the well of the yolk
i picked up a dusty copy of antony and cleopatra from my mother's bookshelf today, all dusty cover and a yellowgrey staining on the fringes. And i let it fall open in my palms to see the white fruit of its pages; rich & varied segments of verse.
A few pages through i found an old invitation to a birthday party, written in my brother's unsure, drawling script, and addressed to me. I peeled it from the page it was imprinted upon and opened it up.
"to alexander's 9th, sunday 28th, two oh clock. our house."
Because it was a clear day, the unfine rain of morning was freeing, making abstract hearts in the air, only six years old and breathing upon the glass of the windowpane, my brother beside me, waiting, his eyes ripe with expectancy. He had sent out close to 30 invitations.
I think i knew quickest, each body we saw walking through the bush would not be their bodies, and the speed of the cars on the road and how they were too fast for stopping. I could hear our parents in the back bringing the food from the kitchen to the dining room and their questioning voices. Alex didn't really notice, his eyes were fixed on the road, scanning the pavement, still eager. We waited and waited for the guests to arrive, but it went past two and none of them had.
It was lightly raining again and his face was fugitive on the windowpane and his eyes were watching the rain drifting from the clouds and seeding the earth with sky. I am not sure he comprehended it, yet the sun was bright below his eyes, where the soft skin was glazed with an undisturbed dew, momentarily imperious in the light. Then dark clouds would move across the sun, he would remain with his primacy of eyes, bound wide and white with innocent hope and innocent strength, as a rind of fire glimmered faintly over his cornea.
He remained sitting and humming, awkwardly placing his palsied legs on the windowsill, the innocence of his bones against the guilt of my free poise. Still no one. Maybe they are late, i remember saying, but he did not understand the concept. He was mentally disabled with a malformed body and he could not decipher the clock yet nor the fluctuations of time or of people. So he sat there, and he still thought it was a quarter to two when it was a quarter to three.
When our parents came in the room and took me away, he was still on the window sill still expecting everyone to come, my father was silently sitting next to him and stroking his head as i was led away. I didnt really understand why no one came but i remember vividly a burning sensation pushing at my eyes and itching them and the virulence of my hot tears and the grasping of the invitation in my small hands.
I put it back in the book and caught a line on the adjacent page.
"you are strong where he is not" - multiplicity of the mind. the eye being the fruit of the soul, placing thyself everywhere it sees, as i am weak where he is not.
i close the book and place it back on the shelf. I have another copy, i say to myself, i can use that one, it is newer, cleaner, lighter, it has less obtrusive footnotes and none of the dust of time bringing moisture to my fruitful eyes.
A few pages through i found an old invitation to a birthday party, written in my brother's unsure, drawling script, and addressed to me. I peeled it from the page it was imprinted upon and opened it up.
"to alexander's 9th, sunday 28th, two oh clock. our house."
Because it was a clear day, the unfine rain of morning was freeing, making abstract hearts in the air, only six years old and breathing upon the glass of the windowpane, my brother beside me, waiting, his eyes ripe with expectancy. He had sent out close to 30 invitations.
I think i knew quickest, each body we saw walking through the bush would not be their bodies, and the speed of the cars on the road and how they were too fast for stopping. I could hear our parents in the back bringing the food from the kitchen to the dining room and their questioning voices. Alex didn't really notice, his eyes were fixed on the road, scanning the pavement, still eager. We waited and waited for the guests to arrive, but it went past two and none of them had.
It was lightly raining again and his face was fugitive on the windowpane and his eyes were watching the rain drifting from the clouds and seeding the earth with sky. I am not sure he comprehended it, yet the sun was bright below his eyes, where the soft skin was glazed with an undisturbed dew, momentarily imperious in the light. Then dark clouds would move across the sun, he would remain with his primacy of eyes, bound wide and white with innocent hope and innocent strength, as a rind of fire glimmered faintly over his cornea.
He remained sitting and humming, awkwardly placing his palsied legs on the windowsill, the innocence of his bones against the guilt of my free poise. Still no one. Maybe they are late, i remember saying, but he did not understand the concept. He was mentally disabled with a malformed body and he could not decipher the clock yet nor the fluctuations of time or of people. So he sat there, and he still thought it was a quarter to two when it was a quarter to three.
When our parents came in the room and took me away, he was still on the window sill still expecting everyone to come, my father was silently sitting next to him and stroking his head as i was led away. I didnt really understand why no one came but i remember vividly a burning sensation pushing at my eyes and itching them and the virulence of my hot tears and the grasping of the invitation in my small hands.
I put it back in the book and caught a line on the adjacent page.
"you are strong where he is not" - multiplicity of the mind. the eye being the fruit of the soul, placing thyself everywhere it sees, as i am weak where he is not.
i close the book and place it back on the shelf. I have another copy, i say to myself, i can use that one, it is newer, cleaner, lighter, it has less obtrusive footnotes and none of the dust of time bringing moisture to my fruitful eyes.