Half is an Endless Extra
Gracia Perdiguerra, 041006
The alarm clock, strangely, had knocked its short arm, wound the
thin line until it drooped on its oval chest. It had separated today
from yesterday.
The glass window had recorded the night's portrait on reel. It had
light circling on the surface of the stagnant, greasy water. The
images had wallowed in dirt.
The morning had shared half an hour of the day. Extra. That was, if
there is Extra. Shades of gray had flinched on bawdry images—
wanton touch of dots, of networks— of networks of dots. I could not
count the lines from a small screen; how much had it sent in the
ruthlessness of our game?
still, we managed to put a little love in it, a little glitter, a
little of everything, like a B movie, seemingly, third rate but
entertaining.
So, the next evening— I was still hoping of a show, that would make
the minor glitches connect; that energies would pull up and make
strings from hyphens,
relieve estrangement from smileys, touch the hub from the surface,
unplug all illusions, and direct satellite links in the hearts--
yield in time. But there seemed to be
no concept of time— Time was space ticking somewhere in our bodies:
wounds counted in seconds, coagulating with the minutes, a scar of
an hour that won't heal
in the crevices of virtual walls. We hid behind the curtains of
animosity. Praised each performance on the plane of benevolence:
until you realized, there was a mistake in the float—
this was not the dance of light that you had expected. You wanted to
close your eyes, but heard whimpers— small moans that could not ease
the dryness of the light
on wet bodies. Skin dries with the persistence of light in
continuity, seething without the sun: a memory melding in space.
Science knows nothing of these things.
But, how you disabled feelings and reverted to what is tangible.
This is insane, you said. Then, turned your back on it. Insane as it
was: it was its logic.
I believe that there were no contracts, really. Just signs. There
was no need to agree, or continue to agree on the materiality of
experience. Non sequitur.
Love is never logical. It doesn't need contracts. It is not for the
mind. It is not its philosophy, or politics, or governing body. It
persists
even if it ceased on half a step. Extra. It clings to the word, a
phenomena. So, what is it? Really? A story of an hour? A fragment of
light from a daunted dawn?
A mind slipping from the pages of poetry? Or just plain poetry, that
I couldn't write, for it is always incomplete. Imagined but not
written.
Written but not realized. Realized only when imagined in such
inconclusiveness. Or, it is its own relief. The dread of uncertainty
is its meaning.
A touch on the forehead of the cloud could mean the sun smiling
without complaint— There is logic in the rising and setting of the
sun:
there is no logic in seeing light after the sun goes down. And
looking down, even if its just the moon peeping, looking through
your glass window,
I was dejected by the opaqueness of light. Still, I'm smiling half:
your extra. Counting endless dots, networking towards oblivion,
waiting for the dark
to commence. So that I may see light, once again, in the mind's eye.
Minor glitch of a major impulse. Light stays brightest tonight, my
élan vital— light of life.
--
This was first posted on the Pinoy Poets yahoo groups.
--andoy
15 April 2006
