On the way to the underworld, he gets a note from her that explains everything, in sixteen different versions, and everything that would have made sense no longer does. But the sense that things were making was not necessarily good sense, or anything like reasonable sense, which isn't always a bad thing. So. He tries very hard to talk to the dead about his dreams, but they make no sense to the dead, because the dead have already dreamed those dreams themselves, and worked it out for themselves so that when they dream, they dream about us, in a boat, somewhere in the middle of an ocean, where it's safe.
Nothing with the dead is really safe, though, because look at where there best thinking got them? It's not safe. He's trying to explain art movements from their century, and they're upset with him. They're upset with him because he's trying to tell them in reasonable discourse. And that's the absolute worst language with which to speak to the dead. Because they already get it. And if he were paying attention, the one on the side of the living, she already gets it, too. But it's complicated because he has things that he could say in reasonable language, things and reasons he thinks that he's ill. His head is a mess, a hot mess, and he's thinking about how he hasn't been a hot mess for so long that it's almost like he got used to being distracted by much less interesting things. But this is all so terribly interesting, these fissures and hair cracks that come at 1 in the afternoon at ten in the evening that last til it's morning and make sense to someone who's already dead, who's already dead, they make sense to someone who's already dead.
He's got pomegranates in his kitchen of his heart's desire, and when the dead are not looking, on the long journey over there, he opens one with his teeth, and eats 16 seeds just for good measure. This is a place I would like to be caught, he is thinking, here in this kitchen of my heart's desire. This kitchen is where I go when I want to wander, and now that I'm really at sea, all I want is to wander back and find out how the story goes, but my hands are tied and my tongue is being used by dead men, in order to make prayers by candlelight before the rains come back.
Nothing with the dead is really safe, though, because look at where there best thinking got them? It's not safe. He's trying to explain art movements from their century, and they're upset with him. They're upset with him because he's trying to tell them in reasonable discourse. And that's the absolute worst language with which to speak to the dead. Because they already get it. And if he were paying attention, the one on the side of the living, she already gets it, too. But it's complicated because he has things that he could say in reasonable language, things and reasons he thinks that he's ill. His head is a mess, a hot mess, and he's thinking about how he hasn't been a hot mess for so long that it's almost like he got used to being distracted by much less interesting things. But this is all so terribly interesting, these fissures and hair cracks that come at 1 in the afternoon at ten in the evening that last til it's morning and make sense to someone who's already dead, who's already dead, they make sense to someone who's already dead.
He's got pomegranates in his kitchen of his heart's desire, and when the dead are not looking, on the long journey over there, he opens one with his teeth, and eats 16 seeds just for good measure. This is a place I would like to be caught, he is thinking, here in this kitchen of my heart's desire. This kitchen is where I go when I want to wander, and now that I'm really at sea, all I want is to wander back and find out how the story goes, but my hands are tied and my tongue is being used by dead men, in order to make prayers by candlelight before the rains come back.
No comments:
Post a Comment