Every time I come home I rediscover myself. And I remember why I left.
To describe my home I must describe my own body–we are ascended which
means we don’t see ourselves as separate from the city, though we can
leave, and return.
Here now, on the terrace, I remember these long years, the wake of the
years now treading its long pull at the back of my head, because…
Because because because. I know I should avoid explanations. Tell only
of the experience. I was elsewhere, I have returned.
This transmission, if it reaches you, which it will not, but if it
could, it is my diary. For history. For my mother.
Here the asphalt is cool against my legs, where I squat hunched like a
dwarf, under the leaves, carefully maintained, this terrace suspended
above Broadway five hundred feet, but so calm–things are calm here.
You know that. If I can say things are calm I can say other things,
but I would say them with my head. No judgment of mine should be
recorded–please, is this permitted? Do not let my judgments be
transferred into your awareness, only the experience, so that there
might be no separation.
I am returned, here in the pagoda, the garden for the returned, those
unmeshed from the rest, for a time (and the truth is we are not so
different, only by degree, even as lovers join their bodies, or
friends their minds in conversation)
But I am doing it again, offering explanations. Excuses.
I hate it here, you see. I should have said that at the outset. The
calmness is not right, because of the pull at the back of my head,
which is a generator. Nothing uncommon, a generator.
Perception is funny, what we tune out, the sound of a generator is not
supposed to be heard and yet I hear it. It is more there than anything
else and I know it knows me to be here, a musical note in its chorus,
choral, toroidal . . .
You are a body, Robin, you are arrived, into New Haven, into the
porthole, into the terrace, the leaves near as penitents, the
corridors of ashalt–I mean the sidewalks, they are sidewalks Robin,
they are fantastic, truly wonderful–
Well, no. No no no. All that I speak is a disease. I have killed my mother.
As I will murder you.
She made me come back!
You persist in the belief that your fair city, your fair city, your
fair city will be–not resonant, no, no, not quite, what is it that you
believe about this damned place
WE BELIEVE IT IS HEAVEN ROBIN
Yes, heaven, that’s it. What is that.
THAT EVERYTHING IS AS IT SHOULD BE.
The same old story, yes. Ecclesiastes. My mother is like you. A time
for everything and everything in its time.
A shit for every pot.
A crap for every dog.
But we know all this. Its immanence is its horror. The railings. The
translucent memory patterns on the water. The sound of the generator.
. . thrumming its humdrum lovers (us) into action.
I am a student. I am a student of your reality.
Your reality means nothing to me. I am above it. I am defeating it!
THIS IS WHAT HAPPENED LAST TIME, ROBIN.
You don’t know anything about last time goddamn it!
DESCRIBE WHAT YOU SEE.
My metal donkey. Blue and black. My satellite, black. My escritoire, silver.
YOU ARE GOING TO THE HOSPITAL ROBIN.
Make me not remember.
© 2014 Robin Wyatt Dunn