Station of Unification.
Station Number 1
John sits with his eyes closed. He holds his
body rigid to prevent himself from rocking back and forth like a Rhesus monkey.
He thinks about Marianne, his wife, buried these several days. Behind his weary
head reddish light sneaks past the curtains. He cares nothing for the sun’s
return. A wind enters under the door and stirs minute dust planets into
spinning and weaving a heavy atmosphere. His mind reels with images of Marianne
while his body succumbs to a weighing down; nothing seems important anymore.
The room is cool and damp. A storm seems
immanent. Clouds gather around John. In his mind a thousand accusations prod.
His brain, a magnifying glass, stares down into the grave and studies the
memory of her coffin as it was lowered. His ears still hear the squeaking sound
as the flat green belts lower her down. His right hand anxiously plays with the
golden ring on his finger.
Marianne stands by the door. It is a cold
morning, her breath comes out in small clouds. She wears his old, red jumper
and his gumboots. Sleepily, she watches as he loads the canoe onto the roof of
the white station wagon.
'You'll be gone all day then?' she asks.
'Yeah,' John replies as he checks the straps
that secure the canoe.
'I might go shopping.'
'Fine.'
'What do you want for dinner?'
'I don't care.'
She pushs the door fully open and steps down
the two steps then walks across the wet ground to the car.
"Well by then,' she says as she reaches
up and kisses him. His hand slide around her waist and he turns to kiss her
lips; feels her warmth but he wants to get going.
'By love,' he says casually, his eyes back on
the canoe.
'See you later,' she replies then leaves him
alone.
That was the last time he saw her alive and it
hurts to think of how different everything would be if he had just stayed as
part of him wanted to.
John is lost in the flips and eddies and
strange turns of events. Outside the wind grows stronger; distantly he hears it
wail. he recalls the wailing of Marianne’s mother as they stood silent and
angry around the hole in the earth that wet afternoon only days ago.
His hands rise up and cover his ears but the
wind finds the nooks and crannies as it whistles his misery. Tears, like rain
on glass, slide down his immobile cheeks. Memories of Marianne fill his mind.
He remembers his joy when she smiled at one of his silly jokes. He remembers
the way the sparkle of her eyes constricted his heart. Worst, he recalls the
warmth and luxury of her curved sleeping position that allowed him to conform
to her shape with the greatest amount of contact. He can see her standing by
the sink in her flannelette pajama bottoms, green and blue stripes, that she
loved to wear around the house.
John looks down at his hands that are no
longer his hands. He studies his legs that are no longer his legs. A ricochet
of the tragic event continually cannons into the soft flesh of his heart. He
remembers sitting in the lounge room watching the television. The news flash
came on. He replays, again and again, the reporter’s damning words as, wearing
a thick, protective overcoat, she struggled to maintain her balance and the
excitement of breaking a major story out of her voice. Worst he remembers the
knock on the door and the two policemen standing on the porch.
John rocks back and forth in the chair. The
rocking gradually increases. He remembers Marianne's parents coming to collect
her things. John cries out to the empty room, ‘They blame me, they blame me! I
shall never forget the look her mother gave me. She was never happy that
Marianne lived with me. Me! They think I wanted this? They think they can judge
me more than I already do? They feel robbed. Oh Marianne, if only I hadn't gone
canoeing that day!’ John sobs as he fights for breath. His hands slam down upon
his thighs.
The music he had put on hours earlier finally
runs its course. The frenetic moment passes. Silence settles. John stares
across the room at his cd stack. The silence forces a decision. He moves out of
the chair and crosses the room to replace the cd’s in the player’s cartridge
with a new selection. He leaves the old cd’s out of their cases, scattered
around the cd player.
John glances out of the window and notices
that his blue canoe is still tied to the roof racks of his muddy car. Tears
fall freely down his unshaven face. He watches the wind as it strives to undo
the ties that hold the canoe securely to the racks.
The telephone rings. John waits. The telephone
insists. He answers it.
“How are you John?” asks Sue, a friend of
Marianne’s. Images of Marianne and Sue as they played pool come to John’s mind
and he fights to restrain the tears that, like children, stamp their feet and
demand his attention.
“I am fine,” says John emotionlessly, though
he knows he isn’t. He wonders to himself, ‘What does she expect me to say? No
I’m not okay. I’m horribly fucked! I want to scream until my lungs give up. I
want to take a blunt implement and coarsely scrape the pain out of my chest.
How can I explain to anyone that I can’t be bothered doing anything? How can I
possibly explain that this sluggishness I feel is probably the only thing that
saves me? It’s like I’m lost in water; nothing is easy.’
John stands with the receiver pressed hard up
against his ear. He grunts responses until Sue finally releases him. He drops
the receiver and lets it dangle sadly from its stretched cord. After a moment
he replaces the receiver; the little beeps it emitted more dangerous than the
telephone calls that invade. John walks across the room and turns on the music
then returns to his chair.
John sits and ponders. Somewhere amongst the
dust planets, like a spaceship, his lover’s face visits. He wants to sleep but
remains awake. Thoughts spin over and. The wind turns cold and its tendrils
ensure his alertness. Alone he sits through another night.
Station Number 2
I park the car close to the river’s edge and
sit, staring at the water flowing. The sun shines overhead. Its warmth through
the windshield makes me tired and I rest my head on the steering wheel,
allowing the sunshine to bathe my face. I close my eyes and the haunting face
reappears. It is the face of an old, one-eyed man. It is a wise face that has
haunted me for several weeks. The haunting began a few days after I ventured
back into the outside world.
I find this re-emergence strange. I feel
ghost-like. Things move through me. People speak but their words fail to
connect. Marianne’s death still binds me; I wonder if I will ever break free of
the continual pain.
The old, one-eyed man visits whenever I close
his eyes. ‘Who is this one-eyed man? Why does he haunt me?’
Laughter breaks my revere. I look up and see a
group of teenagers walk past the car. One of the teenagers turns her face
towards me and Marianne’s eyes send me reeling. Hands shaking, I start the car
and drive home, the canoe unused, again.
Asleep that night, I again dream of the
one-eyed man. In my dreams, I am walking along a gravel road, the loud
crunching of the stones underfoot causing alarm; I become conscious of the
one-eyed man either walking beside or behind me. I try to avoid looking but
always do. When I look everything freezes. Sometimes the one-eyed man smiles.
Sometimes he nods. Sometimes his single eye remains fixed in the distance and
he ignores me altogether.
Fourteen months after Marianne’s brutal death
from a stray bullet that a madman had meant for a traffic attendant, I put the
canoe back into the water. I accept the guilt I carry. I carefully step into the
canoe and push it free of the bank.
Light rain falls. A cool wind blows the rain
into my eyes. I squint and grimace as the feral day catches me within its
reckless spirit. Paddling slowly, the ache builds into my unused biceps and
thighs. I immerse myself in the wet world that battles for control of my canoe.
Hours pass and I reach the small jetty where I meet the ferry service that will
take the canoe and me back to the car.
I return the next day: and the next. My nights
belong to the one-eyed man, my days to the water. The water allows my thoughts
to untangle and I feel myself returning. Every time I navigate the river and
return alive is a victory.
One afternoon, as I gently paddle down a calm
stretch of the river, I look in the distance and freeze. There, some distance
in front of me, apparently standing on the water, waits the one-eyed man. The
one-eyed man waves then heads for the riverbank. Panic coursing through my
body, I paddle furiously and sweep past the vision.
And so it goes for six days until finally I
surrender and paddle to the riverbank where the one-eyed man waits. I pull my
canoe out of the water. The one-eyed man squats on his haunches and his one
bright blue eye peers into me.
After a few moments I ask, “What do you see one-eyed
man?”
“Pain,” replies the one-eyed man in a gravel
voice, “Pain and guilt and courage and more guilt.”
“More guilt?” I say, fearing the tears that
edge close to my eyes.
The one-eyed man points a gnarled finger at my
chest. “You feel you shouldn’t go on even though you want to.”
I am shocked by the words and stagger back
towards the river’s edge. The old man waits. I look at him and ask, “Who are
you one-eyed man?” The one-eyed man vanishes.
I am back in my canoe paddling down the river,
very near the jetty where I must catch the ferry back to the car. If I miss the
jetty, the rapids ahead will carry me far away. I will have no way of getting
back. I manage to stop the canoe four meters from the jetty and only a few
meters before I would have hit the new patch of white water.
The next week I again surrender to the
one-eyed man’s invitation. I feel must name the old man. “Have you hung from
The Tree one-eyed man?” I ask.
“I have.”
“Have your feet swayed to the Rhythm as the
wind sung our mistakes and our dreams fell like desiccated leaves?”
“They have.”
I don’t know where the questions come from but
they feel the right ones to ask. Images of old Gods and Heroes, undergoing
sacred trials and quests, flood my consciousness. My thoughts become a stream
of silver light.
The day disappears and a full moon suddenly
shines above, its rays catching the water and the gleam in the man’s single
eye. “Have you visited The Well one-eyed man? Did The Crone greet your
ignorance with a brackish laugh and a wise nod? Did She pluck your bristles and
return you to a babe? Did you stand before Her or fall at Her feet? Have you
visited The Well one-eyed man?”
“I have.”
“Did you surrender your eye to She Who guards
The Well at the dawn of time? Did you barter your kinship for Kingship? Did you
sip from The Well’s waters and see the possibilities in our futures? Did you
gain wisdom and plot your Father’s downfall?”
“I did.”
I am confident I understand. I point a finger
at the one-eyed man and say, “If you have hung from the Tree and drank from the
Well then I name you...’ but before I can utter the name the old man shakes his
head sadly and vanishes.
Light returns, bewildering my night-accustomed
eyes. Again, I find myself in the canoe near the jetty. I paddle furiously and
manage to land the canoe though the white water’s fingers slither across its
hull.
A week passes before I again meet the one-eyed
man by the bank of the river. This time, I promise myself, I will only ask the
questions that come to mind to discover where the one-eyed man might lead me.
As I speak, my mind becomes a stream and I allow it to carry me away. Like the
time before, the daylight vanishes and the full moon shines to illuminate the
periphery of the world.
“Where have you been one-eyed man?”
“I have been to the heart and seen glory. I
have been to the boundaries and seen sadness. I have been nowhere and found it
to be the centre of the universe.”
My questions demand release. “Have you visited
The Island one-eyed man?”
“I have.”
“Did you slay the Gorgon? Did you steal the
golden fleece? Did you seduce The Maiden?”
“I did.”
“Have you supped on the wise Salmon and learnt
Her secrets? Have you been eaten by worms and found your inheritance?”
“I have.”
“What do you hear one-eyed man?”
“I hear the wind’s secrets as it bends the
grass to its desire. I hear the water’s hunger as it reduces the rock with its
dance. I hear the fire’s passion as it consummates the forest. I hear the
earth’s regret as it watches everything constantly alter.”
As soon as the one-eyed man is finished
speaking, another question tumbles forth. I waste no time on reflection.
Nothing is as important as the questions I ask.
“Have you heard the Dog’s three barks?”
“I have.”
“Have you bent your bow in your own house?”
“I have.”
“Have you rode the Centaur’s back and sung
with a harp for your existence?”
“I have.”
“Have you flown with Pegasus and blinded the
Cyclops?”
“I have.”
“Have you fought the dragon and descended into
the earth?”
“I have.”
I lose all sense of self and merge with the
images pouring forth from my unconscious. The questions come out in a blur yet
the old one-eyed man never misses a single word or inference.
“Have you crossed the boundaries and stood
before lost worlds? Have you donned various disguises and unmasked the hidden
word? Have you sipped of The Chalice and sated your sacred sword? Have you
slept beneath the oak and rested upon the forge? Has the snake tasted your
bosom? Has the scorpion stung your scrotum? Have The Three Women covered your
hurts? Have the stars unraveled your questions? Do the vultures eat from your
hand? Do bulls know your thirst?”
“All of these things you mention have
connection to me.”
My thoughts slow and the stream becomes a
silver trickle. I watch, fascinated, as the one-eyed man reaches out a withered
hand and touches my right foot. My senses explode under the power of his touch.
I hear the water lapping at the bank, the fish breathing in the river, the trees
around whispering. I see the ant near my toe, a mouse scurrying past, and fish
leaping for mosquito. I feel the immensity of the moment, the earth’s movement
as it inhales and exhales, the sadness and joy of life. Most of all, I sense
the possibility for anything and everything.
Softly, aware the one-eyed man is slowly
rising to his feet, I ask “What do you see one-eyed man?”
“I see myself in all my could-have-beens and I
survive to tell.”
“How does it feel one-eyed man?”
“It feels different every time, so different
that it feels the same.”
“Will you share what you have learnt one-eyed
man?”
“What I have learnt is not for the sharing.”
“Can I ask nothing of you?”
“You can ask.”
“Will I receive?”
“What do you dare to risk?”
“All.”
“Let us hope that will be enough.”
“It is all I have.”
“So be it.”
“What happens now?”
The one-eyed man laughs and says, “Farewell
John.” He vanishes. I am back in the canoe being swamped on all sides by wild,
white water. I crane my neck around and see that the jetty is a dot in the
distance. The canoe is swept around a bend and I forget everything as I fight
to stay alive.
The battle rages for hours. My arms ache. My
teeth chatter and the cold seeps into my bones. My legs quiver and beg for
release from the cramped canoe. Suddenly the water ceases its madness. I find
myself in a large lagoon. Ahead lies the black mouth of a cave. The cave is a
magnet. I direct the canoe into its depths.
Station Number 3
A small canoe gently rocks on a pool of deep
water. The water’s liquid wrinkles caress the canoe’s small wooden hull. In a
subterranean cavern as vast as the cosmos, in a silence so profound it sings,
John sits listening to the stalagmite weeping and discovers that in harmony,
he, too, weeps. He weeps because the cavern’s ancient song begs an expression
that his voice cannot attempt.
Images of Marianne consume his thoughts. The
images flicker, one to another, and the pain in his heart builds until his mind
reels under the sheer potency of the moment. As it reaches the point of too
hard to bear he breaks free. His soul soars out of his body and joins the
immense expanse that merges the dark space with the entire universe.
John’s body lies slumped in the canoe,
unconscious. His left hand hangs over its edge and his fingers dip into the
freezing water. The golden ring slips free from his hand and sinks below.
Hours pass. Suddenly John’s head jerks up and
his eyes open. His soul has returned. It is accompanied. He sits up and lifts
his fingers clear of the water. He is aware but doesn’t care that the ring is
gone. John takes hold of the paddle and turns the canoe around until it is
facing a pinpoint of light. He rows towards the light. He is careful not to
turn around lest the accompanying soul be lost forever to the cavern’s depths.
As he paddles towards the light, John smiles.
No comments:
Post a Comment