Notes: X
tidal affair
on the morrow, speak to the physicians, these recurrent dreams of friends and foes, angels and demons, the glittering sparks hurting your eyes — all rather strange, yes?
certainly, I shan’t be mutinous, mother. goodman aurelian tells me not to put trust in these images, but I am afraid of a new fever in my spine, the leaves also refuse to speak with me, I am afraid of their health.
son, lose this taste of yours for these marmoreal things you so very much love, the bird shan’t feed you, only themselves.
mother, the dove leaves a crumb for me when it knows I cannot eat.
when, son, did you last see a dove in this grey sky? look, there a scar in the tapestry, the clouds have ceased to move.
the breeze, mother, it shan’t be long now.
in your voice I hear echoes of your father, I beseech you to be witness to meister aurelian’s good counsel, before you become possessed by his ghost.
mother, the goodman shall receive me, that is certain, but what he and I may agree to see may not suit either.
if nothing else, the meister may prescribe you a sweet book that may calm thy nerves.
mother, you say such things whilst knowing I do not read, and have no inclination towards words, all the while grass ripples in this sun.
my innocent cub, what shall we yet make of you? perhaps, verses from the book of masons shall soothe this anguish?
worry not, mother mine, I have seen the stars speak when it was neither day nor night, neither past yet future.
and I painted on these clouds my dreams, red and black, yellow and blue, my finger stained with these dyes, pray, could you wipe them with your wimple?
o my son, that I shall, blessed be thy name.
come, mother, but tread lightly on the soil, it is newborn.
sister, do not cut the moon with your washing lines, this harshness does not suit you, move aside and see, by the cliff — the promise is mine that you will discover the moon not scarred.
brother, these tales of magic are as old as time, yet my fingers remain pruned by the sea, and yet you ask me to stitch the moon with the nearest star, make it a lamp?
were you aware that in the sixties, a man by the name of Moses foretold the coming of these storms, long before the discourse of the now. no, but did you know of Elias, two thousand years ago, who had predated all others? is that so? but how then we have not even heard a whisper of such? perhaps, because you remain we, while I remain of the dirt.
meister, did you ingest your medicine as the doctor instructed? this vile potion, alas dear Katerina, is nothing but a poison concocted by the rascals. now, now, meister, let us not say such things, look at the orange sky today. dear, if that is orange, then I must be in heaven, nay, look, nay, see: it is as if the angels plastered onto my sky the pulp of elderberries stolen from my very own garden — is that not a shame?
bring me a map, Bertie old chap, I shall mark for you a geography you must learn, let me carve into paper the trail to Eden lest you get lost in the desert. but I know the way, master, I had burnt it into my mind long before. yes, my dear boy, but perhaps you may forget when you come upon the fork.
muirne reached her ninth decade on the island, her legs no longer could carry her to her sea, so she sat by her window, reclined on her wooden rocking chair, separated from the sky only by a white mullioned window.
now that Sarah had arrived from angor, she was to take residence in the town of halitus till a time unknown — the reason of her arrival remained a mystery to the twenty nine resident of the town. to make an image, Sarah had responded to aunt sár when questioned on her intentions — madness, shrieked sár as she hobbled away into the sea.
what image, miss? do you have a church, I hear no bells. why yes, miss, it is the grandest in all of halitus. does it have windows? windows? no, miss — meister Franklin forbade all glasswork a century ago. but then how may you see, my child? come, fetch me a glassworker, a stained glass we shall make in honor of the sky. but miss, the sky fell and drowned in the sea a century ago too — worry not, my dear child, we shall break the seam and let the sky escape.
