“If only I could tell my wife, my parents, my friends - tell them how it feels to look at the raw-black mountainside in the night and to bring my attention to a single light-source, flickering some way off.”
The microphone burps tonic vibrations from the endless Fiesta all across the valley floor like a spilled drink. My interactsions with the villagrs - with the village, I mean - interactions… my interactions with the village are often thus; far-off admirations, far-off hesitations, far-off irritations -
“One time or another,” I says to myself, “One time or another I shall go down there amongst all that music and dancing and I shall go down there and I shall disappear -” But in reality - in my reality at least - the ambivalent spaces which have emerged between the frenzy of my imagination and any actual activity are nothing but a gulf of words lying somewhere beyond a comma or a semicolon; stringent, untranslatable words, or grunts and cries, a tongue locked behind the merciless resistance of teeth -
I cannot get down, down amongst these foundational things, down in the lower depths with the other refuse, where the dilapidated remains of my feelings house all manner of shiftless creatures. This nerve disease, brain disease, whatever - it keeps me housebound, the house a nursemaid, and together we tend to the humiliating decline in our conditions with another drink.
At the window a wild night unfolds. Mountain winds spread the fiesta from one remote village to the next until all is revelry and vodka. I am a leftover part from this celebration, attendant from my permanent sickbed, the pitcher-plant, my bottle, and from my balcony I distribute well-wishes to all. This is my evening darshan. I have never used amplification to communicate myself, so it is unlikely that anything but the night receives my blessings. The balcony is all there is in the night.
“¿Perhaps I should repair the roof?” No; wait. Sometimes one ought to let the water in. So I sit comfortably along the edge of my carpet, (a domain over which I am master, a desert in which I am nomad,) and there, in the edge of my carpet, is a future; a future as undeniable as any other. The edge of my carpet is where I see my future. I shall retire there someday, someday not too far-off. I have already drawn-up plans -
“If only I could tell my wife of the life I lead out the bedroom window, where frequently I am dissolved in a solitary light stranded on the unforgiving mountainside.” Doubtless she will not hear. For I have never used amplification, and my wife is the night itself -
by Antonio ‘Toni’ Vodka
(Occasional practitioner of things)
Juliol 5-th, 2017