Falling Out of Time Read online

  WOMAN IN NET: There was a house, there were clothes—

  DUKE: I played with horses, cavaliers—

  TOWN CHRONICLER’S WIFE: And you, sir, who are you?

  TOWN CHRONICLER: Me? I don’t … Excuse me, ma’am, I don’t know me.

  WALKING MAN: Who am I?

  WOMAN ATOP THE BELFRY (singing softly):

  When I tell you yes,

  you will embrace

  the no,

  embrace

  the empty

  space of him,

  his hollow

  fullness—

  (pause)

  There you are no longer

  alone,

  no longer

  alone,

  and you are not

  just one there, and

  never will be

  only

  one—

  (silence)

  WALKING MAN:

  There

  I touch him?

  His inner self?

  His gulf?

  WOMAN ATOP THE BELFRY:

  And he,

  he also

  touches you

  from there,

  and his touch—

  WALKING MAN:

  No one

  has ever touched me

  in that way?

  WOMAN IN NET:

  Two human specks

  a mother

  and

  her child—

  WALKING MAN:

  What more must I do? My legs

  can hardly carry me, my life thread

  becomes thinner, a moment more

  and I’ll be gone. And you were right,

  my wife, righter than me—

  there is no there, there is

  no there,

  and even if I walk

  for all of time

  I will not get there, not

  alive. So many days

  have passed

  since I left home,

  and all in vain, no purpose, but

  the passion still remains inside me

  like a curse,

  walk onward,

  walk—

  WOMAN ATOP THE BELFRY:

  How miserable to be

  so right,

  while you were wiser

  and far bolder.

  Get up,

  go and be

  like him as much as

  one alive can be

  like the dead—without dying.

  Conceive him,

  yet be your death, too,

  almost.

  Like him

  be now, but only till

  the shadow of his end

  falls

  on the shadow

  of your being.

  And there, my love,

  among the shadows,

  in the netherworld

  of father-son,

  there will come

  peace—for him,

  for you.

  DUKE:

  Listen to her, sir

  (my subject,

  though subjected now

  to no one), listen:

  faithful are the wounds

  of she who loves. Do it, and if not—

  then you have sealed my fate,

  our fate,

  and we are nothing—

  all of us who walk—

  but a ripple over death,

  a feeble sign, unreadable,

  in the dense rock, from which

  a wise but uncourageous sculptor

  carved the merest hint of us, courageous

  but not genius, or genius but surely

  not merciful.

  Go,

  upend time,

  conceive him and then die

  with him, and be reborn

  out of his death.

  WALKING MAN:

  Only the passion remains

  in me, like a curse,

  a disease—

  walk, walk more, and

  more.

  Perhaps at some last border

  where my wisdom cannot reach,

  I will set down

  this heavy load and then

  take one small step backward,

  no more, one pace

  across the world,

  a concession,

  a confession:

  I am here,

  he is

  there,

  and a timeless border

  stands between us.

  Thus to stand,

  and then, slowly,

  to know,

  to fill with knowledge

  as a wound fills up

  with blood:

  this is

  to be

  man.

  WALKERS:

  And at that moment,

  with those words,

  the world grew

  dark: a shadow

  struck us all.

  A wall.

  A wall stood in our way. A massive

  wall of rock bisected,

  cut the world

  right through.

  A wall. It wasn’t here before,

  it simply wasn’t!

  A thousand times we’ve circled

  round the town,

  up and down these hills

  until we know each stone and crevice, and

  suddenly—a wall.

  Perhaps we did not notice?

  Perhaps we passed it

  in our sleep? It was not here,

  it wasn’t! Then how? Then what?

  From the sky? Or sprouted

  from the ground?

  Now it’s here, it’s here,

  and maybe—

  Could it be? Possible? But no,

  my friends, no, science won’t allow

  such an assumption! But perhaps

  our longings will? Perhaps

  despair allows it?

  Coldness

  suddenly spreads

  through our limbs. A cool shadow

  cast upon us, slashing our world

  like an ax,

  like then, yes,

  like the moment

  of disaster—

  And he,

  the one,

  the walking one,

  the lonely,

  nears the wall.

  One step and then another. Fearful,

  feet defeated, walking yet recoiling,

  a grasshopper

  beside it.

  WOMAN IN NET: Enough! I’m going back.

  DUKE: But we’re not there yet. And what if there is right here, now, my lady, just behind the wall?

  WOMAN IN NET: You listen to me, m’lord: farther than this we won’t make it alive.

  DUKE: Please, don’t go.

  WOMAN IN NET: Just so I understand, m’lord—you asking me to stay?

  DUKE: When you are here, I am not afraid.

  WOMAN IN NET: Give me your hand, m’lord.

  WALKERS:

  And he, facing the wall,

  head cocked, listening,

  awaits an answer. Where,

  where will he go, where will we go:

  along the wall? Or just stand here

  and wait?

  For whom? For what?

  And for how long?

  And as it always is with him, we know,

  the feet. A tremble rises

  from the shins, the body

  tenses, head slowly lifts up

  and straightens, and he walks. He walks.

  It’s good. This way is good. And everything

  comes back to life along with him, one foot

  lifts up, then steps back down, a step

  and one more step,

  one more, he walks,

  walks and steps, steps

  and strikes, he walks

  in place—

  in place? Yes, treading

  in one place, a step,

  another, one more step,

  his eyes upon the wall, walking

  with
out walking, walking,

  dreaming, walking

  with himself, from himself

  to himself—

  WALKING MAN:

  Here I will fall

  now I will fall—

  I do not fall.

  Now, here,

  the heart will stop—

  it does not stop—

  TOWN CHRONICLER:

  Here is shadow

  and fog,

  frost

  rising

  from a dark pit.

  Now,

  now I will fall—

  WALKERS:

  He does

  not fall

  and does not

  fail, he walks, before the wall

  he walks, a step,

  another, one more step,

  an hour goes by, another hour, sun sets

  sun rises, weakened limbs. The shadows

  of our bodies swallowed up

  into the darkness as we walk,

  we all walk

  there—

  And sometimes it does seem

  that there is something moving in the wall.

  It breathes. We do not say

  a word. More than anything

  we fear

  the hope. Of what awaits beyond the wall

  we do not dare to think. At dawn,

  and twilight, too, our bodies elongate,

  we grow into extremely slender

  giants, silhouettes. And sometimes

  deep inside there floats a golden speck,

  fading from one, skipping to the other,

  and this we do not speak of either. We walk in gloom.

  Across the way, on gnarled rock,

  a spider spins a web, spreads out his taut,

  clear net. Then he creates a recess

  and he burrows deep inside it—

  Our faces

  are sealed, our feet

  strike, hit the earth,

  the earth is also a wall.

  The sky above as well, perhaps.

  Walk, walk more, constantly

  walk so as not to be crushed

  between the walls. One step,

  another, another step, our bleary eyes

  see only humps of rocky stone,

  scabs of brown and gray, and

  a thin spiderweb waving

  in the breeze—

  Sunset pours its light upon the wall.

  It almost draws attention for a moment. That light

  of golden-red. Warm, appeasing

  light. Since the day my daughter drowned, I gather up

  each moment of beauty and grace, for her.

  And I,

  my friends,

  ever since,

  have looked

  at things of beauty twice.

  Oh, m’lord, I swear,

  I’m just like you, except that

  I don’t have the words you have

  from education. But Lady of the Nets,

  you move me so each time

  you speak of your son. Well, m’lord,

  that’s because poems suddenly

  tumble out my mouth. It is the same

  with me, my lady: poetry

  is the language

  of my grief.

  Look—

  there—

  one green leaf.

  Wondrous how it managed to sprout

  here and survive in the naked,

  arid rock. A fly lands on the leaf,

  cleans its body,

  scrubs and polishes

  translucent wings—

  We walk, alert, watching

  the fly like a riddle—

  vibrant, full of life, of lust;

  it hovers and then

  lands again, playful,

  it should be more careful near the web.

  But no—

  the fool has touched the spiderweb,

  brushed it with its wing,

  now lost.

  Disaster here, we know, instantly

  now, disaster, its cold fingers

  on our lips.

  We walk fast, we walk

  hard, threads bind.

  The fly struggles, tries to take flight,

  buzzes so loudly the sky might tear,

  and its mouth opens wide:

  What are you trying to say?

  And what is it you know now,

  that you did not know

  when you were spawned?

  A day or two later

  at dusk, half asleep,

  we notice that our stride

  has changed. We walk, we step

  so quickly, our skin bristles, what is it?

  The earth, it seems, is softer?

  Opening up to furrows

  and dimples? Our feet understand

  before we do, as they strike the earth,

  deepening, dust rises,

  backs straighten, eyes glimmer—

  Each of us kneels down

  upon the earth, digs into it with

  hands and feet, with nails. Digs

  quickly, like an animal,

  and it trembles at our touch. Our hands

  suddenly light, supple, fingers knead,

  whole bodies dig in dirt and dust.

  TOWN CHRONICLER:

  My wife,

  she, too.

  Her lovely shoulders

  moved, hovered.

  An agile shape

  danced in her

  sorrow-heavy body,

  slipped away, like moth

  from dusty lamp …

  She stopped. Wiped her forehead

  with her hand.

  I took my life

  in my hands and smiled.

  She smiled back! Up and down

  I wiggled both my brows.

  She smiled some more!

  I went back to digging.

  WALKERS:

  The earth arches, curves itself

  toward us, as if having waited

  for a long time to be dug,

  dug like this, for people such as us

  to dig through it—we have a use now.

  We sense how much it wanted

  to be wallowed in, rejoiced in, laughed into—

  tears and blood and sweat

  are all we’ve piled into it always. When—

  tell me—when has

  someone laughed

  into the earth?

  The shadow

  of the wall grows

  longer over us, its blackness sharp

  and cool. Teeth of iron

  plow us with their umbra.

  Vigorously, we fall

  into earth’s lap, turn over

  in her, inhale her warmth

  and breath, and she—the mother

  of all life, and so the mother

  of all dead, she is bereaved-in-life,

  warm and fluttering in our hands,

  as though begging us to go on,

  to dredge up from her womb

  the sweet desires of youth entombed

  in her, the sweetness

  of childhood which, in her,

  has turned

  into dust.

  CENTAUR:

  Imprisoned

  in my room,

  on my cursed body-desk,

  I finally have written. Like fingers

  probing crumbled earth,

  I wrote the story.

  WALKERS:

  As day fades,

  we linger by the wall

  among deep trenches:

  scars that we inflicted on the earth.

  From time to time

  our trembling glances fall

  into their depths,

  but quickly

  turn away.

  And he, the walker, rises

  from the dust and looks at us,

  and now it seems, for the first time,

  his eyes greet us with kind blue light.

  He smiles warmly to us each, and also,

>   so it seems, to those

  whom each of us carries inside.

  Soundlessly, with lips alone,

  he whispers: Thank you.

  Then turns, removes his clothes,

  and here now he is

  naked. His body is

  so white,

  human.

  And down he goes

  into the pit

  he dug, and lies

  there on his back, and

  puts his arms

  along his sides, and shuts

  his eyes.

  We stand.

  Time comes

  and starts

  to rush: the cobbler

  and his midwife

  help the teacher

  to remove his shoes.

  The woman in the nets

  and her friend the duke,

  hand in hand, fleet fingered—

  she from within,

  he from without—

  untangle the shock

  around her body.

  The chronicler and his wife

  quietly help each other

  remove their torn clothes,

  both excited,

  agitated,

  and suddenly

  they look

  so young.

  Naked

  we stand,

  taking our leave

  with a gaze. Each of us

  alone again.

  Each bent over

  his crater,

  each descending

  to her grave.

  Then,

  like a predator,

  fast and sharp,

  the night

  lunges.

  CENTAUR:

  Now at last I understand:

  The father does not move

  his child. I breathe life

  not into my son.

  It is myself whom I adjure,

  with words,

  with visions,

  with the scarecrow figures

  glued with straw

  and mud, and with

  a poor man’s wisdom,

  lest I cease and turn to stone.

  Lest I cease and turn

  to stone.

  In the cold white space

  between the words,

  it is my spirit

  that is felled.

  I alone flutter like prey

  caught in the jaws

  of finality.

  For myself,

  for my own soul, I fight

  against that which diminishes,

  which decimates

  and dulls.

  My whole life

  now,

  my whole life

  on the tip

  of a pen.

  WALKING MAN:

  It was

  silent.

  I lay

  yoked

  by loneliness:

  the dolor

  of a man

  in earth.

  The quiet voices

  of the night