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Burning the Boats to Hesperion

No reason and No rhyme

Burning the Boats to Hesperion

05
Nov17

Traveling

 

 

I

 

All people have a geography.

Even if beggared from anything else,

they exist in space,

and their pattern in it

is wholly their own.

 

We all have a topology,

although there might be nothing to distinguish us,

although we may be silent in history,

our paths exist,

despite being known only to ourselves,

 

Today I make this pronouncement

That all paths of men  are to be studied.

That all geographies are important,

and I suggest here,

for the very first time.

the hypothetical existence

Never seen because never studied

Of a man’s trek that,

If absent of history,

exults in topography.

 

Routines made of subways, trains and trams crossing lines in the skin of the city,

mandalas built of boozy nights spent bar hopping,

sigils born from trips to the drugstore in the corner,

and cosmogonies explained by holidays at the beach.

 

 

II

 

 

Yesterday I dreamt of a girl I loved at eleven.

And in the dream I saw her, now.

Older, thinner … a little gaunt,

But still beautiful.

Immense brown eyes

   attentive,

   restless,

   and tense.

 

And I,

I loved her with the intensity of a eleven year old.

 

I was elated by this gift of feeling love like the first,

for a second time.

 

I found her in a small town

In the dream

And

After she disappeared saying very little,

I knew that that was where I would live forever.

 

Then I dreamt about her friends,

       the town,

            and how to stay there.

 

In the dream they asked me if I,

       really,

              wanted to stay in the town.

Which was

In fact

So small.

 

And I said

 

 “Yes.

She’s the love of my life.”

 

III

 

There’s a concept called “path dependence”, that says that your current decisions are determined by latter ones.

That all that happens results from what you did, no matter how remote,

and that the past is the solution to the present.

 

In this world there are no master plans,

no strategic visions,

guiding lines,

No.

 

In this way of seeing, all that there is, is, because of previous actions.

No other truth but the path,

steps taken,

nothing else.

 

In this vision the route is all.

It’s the cause and the explanation,

the need and the answer.

 

And maybe it’s for this that all geographies are important.

Because there’s no teleonomy

teleology,

escathology,

to illuminate the path that is us.

 

And here we stand,

In our own timelines

frail and complete,

Only in them, ontology

Only in them, aesthetics,

Only in them, the hope of redemption.

 

And for all this,

And because of this,

 

a man,

at 44,

can dream about the beginning of his life,

and wake up the next morning,

happy,

with a heart full of songs.

 

04
Nov17

Playground

jerome-myers-the-playground-1907.jpg

 

 

 

I think it was raining and I think it was cold.

No. It couldn’t be raining because they wouldn’t let us outside.

But it had rained, and our playground was all sand and mud.

And it was grey.

Yeah, I remember that.

 

I was in the third grade and Miguel Portela was the school's biggest bully.

Not because he was the strongest or the hardest,

but because he was the meanest.

 

He beat me up once

throwing me, repeatedly, to the ground.

I would get back up and charge him,

crying and enraged,

but he would just throw me again laughing.

-”Come at me again, “Angry”, see if you can take me this time.”

 

Months passed.

 

It was a cold, grey afternoon, and the kids were playing soccer during recess.

During the game Miguel got into an argument with someone from the oposing team.

He tried to punch him, but was outclassed.

 

When it stopped

Miguel layed supine on the soccer field,

coated in sand and crying softly.

 

Our playground was like any other.

Filled with movement and hollering of children.

We were left there to scream and vent

for as long as they would keep us outside.

 

But,

something had just happened In that field.

 

As Miguel whined in the dirt

the children encircled him and watched him cry.

 

Something had snapped inside,

he made no attempt to get up or hide his tears,

and layed there in abject defeat.

 

This display of weakness didn’t go unnoticed.

They stood above him,

pleased to see him grovel.

 

When,

finally,

he tried to get up,

someone kicked him down.

 

After the first kick the mood changed.

Now everyone on the soccer field knew they could hurt him.

Shortly after the first, another cracked him in the gut.

The circle got tighter and there was a lull.

 

Slowly they realized that they had something very precious,

which,

they knew,

should be kept from the teachers.

They had the school’s bully squirming on the floor,

being,

at once,

A victim inviting punishment, and a bully, justifying it.

 

They watched him,

prostrated,

sniveling,

eyes closed,

hands opening and closing spasmodically.

 

When he,

again,

tried to get up, someone would put him down.

Sometimes gently, sometimes not,

but always hard enough to keep him where he was.

Laying,

decumbent,

in the wet sand.

 

You could hear the silence in the football field.

And if the teachers were slow to react,

the other kids weren’t.

 

All around the playground, first, second and third graders, started to pick up on the absence and searched for the cause.

Quietly they poured into the field and thickened the circle.

They all had came to see Miguel Portela.

 

Tentatively they renewed kicking him,

now one kid,

now another...

vaguely,

as if unsure of their actions,

hazily,

as if lost in thought.

 

He just whined softly

and cried some more.

 

A stillness crept over the playground as the kids congregated around him.

They stood,

motionless and reverent,

booting him down every time he tried to get up.

 

By then most of the school was in the field.

 

Eventually the silence alerted the teachers that something was wrong.

When they got to the field they saw the circle,

By now, four or five children thick,

encircling Miguel Portela,

as the drizzle, the tears, and the snot coated him with wet sand.

 

It all ended then.

 

Miguel Portela’s parents took him out of the school and we never saw him again.

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