slowly
diminishing.
As in a dream
I heard a distant
v-v-voice
speaking to me
in my tongue:
Only that
,
my daughter, only
thus will I know
today how to be
your father
.
I knew: This was
the sign.
I left
my house,
turned
to the hills,
closed my eyes,
shut off my gaze,
allowed the blaze
to gather me in.
Only thus
will I know today how
to be your father
.
I hurried,
I ran to him,
to the heavy m-m-man,
so thick and slow,
who suddenly
spoke
in my tongue.
TOWN CHRONICLER: They walk on the hills and I follow them, constantly darting between them and the town. They groan and trip and stand, hold on to each other, carry those who sleep, falling asleep themselves. Nights, days, over and over they circle the town, through rain and cold and burning sun. Who knows how long they will walk and what will happen when they are roused from their madness? The duke, for example—who would have believed it—walking shoulder to shoulder with the net-mender, her fluttering nets occasionally wrapping themselves around him. And the elderly teacher, with his thin halo of hair, walking swiftly, as he is wont, hopping from one foot to the other and reaching his head out toeither side with immense curiosity, even in sleep. And the cobbler and the midwife, hand in hand, eyes tightly closed, with stubborn resolve. And at the end of the small procession walks my wife, dragging her heavy feet, her breath labored, her head drooping on her chest, with no one to hold her hand.
DUKE:
Walking half asleep,
a dream fragment flickers:
the surface of a barren wilderness,
mist and cool breeze, and a wail
rolls over
the desert.
MIDWIFE:
Over there
a c-c-cliff
c-c-cut into round
smooth rocky mountain,
and in a dream
or half awake, I say to myself:
L-l-look, woman,
that is the thing, that is all,
the answer to the great, sacred riddle,
and there is nothing
more,
there is
nothing more.
COBBLER:
Barren brain-hill,
a terrible sight,
it pulsates perhaps
once
in a thousand years—
TOWN CHRONICLER’S WIFE:
It is the brain of the universe,
and it is cold, frozen. It is not
what emits the wail. It is
desolation, only desolation,
mute and deaf
and flat,
it has no wails,
no thoughts,
it has
no answers and
no love.
DUKE:
And you—pick up
a hoe and till a bed.
Plant in it a pillow, a lamp,
a letter, a picture of
a beloved face, perhaps also a kettle,
thick socks, gloves and a satchel,
a pencil or paintbrush, a book
or two, a pair of glasses, so that you
can see near
and see far.
TOWN CHRONICLER: Tell me about the rocking horse.
CENTAUR: You again? Won’t you ever shut up?
TOWN CHRONICLER: Tell me about the soccer ball, about the cowboy hat. About the birthdays, tell me about them. About the magician’s wand, the blue kite—
CENTAUR: You’re torturing me.
TOWN CHRONICLER: About the toy boat—
CENTAUR: Junk! Memory husks!
TOWN CHRONICLER: At least tell me something about the cradle.
CENTAUR: How about you tell me something about yourself for a change? You’ve been coming here for weeks, ten times a day, interrogating me, turning me inside out like a glove, and you yourself—nothing! Just a clerk! Following orders! Hiding behind your royal edict, which any idiot can see is a fake, with that ridiculous drawing of the duke wearing a crown. I mean, come on! You could have put a little more effort into it. A five-year-old can draw better than that!
Okay. I get it. I can be quiet, too. Here. Being quiet. A rock. A sphinx. You’re not looking so hot yourself either, you know, these last few days, but I am absolutely going off the deep end, yes, that’s not hard to see. This fight with
it
, goddamn it, is doing me in. I admit it. And this silly thing that happened to me with the desk? I bet you’ve heard the stories around town, right? For that reason alone you should have stopped bothering me with your nonsense. Don’t you have any mercy for a poor centaur? And a bereaved one, at that? Come
diminishing.
As in a dream
I heard a distant
v-v-voice
speaking to me
in my tongue:
Only that
,
my daughter, only
thus will I know
today how to be
your father
.
I knew: This was
the sign.
I left
my house,
turned
to the hills,
closed my eyes,
shut off my gaze,
allowed the blaze
to gather me in.
Only thus
will I know today how
to be your father
.
I hurried,
I ran to him,
to the heavy m-m-man,
so thick and slow,
who suddenly
spoke
in my tongue.
TOWN CHRONICLER: They walk on the hills and I follow them, constantly darting between them and the town. They groan and trip and stand, hold on to each other, carry those who sleep, falling asleep themselves. Nights, days, over and over they circle the town, through rain and cold and burning sun. Who knows how long they will walk and what will happen when they are roused from their madness? The duke, for example—who would have believed it—walking shoulder to shoulder with the net-mender, her fluttering nets occasionally wrapping themselves around him. And the elderly teacher, with his thin halo of hair, walking swiftly, as he is wont, hopping from one foot to the other and reaching his head out toeither side with immense curiosity, even in sleep. And the cobbler and the midwife, hand in hand, eyes tightly closed, with stubborn resolve. And at the end of the small procession walks my wife, dragging her heavy feet, her breath labored, her head drooping on her chest, with no one to hold her hand.
DUKE:
Walking half asleep,
a dream fragment flickers:
the surface of a barren wilderness,
mist and cool breeze, and a wail
rolls over
the desert.
MIDWIFE:
Over there
a c-c-cliff
c-c-cut into round
smooth rocky mountain,
and in a dream
or half awake, I say to myself:
L-l-look, woman,
that is the thing, that is all,
the answer to the great, sacred riddle,
and there is nothing
more,
there is
nothing more.
COBBLER:
Barren brain-hill,
a terrible sight,
it pulsates perhaps
once
in a thousand years—
TOWN CHRONICLER’S WIFE:
It is the brain of the universe,
and it is cold, frozen. It is not
what emits the wail. It is
desolation, only desolation,
mute and deaf
and flat,
it has no wails,
no thoughts,
it has
no answers and
no love.
DUKE:
And you—pick up
a hoe and till a bed.
Plant in it a pillow, a lamp,
a letter, a picture of
a beloved face, perhaps also a kettle,
thick socks, gloves and a satchel,
a pencil or paintbrush, a book
or two, a pair of glasses, so that you
can see near
and see far.
TOWN CHRONICLER: Tell me about the rocking horse.
CENTAUR: You again? Won’t you ever shut up?
TOWN CHRONICLER: Tell me about the soccer ball, about the cowboy hat. About the birthdays, tell me about them. About the magician’s wand, the blue kite—
CENTAUR: You’re torturing me.
TOWN CHRONICLER: About the toy boat—
CENTAUR: Junk! Memory husks!
TOWN CHRONICLER: At least tell me something about the cradle.
CENTAUR: How about you tell me something about yourself for a change? You’ve been coming here for weeks, ten times a day, interrogating me, turning me inside out like a glove, and you yourself—nothing! Just a clerk! Following orders! Hiding behind your royal edict, which any idiot can see is a fake, with that ridiculous drawing of the duke wearing a crown. I mean, come on! You could have put a little more effort into it. A five-year-old can draw better than that!
Okay. I get it. I can be quiet, too. Here. Being quiet. A rock. A sphinx. You’re not looking so hot yourself either, you know, these last few days, but I am absolutely going off the deep end, yes, that’s not hard to see. This fight with
it
, goddamn it, is doing me in. I admit it. And this silly thing that happened to me with the desk? I bet you’ve heard the stories around town, right? For that reason alone you should have stopped bothering me with your nonsense. Don’t you have any mercy for a poor centaur? And a bereaved one, at that? Come
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