to live again (and again)
next meeting…
A, B, and C are three different voices but they are from the same person. They speak one after the other, almost instantaneously unless stated.
A: never ask for more, never ask for less, but can never avoid, asking, for the next meeting, in summer, always summer, when trees are always green green butterflies in time for birds, trees to shed brown brown leaves, leaving nothing on the roads, swept away, in time for the next meeting, meeting someone beside the tree, if the tree is still the tree, where the someone will recognize and approach me, in summer, where the skies are blue blue rain raining in summer, and postpones the meeting to a next occasion, waiting, with brown birds, accompanied by the occasional black ones, never ask for more, still waiting, the moment of the next meeting, comes, will come, in time for the next meeting
B: with my old man, the grumpy uncle who drinks less than the number he boasts, desperate to dig more coins from his pockets, to pay for the next cup of tea, prolonging his stay in this seat, that seat, through the day, alone, drinking more tea, flipping coins, and have them drop, to hear the sharp disturbance in an already noisy environment, only then to slip into a routine, a painless addition to the surroundings, a site where the old man, this old man of mine, where he can only imagine, having no one but himself to have a drink
A: With you, in time to witness, the rain is about to stop, the leaves are still falling, and you will see, someone old and grey, the scabby scruffy face leaning on the brown brown bark disturbed by the crawling red red fiery ants, with you possibly gently touching my arms, maybe a shy wave to announce your arrival, but the rain pours again, in summer, pouring, to drive us away from the tree, to lose ourselves in the blurry falling water, cleansing, to find us a new place to meet, a place, a concrete building to shelter us during our next meeting
C: And I will tell you the story of the child who I think I will have, who I want to have, who I will groom him into a perfect child, my aspirations and my dreams, my aspirations and my dreams, the accumulated, of a past I cannot have, so he or she must be blessed, with a hope I always have, to the future, the next being who comes into being, clumsily I have lived, therefore he or she will never be, and I will prepare the plan
A: In time for the meeting again, to do what we must, to say what we must, the words unspoken, long before we set the date to meet again, always saying less than what we prepared, in a contemplative mind, running to our next meeting, in the rain, cold rain, never stop pouring, still pouring, still running, along the stone stone pavement, the green green grass, and little to see beyond, only the place of our next meeting
C: at a time when it does not rain, instead, a rainbow shall appear across the blue sky, to welcome the unborn child into this world, close to nature and marvelous landscapes of today, the present glories and the everything that you will inherit, the child, the bringer of hope, all hope lies on the child, the love I give so freely, what I can only give, will give, and he or she must have, where one would most certainly be deprived of
A: In another place, far from the tree, where you do not know where the birds will be to hide from the rain, where there will always be another place for us to meet, to imagine, you in the shabby grey tee and blue blue jeans, (pause) by the lights, the flashing red reds and green greens, the stumbling across black black roads, to the next place, you and me, together and apart, one and one, one after another, to our next meeting
B: that never happens for the old man, who waits for no one, does not want to be disappointed, convinced that the tea will never disappoint him, absolutely certain that the cup of tea will taste the same always, and people who pass him by, know as well, how the cup of tea should taste like, and suddenly he is aware of my arrival, as I sit down, and soon, though we speak nothing, we recognize each other, and we nod in admission of this fact, and so I order a cup of tea, this meeting with him, him alone, and somehow I know, the cups of tea are different, but it does not matter, because this is our meeting
C: love, (pause) the skies paint a different picture every moment, but how I will carry the child, a little angel, to soar up, my raising arms, to lift him or her, to see the sky change, over the perpetual season, in the course of the day, on the wood, wooden bench, we sit, and stand next, the tree to cover the coming rain, but we see, the winds are blowing the clouds away, and when we walk away, pausing occasionally, the sky changes to a grey shade, before we can ever have our next meeting
A: Where the joy of seeing you again and again, in our previous meeting, does not deter me from asking for a next meeting, in a life so short, where it is always a luxury to ask, for a next meeting, and what can we say in our next meeting, where will it be, all cold and wet, the hour hits nine, before long it will be a minute past nine, what to say, before we stop, the anxiety of nothing to say, before our next meeting
C. and lately I ask if I will ever see my child, on the day we are going to meet, and that will be such a painful reality, if there is no child to born, maybe I depend too much for a future, long time ago, waiting for you to be real, you make me real, is there something lost to hope, but there is no harm hoping, a perfect excuse to stop me at my tracks, to stop walking in nonchalance, and makes the strangers disappear from my sight, out of sight, with only our next meeting to look forward to
B. with the old man, I could almost understand that he is not actually waiting for anyone or anything, but it is about the empty cup being removed, and replaced with a new one, the drinking and the finishing, and the filling that comes thereafter, a rhythmic end to the day, to watch no one walk past him, to lament on nothing and no one, to be ignored because he has ignored the world, and I am just glad, I can sit down, safely next to him, before my next meeting, and know I am not even seen
A: (pause) With God, to thank Him, after this joke, perhaps the joke of putting us together, the millionth time together, always a new meeting, a new death, when He leaves, leaving us two, the running two, to find the place to go, to stop, to thank Him when we must, the sky turns a darker shade, that time the shade was brighter, the time before the next time we meet, we must already know, we have to, know, when is our next meeting
C. Because I do not know if he or she will grow to be healthy or not, and this anxiety I shall ignore because there are more pressing things to consider, of which the thousand possibilities cannot dissuade me from fulfilling that one hope of seeing come to live, your birth, my salvation, you life, my mission, the only thought I shall have and must have before we meet,
A: Before ten, if we drag this, and has already dragged this end, we draw closer and further, from the next meeting, and the cars depart, in a solemn march, a movement of precision, to ignore us, to abandon us with grey grey invisible damage, and do not take us, bring us along on their journeys to places, where we can have our next meeting
B. by the old man, and silence ensues the last hour of our meeting, and soon I know we must say goodbye, and of course I can always visit him again, but how many tomorrows does he have still, and life is too short for him, and too long as well, for perhaps all it takes is an instant for him to declare that he has lived life to its fullest, simply because he has lived it, so perhaps no next meeting is ever required because to meet is really to not meet at all. I said goodbye.
A: When the hand strikes eleven and we are still running, in the long raining, the land covered by a refreshing baptism, to purge the surfaces of its filth, the impurities that perpetually cloak the openings of other worlds, and into the drains they hide, away from us, the wind cannot blow, in this noisy rain, but somehow, perhaps the perfect picture of a moment of us together and not, we somehow reach, somewhere near our next meeting
C. with all the future and dreams we can ever project and imagine, before the instant of manifestation, when they all become tangible, and then perhaps, I will suffer from a panic, a slight uncertainty, when I hold the living body, that is not of my labour, but alive; I then realize, all I ever did before, was to shamelessly believed I was the master of this life, and I shall look at time..
A: When the clock strikes twelve minutes before midnight, the apparition that is time, the monster that greets us called new day, and all I could, was to gesture to the wrist, and hand her the gift of death, when the day has ended to prevent us from finding, still finding that next place for our next meeting
C. and time will convince me that I shall have to let go, this life, this birth of monstrosity, the crying breath of life, that is of mine and not, has a pulse of his or her own, and exists and lives, with a bloody force, and once alive, has every right to oneself to be, being, the being that I cannot fully shape, and forever we are in relation to each other, for better or worse, that inescapable reality, such unrest, a peace of uncertainty of which, I know not,
A: which will happen, at the moment she leaves, watching her back, a step from the platform to the train, the moment of departure suspends, aching in the rupture of my linear consciousness, feeling nothing, cannot feel, asked too much, only to feel the growing pain, anticipating, leaves me breathless, calling out to the now empty platform, she left from the present meeting, and all my hope rests blindly, in the next meeting, which may never happen after this
B. (coughs)
A, B and C:
(long pause) How to say, how to say I love you, you, you…
How to know, how to imagine, death and birth collide, the end and beginning of this emotional journey, but
perhaps we shall meet, again and again, till death.
Gently we sleep. Our arms not touching,
The wind whispers our quiet voices, words we cannot articulate, but they cover us, like a scarf around our necks, the blanket of the dead night spread around us, falling gently down from above, it is time to sleep. Time to rest.
How to say,
I love. you.
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