Wanderer took his Beckett up into the hills. The rising sun looked like the face of his favorite god. He sat upon a hillock and read, the words like melancholia, the words like tar. Later he rose in need of refreshment. He found an old farmhouse and the woman there wore an expression as bisected as Old Sam himself, a face so full of character the man had to sit and weep. The woman ladled into his bowl a few more words and the man could not ingest them. Black marks…he said…black thoughts… The woman stood contemplatively aside, her thoughts going now to a day long ago when another stranger came to see her, a freedom fighter with a knapsack full of poems. Wanderer asked her how to get to G ---, that city built on the graves of saints. He wanted to live with her in a city, a place without hillocks or farmhouses or plotlines black as sin. She said, we can go to the city. There we will lose the parts of ourselves that have grown round in nature. We will lose our loose sentences. There we will be modern and our children will not be wildings but the repressed offspring of City Man and City Woman. Later there was a wedding and it may have been a celebration of their humble meeting or it may have been something else. It may have been the story of G---. It is, at least, the end of this part of the story.
published 1 May 2012