not home tonight, he is gambling until late”, or, if earlier in the day, “he just went to a concert”, or, in the morning, “he just left  to go to a dental appointment”. It was much better that she kept an image of her father like he was in their last photo together when he was still smiling. Suddenly,  he realized that his son was no longer there: had he fallen asleep? The TV was on but silent; only a succession of colored images, very indefinite, since he was not wearing his eyeglasses.

It’s amazing how his life, at the end, was so colorful! As a matter of fact, the best abstract paintings he ever saw was the projection of the slides containing a reproduction of his malignant cells. Seen with polarized light, they looked like paintings by Ginna, Kupka, Pollock or Mathieu. Had the electronic microscope been invented earlier, one would suspect that the artists were inspired by those cancerous images. The film on TV — which was it? — reminded him of the ten beautiful last minutes of the Rickasha Man, the Japanese movie showing the final visions of a perishing man. He was in the same state. He was dying. It could happen at any moment. He should send that letter to Dr. K., the one setting the ultimate appointment. Meanwhile, he thought of what would remain of him once gone. Very little, indeed: he didn’t change society as he had hoped to do when still an adolescent, he was unable to create a big, harmonious family, the trees he planted gave no fruits, the books he wrote went unsold or unnoticed, he was unable to give joy to his companion. Not even a decent failure: a banal, useless, sterile life!

And what would he carry with him to the grave? A lot of bitterness, frustration, anguish and a few flashes of happiness: the sweet voice of his mother, the strong hands of his father, a weekend in the Alps caressing his wife’s belly bearing their first child, the first cry of his son coming out of his mother’s womb, a choreography by Béjart, a short story by Borges, some shots of Antonioni, Kieslovski, Bergman, Vajda’s films, scattered notes from his wife’s piano playing: Corrette, Böhm, Bach; Rostropovitch cello music in a Menton square on a summer night; Clara Haskil curved on her piano in a Lutry’s church; Gades dancing Carmen; Liberation Day’s joy in April 1945; Felix Ayo playing Vivaldi; Cesco Baseggio as Sior Todaro Brontolon in the Goldoni play; Jean Vilar as Pirandello’s Henry IV; some of Botticelli’s women figures.

What else? Lust, applause, scenery, metropolises. . .all forgotten.

A new interruption by the nurse, more pills. Did they really cure him? No, he knew that no cure was possible. Did they alleviate his pains? He wouldn’t know, since he was always in pain, if pain would be even stronger without those drugs.

Time for phlebos. Why all those cables going up and down, those needles penetrating his veins? He could find no answer to all of that.

Another interminable hour.

His wife came unexpectedly, earlier than usual. There was no more conversation between them. Strangely enough, since she was very loquacious in the past. She had become pale and silent as she never was. They would hold hands and cry. Look into each other’s eyes for hours, or for what seemed like long hours. Silent, and crying. Perhaps each one regretted one’s sins, or was it a presentiment of a sudden definitive separation?

Dinner came, more abundant but even more obnoxious than lunch, if that was possible. He shared most of it with his wife, who could digest no matter what and would eat anything provided she didn’t have to cook it. More pills, but the pain was always there. It was as if someone dilacerated his skin, his stomach, his bowels, like pouring rubbing alcohol on an open wound. This was not life. He couldn’t endure that anymore. He hugged his wife more closely than usual and walked her to the elevator.

Yes, right now, it was time to write to Dr. K. The letter need not be long, nor flowery. A few essential words, an appointment, and that would be the end of it. He would not give it to the night guard, but would wait until the following day, at 11:27 a.m. when the carrier would arrive punctually to empty the yellow box at the main door of the clinic entrance. He had done this once after having timed the postman’s arrival for days. The mail delivery man came invariably at the same time, rain or shine, in the middle of his certainly complex but well chronographed itinerary. The letter would be placed in the large bag, right at the moment of his departure: no one would notice the fact, or they would not attach any importance to it. Anyway, a letter is a letter, as long as no one could read the name of the addressee, who is known and controversial enough to be easily recognized. So, tomorrow at 11:27, or a few seconds after, there would be no way back.

He compiled a short but dignified text, sealed the envelope. He would buy the stamp the day after, at the vending machine, in the foyer lounge.

He felt relived, sighed deeply and took the last pill, the sleeping pill that never worked, just to obey the doctor.

He started dreaming, or daydreaming, or dreaming of dreaming, whether asleep or partially awake or in a state of wake. First, he dreamt of being in a garden (his backyard?) with a cutting instrument in his hands. Was it a tree pruner? There was a long worm, like a snake, in the middle of his flowers. Instinctively, he cut the long worm into two shorter worms. Something strange happened: the front part (or what looked like the upper part of the worm’s body) first rose toward him as if it wanted to threaten him, then disappeared into a hole (to die? to lick its wounds? To hide from further aggressions?) while the lower part started a series of long convulsions. Was it agony or did worms have seven lives like cats? Perhaps it was only the miracle of life: animals didn’t have a conscience, didn’t have a soul, didn’t have metaphysical dilemmas — they just lived as long as they could. Their only essence in life was life itself.

The dream changed suddenly. In front of him was Dr. K., or someone who resembled the photograph he had seen of that controversial man in a magazine. Dr. K. was holding his arm and was pronouncing indistinct but reassuring words. But someone put a mask on Dr. K. and it was the face of the actor who plays the owner of the clinic in Frankenheimer’s Seconds. At this point, a dozen or so naked women started flying around him. No, they were not flying, they were floating around, as if gravitating into space in slow motion. He seemed to recognize some of them as women he had known or desired in his youth, but before he could see better, there came a monstrous gnome who chased them with a whip. “I can read your mind. You think I am the devil. How naïve can you be? The devil cannot look like the devil, otherwise how could he seduce his victims? Did it ever occur to you that the devil could disguise himself as a temptress woman or even as a Saint? The devil has to make believe he is someone else, and for sure trustworthy. Did you ever notice that serial killers are all handsome? Otherwise, how could they attract their victims so easily? The killer or the devil disguise themselves as priests, as policemen, as father figures, or even as Christ himself.”

Here, his dream returned to his garden, his flowers. The half worm was still there, debating whether or not to die. How long ago had he cut him? He looked for his watch, on the night stand. As light in a tunnel he saw some clarity. It was the torch of the nurse who, from the dark, murmured “time to sleep!”. Was it a nightmare? How long did that last? At some point, he awoke: he was all sweaty and his alarm clock marked 5:45 a.m. Soon they would wake him up anyway. Dream or not, nightmare or not, he had slept for many hours. Perhaps with some  interruptions, but longer than he could remember since he had been at the clinic. He felt no pain, or he thought that he had become abruptly insensitive to pain. Perhaps that was a sign of the end. Death was approaching and giving him some respite. He shaved himself with joy, took a full bath, indulged in spraying some cologne on his body.

He tore up the letter. He had decided that he wanted to confront death face to face. He was ready to die, but let it not be there, let it be in his garden, like a worm, cut down by destiny or by a superior force.

He left the “Blue Room” and the “Massage Parlor” and went straight to talk to his doctor who could not care less if he wanted to leave, empty rooms were rare in the clinic, and someone else would replace him the same day, chosen from the waiting list, as long as he signed a release form, that’s all they requested. Everything else would be taken care of by his son, later. After all, he was a lawyer. His son was surprised at his request, but not shocked. He couldn’t disapprove; after all, that might mean fewer expenses and a larger estate.

If you can pick me up before noon, we’ll leave today. Don’t tell your mother until it’s done!”

His wife, who didn’t want to remain alone in the large house, had retired to a hotel room where she could remain if she wanted to. He planned to be self-sufficient and didn’t want any witness to his agony.

At 12:30 they were already home. The house had not changed, only the garden had been neglected.

He did not feel like eating, but gave a shopping list to his son, telling him that there was no hurry. As for the medications prescribed for him by the doctor, he decided to buy none. “Let nature take its course!” He told his son that no matter how many days he clung to life, he wanted to live them in peace.

He found his favorite armchair and sat in it, not before surrounding himself with pounds of correspondence that had accumulated — mostly junk mail and some neglected bills. There were also lots of “Get Well” cards dating from his surgery. He would call his friends one by one, for a last farewell. Fell asleep again. He was awakened by the noise of the car entering the garage. It was his son with the items from shopping and a cellular phone. He was not opposed to new technologies, but cellular phones seemed a bit exaggerated for a house where there was a telephone in almost every room. But he understood that his son wanted to make sure that he could call at any time from anywhere. His mobile phone could be pre-programmed to call certain numbers for emergencies, so he and his son selected a dozen: hospital, doctors on call, police, fire, ambulance, taxi, family members and intimate friends.

Everything seemed functional in the house: water, electricity, radio, TV, doors, windows and heating. There was a walker, a pair of crutches, canes of all sizes, boots and slippers. He could wander around the house and even go outside to get the newspaper and the mail (eventually).

Because the house was empty, he could occupy any room he wanted to. He chose the bigger bedroom, in case his wife decided to leave the hotel room (but she had her own ailments) and to be more comfortable. He asked his son to bring in empty boxes — lots of them — so he could sort out his clothes (he had lost so much weight that all his shirts and pants were too big for him now) and get rid of all kinds of heteroclite objects, dusty, distasteful and useless.

He gave himself a task to do: clean, redecorate, refurbish and/or embellish one room every day. This would keep him busy and would improve the look of the house for whoever would come to rent or buy it when he was gone.

A month passed and nothing had changed. The doctor had given him from zero to four months to live. He felt the same amount and type of pains as at the clinic, but he was not taking any drugs. And at least one thing was better — his digestion.

His dwelling was now comfortable. He had filled two trucks (he counted 96 boxes) of “garbage”, replaced pieces of furniture and moved things around.

There was a music corner prepared for his wife’s always possible return. The grand piano in the living room with a shelf of books and another for sheet music and a table with several small instruments: piccolo, pan flute, recorder, small drums, metronome, etc. His absent daughter’s room had become a studio: file cabinets, shelves, desk, computer, index cards and an armchair for relaxation.

The corridor had been transformed into an art gallery with paintings hanging on the walls. His son’s former room had a TV with multi-system VCR, a collection of  cassettes representing all videographic standards (PAL, SECAM, NTSC, etc.), a turntable and piles of vinyl records and CDs.

The dining room was, at last, a dining room and no longer an office. The kitchen had all the necessary utensils and lots of vases and pots for spices and herbs. The family room had become a combination library-bar. He could venture into neither the attic nor the shack — but, who knows, maybe some day?

Meanwhile, he had started experimenting with all kinds of herbs, tree barks and bitter rots. Not that he had anything against allopathic medicines, but he could not abide most drugs. Besides, he could get along just fine with infusions and natural products.

The laboratory analyses to which he had been subjected earlier in the clinic indicated some improvement in his condition, and he had gained back some of the lost weight. But his doctor was not at all optimistic. In other words, the state of his health was not worsening but was not improving either. He spent hours looking outside the bay window from the living room. The snow had melted and the rain had tired of being incessant. He was looking at the apple tree that hadn’t produced fruits in years.

“There is too much foliage” he told himself, “it needs to be pruned. If I survive until spring, that will be my next chore.”

“Spring, yes, spring.” Until then, why not keep a diary?

“April 2. Spring is late, but it is on its way. Tomorrow I will prune the apple tree. Yes. Tomorrow. . .

Girouard Avenue, copyright Stephen Morrissey 2009, Coracle Press (Montreal), 80 pages.

The Girouard Avenue that Stephen Morrissey offers us is no mundane stretch of pavement and cold-water flats under a pale sky. It spans an ocean and centuries, reflecting the inner heart of a lonely boy attuned to a deeper ancestral pulse, who finds solace in the quiet of an urban bed of snow under stars, wondering

 “where does the sky end?

Where are the limits of outer space,

the final conclusion of stars

distant and unknown to us?”

 “Holy Well” in the Prologue sets the reach of this work: the deep ancient wellwater of Tipperary and the reflected sky in its depths, “a place of sleep and dreams” offering knowledge of the mysteries of life to those willing to drink. Reverence for that ancient source infuses these poems, along with an unwavering respect for those who came before him, driven by the famine in Ireland, sickened by ship’s fever – the ones who survived and the five thousand who did not, buried in a mass grave spared from desecration by the unnamed workmen hired to build the Victoria Bridge. Here, the massive Black Rock dredged from the St. Lawrence River to mark their grave also marks deeper kindred waters that converge with the underground spring in a park on the corner of Doherty and Fielding, “reminding us of what we used to know, but have forgotten – the water insistent, forceful, always desiring wholeness”- reflecting back to us infinite sky and the heartful ground where the dead never die.

Morrissey does not break the trust with the dead. He listens carefully, stepping out of his own way, committing the essential to paper, stripping away the extraneous. These poems follow an order of their own. His Prologue: Holy Well divides itself in two: 1. The Ancient Well of Ara and 2. The Forgotten Spring.  The first set of poems, Girouard Avenue Flat, unfolds in twelve parts, tracing the markers of early family life centring on his grandmother’s flat, while his father was still alive and afterward in the echoing void that followed. Hoolihan’s Flat, Oxford Avenue divides itself into nine. Morrissey was only four when they moved to this flat. It was while living here as a young child that he faced his aloneness so acutely, with his mother in Boston accompanying his ill father, and his older brother never close.  November, the ever-dismal month in which his father dies (despite all the young boy’s prayers), splits into twelve. Reflecting more broadly on this half-century since the mid-fifties, November concludes with a personal summing up that captures the sense of rootedness to duty of the small faithful boy within the man, knowing so little of exuberance:

“… I’ve lived on the end of strings,

controlled by obligations,

duty, responsibility

and a rigid sense

of who I am….”

And yet cutting through these bonds is the quiet joy of oneness with all, the awe that Morrissey still feels as he did as a child, at all of creation.

Morrissey gives us The Rock, or a Short History of the Irish in Montreal, divided into seven vignettes, before concluding his book. Here we find a poet-historian with a fine sense of detail, offering us a glimpse into the quarantined quarters and the hardworking life of Griffintown’s residents.

The Epilogue: The Colours of the Irish Flag, naturally divides into three. Here Morrissey talks more freely about love.

Green begins:           “If I believed in death

I’d give up now,

the ground an envelope

in which our bodies will lie

until our souls are sent

to heaven, hell or nowhere at all –

we did not meet

 to be torn apart so soon,

 that is the cry of lovers

heard across a green field.”

White:                       “This is the sheet of paper,

a flag of surrender

This is newly fallen snow

and we are walking across it,

a field with a few

straggly black trees

on the horizon

where a white

sky meets the white

field of snow –

and I am carrying

a white flag […]”

Orange:                    “When a man and woman marry

their tears become one,

tears of sorrow,

tears of joy;

without love

there is only

the growing distance

between sun and moon

[…]

Those who join in union

become two people sailing

on a wooden ship

into an orange sunset,

a million gold coins

dancing on the water’s

surface, the gold light

disappears in minutes…

tears of sorrow,

tears of joy.”

Morrissey has fulfilled the task he set for himself. He has traced the uprootedness of his ancestors and the chasm of loss. He has dredged up that great dark stone and inscribed it in commemoration. I look forward to the new poems waiting in the wings, exuberant, testing the winds.

            Samira sat on the floor of her adobe hut studying her hands as carefully as if she were plucking  a daisy  or reading the constellations on a bright night or counting the drops of water that dripped into the kitchen sink like a metronome. Her hands had five appendages each, five, just like her feet, which also had five. Like  starfish. Like Christ’s wounds.

            She stroked her hands slowly like Tony used to do. Tony would stroke her waistline, she would stroke his back, their lips would  touch, their tongues  would intertwine until they no longer knew where her taste-buds ended and his began.  But that had been  a long time ago and the first  baby was now a young lady with boobs and all poking under her blouse like small mounds of brown sugar  and fine corn silk grew  under her arms.   And after the first girl they had a second one.  

            Samira’s eyes ran over her hands. Her left index finger traced the lines of her right palm. Her right thumb touched  the finger-pads of her left hand.  As she did this, she felt that slight frisson that hardened her nipples and made her mouth water,  moistening her lips into a pink gloss, just as her other lips used to  turn deep crimson under her bushy tropical tangle. Samira remembered how Tony’s tongue would explore until it sunk into those depths that tasted like zapote  fruit   and smelled like wet soil. But that pleasant memory also brought back dark memories of how Tony’s tongue could also make her hurt. Tony’s inflammatory tongue, which could stir red-hot coals in her body and rouse rabbles at the university had become so caustic of late  that Samira no longer remembered why they had married at all.    

            Samira traced the lines on her right palm. They spelled a perfect capital M,  deep and clear, without any breaks, or sidelines or alleyways or anything that was not as clear-cut and bright as the wonderful  future that was theirs for the taking.  

            They say that the lines in the left hand  show a person’s destiny and those on the right one  show the struggle between destiny and will. The lines in Samira’s left palm remained unchanged  throughout her life, while the ones in her right hand had started changing at some point. Samira no longer remembered when this had started to happen.

            How could hands change so drastically?  First the head line of her right hand broke off, when she had to have her appendix out in a hurry. Then another line went haywire, when her tiny  baby boy was born, a candle flickering  in the wind to be snuffed out two hours later. Then Tony started acting strange and fine lines started appearing on her right hand like branches in a creeper.

            Whenever Samira would reach this point in her ruminations the crazed lines in her hand took over her brain like a creeper that strangles anything that crosses its path. What mattered most, Samira repeated to herself, was that her destiny and her will had parted ways and the rest of her body had also started breaking apart. Her tongue no longer said what her brain really thought,  her brain got disconnected from her heart, her heart and her reason were at odds leaving  her soul bereft.  At the end of the day  all she could do was stare at that bottomless pit  that nothing and nobody could fill.

            Samira’s reverie was interrupted by a  volley of hail that  hit the French windows of the main house. When they had bought the plot to build their dream house, they had decided not to touch the adobe hut built by the previous owner at the back of the garden. It would be  their love nest. As it  turned out, not only had Tony started an affair, but he had the gall to tell the children that Samira needed to be sent to a rest home, “until she felt better”.

            The hail stopped pounding and the rain dissolved into a light drizzle. Lucerito had her nose glued to the French window. The tears running down her face mirrored the curtain of water on the other side of the glass. She was looking at the adobe hut where her mother lived trying to remember the last time that she had buried her face in her mother’s warm bosom.   

            -Why does mummy spend so much time all by herself in the little hut?

            Tony  was about to say something but then changed his mind.

            Samira looked across the garden at her daughters and her husband wishing she could be on the other side of the French windows.  She couldn’t afford to mull over the past.  Whenever she thought of Tony with the other woman,  a   dark viper would slither up her vagina all the way through her gut boring its way to her heart, pushing the air out of her lungs and if she was lucky, coming out through her mouth, nose and eyes in a torrent of wails and tears.

            So instead of trying to deal with a world in which there was no room for her, Samira  decided to create a world of her own. It was a place were time stood still and the present was suspended in the middle  while the past and the future whirled round and round like a giant Ferris wheel, producing a strobe effect in which lights moved back and forth,  where the future and the past were one blur and the present was where you wanted it to be.  

            The drizzle stopped  and the sun melted the dampness that still clung to the window panes into thin tendrils of steam.

            – Look at mummy, she is wading in the fountain!  Can we go play outside?

            Tony opened the French windows and stared at his wife.  Samira was standing in the middle of the fountain  holding water in her hands as if offering it to the sun. Her hands looked like  starfish, with five fingers, like the five senses, like Christ’s wounds,  like the Gutierrez family, who had been five, and then became four and now were three plus one and soon  would be one minus one minus one, because children grow up and grownups grow apart and go their  separate ways. At the end of the day, everything that adds up has to be subtracted, although who is to say that everything that has been subtracted can’t  add up again? The trick is to do it yourself before life does it for you.     Samira’s lips moved and her soft voice floated over the fountain and stopped at the French windows of the main house.  She looked at her children. Then at her husband. Their eyes met.   The Ferris wheel came to an abrupt stop. The past and the future became an indistinct blur. The sky burst into light. In a flash, Samira ran to the main house with her arms outstretched   until  they were covered in a tangle of fingers and palms and crazed lines.

            Samira no longer knew where her hands ended and those of her family began.  

[This story is a translated  extract from Las Manos de Samira awarded a first prize by A Quien Corresponda, a Mexican literary review whose demise was due to budget cuts.]