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DREAM OR SOMETHING ELSE This quest is to find out whether this
is a dream or something else. In the crevices between the blinds the day
peeks with suspicion--it will appear sooner or later. The blind flutters
before the closed window. Through it, sudden and round, a silhouette of a
female being is thrust. The sequence is: black cloud: blind: woman: ? From
an infinity a thread to the finite. The air rises. By her face and her
thighs you would say she is forty. She isn't hiding. She enters ready to
show herself to me and tell me who she is. I understand the scream, pulling
her like sandy dust, like a nectar towards me, with my mouth full of fear. I
am the ground where she should settle down. But, suddenly she changes her
mind, takes pity on someone and disappears from the room. She climbs to the
roof and thumps there for a long while. A childish voice pleads with her to
stop the beating. Is that herself begging not to be beating to the pulp? Not
to be raped. Not to be disfigurated. There is no second voice, there is no
possibility to compare and divide the worlds. The supposition remains. It
isn't pity but some other reason that makes her leave my room: personality. We swam together for a long while. Not a sight or sound of the shore. I didn't dare turn around, so that he wouldn't notice my fear. Let's lie down for a while, he said. --No way, I rejoined, as if I were looked. I don't know how to relax in the sea. to lie on my back. To float. --Try, at least that's easy. All my attempts have failed, I told him. Then what'll we do, he asked? We'll swim until we decide to return. --But I am tired already, I must have a lie down. --You lie down, I told him, just help me turn around and choose my direction. The open sea always confuses me. I get an irresistible desire not to return, to swim away to a wrong shore. Maybe that's why I don't get tired. I hope I'll arrive somewhere anyway. Or at least I'll return so late that the old place won't be anymore what it once was. --Hasn't experience taught you that you return to where you've left, that you hope in vain, he asked me. --Maybe I hope in vain, but even that makes sense, I said. I never hope with the same man. Tunnel. The only part of the road I always wish to avoid, even when I am not traveling. The part of the tunnel is the darkest, where the road curves and turns. There neither the light from the entrance nor form the exit arrives. Fear that light will disappear forever. Right then and there I stop, I allow fear to last, and even more, to grow into horror, hard to survive. Before the end it's not the desire that surfaces but the urge to reach the natural light. Because darkness, however "self-sufficient" it may be, is not natural. As in death. I stayed in the central curve of the tunnel and I invoked him. I said: I love. They make me leave home. They throw
out my dolls. I can't even remember they were ever mine. I'm cold. I look
back, the house is empty, and behind every window lurk hands I recognize,
only not with stones in them. Bar this time. When it falls on me, I move
slightly away down the street. I look up. Empty. I turn the other way, full.
Mothers, fathers, sisters, nephews, uncles. Cars fill the street. Something
will run me over. If not the cars, if not the stones, if not my family, if
not the ants... It is not a curse if you come back. If they forgive you. It
is not a stone if it is not in the family. If it is not intimate. © Katica Kulavkova, 2001-2007. |
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