Betrayal does not happen all at once. The actors involved are aware of a great movement within; we are reckless to our machinations. The opaque tendons of time obscure our vision. You allow yourself to slip slowly into immoral abyss. Tremendous upward movement is possible the deeper in you start. (Adam's handwriting is really beautiful but of course it won't come across to you. You can't see what I see but just close your eyes. Open your eyes again. Abre los ojos. Abre los. Imagine all his words forming around the objects that are static in front of you. Pin them down to the fixed, tactile beings that shape your world wherever you are. Aren't they permanent? Don't they withstand the test of space, time, and even perception?)
I had mentioned earlier in my story that I found Adam's notebooks. The above passage is on the inside jacket. I peruse the boldest parts. The rest must be taken to a professional because the impressions are so faded, they will soon be lost to the gods. Erased, evaporated, glowing into mist.
Ada was transcribed into me. Ada(m). I write her name over and over at sea so I don't forget why I'm leaving England. It remains true. Heartbreak was unbearable; the destruction of order pushed me onto the ocean.
The voyage reclaims me, I look forward to a life of sorts, to a life uninterrupted in its flow.
If these survive me, please organise them so they become alive. I loved my life in Ada my life in England. All is lost, all is not lost.
The voyage reclaims me, I look forward to a life of sorts, to a life uninterrupted in its flow.
If these survive me, please organise them so they become alive. I loved my life in Ada my life in England. All is lost, all is not lost.
*
I wake up suddenly from a very long sleep in London - near Covent Garden somehow. Paul managed to get a decent hotel this time.
I find a blouse - white lace - and pair it with some slacks from centuries ago that I find in the hotel room already. I think Paul's mother managed to transport all of our belongings to this one room despite being away from England for almost three months. How did she find everything? How did she know where I left my favourite nighty and black skirts, and my favourite Chaucer edition, my favourite Tale of Two Cities bound in green, my favourite Oscar Wilde. I tell myself not to slip into unadulterated prose like I was some Parisian nobody flirting with disaster.
A puff pastry floats towards my head, and it takes all of me not to look at it straight in the eye and wonder who the hell still requests puff pastry for brunch. I am stuck inside a boring conversation between Paul's lawyer and Paul. They both nod seriously and discuss London as the financial titan that it is. I imagine this conversation inside out with all its seams of pleasantries and politenesses dripping out of it like tattered threads unpopulated, not finding repose, not finding an interlocutor. Paul absolutely aghast and frightened and I allow myself to laugh out loud a little amidst the petty gentry, quiet aesthetic of the morning on this rainy London street and swallow in midair about
nothing.
I don't really know why we're here. I am still so far from finishing Adam's journals or even getting them to a proper museum to look them over. I am half afraid of them becoming
a collection, some sick and twisted curator's wet dream of "real Americana" and I am half afraid they shall remain hidden in familial obscurity. I want them to see the light of day
The
light
of
day
What a strange concept. What other light can there be, really?
I find a blouse - white lace - and pair it with some slacks from centuries ago that I find in the hotel room already. I think Paul's mother managed to transport all of our belongings to this one room despite being away from England for almost three months. How did she find everything? How did she know where I left my favourite nighty and black skirts, and my favourite Chaucer edition, my favourite Tale of Two Cities bound in green, my favourite Oscar Wilde. I tell myself not to slip into unadulterated prose like I was some Parisian nobody flirting with disaster.
A puff pastry floats towards my head, and it takes all of me not to look at it straight in the eye and wonder who the hell still requests puff pastry for brunch. I am stuck inside a boring conversation between Paul's lawyer and Paul. They both nod seriously and discuss London as the financial titan that it is. I imagine this conversation inside out with all its seams of pleasantries and politenesses dripping out of it like tattered threads unpopulated, not finding repose, not finding an interlocutor. Paul absolutely aghast and frightened and I allow myself to laugh out loud a little amidst the petty gentry, quiet aesthetic of the morning on this rainy London street and swallow in midair about
nothing.
I don't really know why we're here. I am still so far from finishing Adam's journals or even getting them to a proper museum to look them over. I am half afraid of them becoming
a collection, some sick and twisted curator's wet dream of "real Americana" and I am half afraid they shall remain hidden in familial obscurity. I want them to see the light of day
The
light
of
day
What a strange concept. What other light can there be, really?
No comments:
Post a Comment