Self-Oxidation
when i was born no angel came and therefore no one said i’d be this or that. “a seven-month baby’ll grow up; eight-month ones seldom do!”, godmother said for a week. i survived. and grew up thanks to liver steaks, calf’s foot jelly and scott’s emulsion.
i have: mother-in-law and father-in-law, postponed surgery, electricity-water-telephone-mobile-cable TV bill, freezer matching the fridge, invitation for children’s birthday parties on saturdays, laced christmas tablecloth, small striae, cheesecake recipes, fire insurance, complete english china set except for the tureen the maid has dropped, hair that needs moisturizing, blender that’s being serviced. and worst of all: nostalgia.
i remember some perfume vials with peach-shaped tops. birthday gift, infallible for well-behaved girls. i had three flasks over my dressing-table (i had a dressing-table of course) and i would spend hours looking at the labels: paris, rome, tokyo, new york.
inheritance from my italian grandfather: “Who will not keep a penny shall never keep many!’, “The higher the ape climbs, the more he shows his behind…’, “A new broom sweeps clean’. sheer philosophy the family followed to the letter. he was a bore.
at sixteen one is macrobiotic, smokes pot, bites fingernails, is a socialist, only wears fashionable pants, burns incense, loves nature, sticks in bed reading someone’s complete oeuvre, wears the jewelry got at fifteen together with a necklace made of browned macaroni. is a radical catholic and zen buddhist. utters incomplete sentences. laughs as will never laugh again.
for a whole year i mourned Christopher Columbus’ death. from seven to eight. so sad the story the nun told: “he perished poor and forgotten in the far, faraway city of Valladolid…’
during sleepless nights i envy the mice i hear on the ceiling of the house. they move. stink. multiply. i feel the cold the pups feel. every night i hear. i wait. i know how long they’re there. we.
when color TV appeared: “The image is beautiful but you can’t watch it for more than an hour a day. It’s bad for the eyes.’ in chicago a child had gone blind.
every summer avidnesses for transparency. this year undeferrably i’ll be female. buy: miraculous creams, indian dresses patterned with tiny little flowers, two short skirts one golden yellow the other i don’t know, sleeveless tops, extravagant earrings, high spike-heeled sandals. no good. i never had time to wear.
english test: correct spelling of words. i got an a. when i got home i heard grandma saying: “Jack, will’ya chainges a fuse ’cóz i’m a-busy hangin’ clothes?’
i have not: gouty husband, tops that show the decaying belly as if it wasn’t, key rings from philanthropic foundations, gym classes, nor lights nor bangs, long and/or red colored nails, migraines, a lover who’s younger than me, a set of pans that cook with no oil. i leave some for the others.
i could never stand that “classics” stuff. “i expected to find the classics among your books!” classic is the banishment of expectations. is this rain outside, the afternoon fading away, the words’ humidity growing old within us. classic is the silence, the need for ellipsis. classic is the systole. is the green turned yellow and the yellow green every year. are the holes. lambs in the darkness. breath against the window glass in chilly dawns. hands shivering. are the ashes. classic indeed – the absence on the bookcase doesn’t matter, rare volumes, read messages – as far as i know, classic indeed is the dust.
never again i heard: “I’ve got to pay my fellow friend a visit at once!”. nor “Saved by the bell!”. never again a great-aunt told us: “Put on a beret right away ’cause there’s dew!”. never again someone said shortbread, lavender, shawl, scampish, nosebag, God forbid. nor bedridden, nor passementerie, nor taxicab. no one ever rough-‘n-tumbled again. (…) none so blind as those who can read.
words are sands and are lost. crazed leaves dancing syncopations before the storm. consciousnesses. glimpses. who’s interested in destinies? gift wrapping? oh, have no small change? the craft of eternal begging; why the flowers if so much asphalt and so good? why tom-toms spilling messages, tristanic discourses? why stay here driving drawings into the walls, sculpturing sentences, waving here am i?
While i write sun rises.
Translation: Ralph Miller Jr