Xstabeth, page 3
By the time my father got home. By the time my father got home in the early hours I had been sick all over my bed twice. At first he was annoyed and he took the covers and threw them out of the window. Then he saw the bruising on my head and the burn marks. I told him I had fallen down the stairs. But your head is burnt little one. He said. Friction. I said. It was the only word I could come up with. Then my father started crying. I’m so selfish. He said. I left you at home and you could have died. Meanwhile I’m out chasing my dreams. Even though I was nauseous and dizzy that still hit home. His dreams were just an excuse for a musician more famouser than himself to have sex with his daughter. His dreams were just an excuse for his daughter to take photographs of her own self-murder. His dreams were just a chilly strip club in Siberia. Father. I asked him. How was your night. Although really my eyes were rolling in my head. And I can’t remember what he told me. It was only when I saw Jaco that I heard the full story.
In the meantime I had become a ghost. Jaco got the photograph developed. The one with me killing myself in it. My head is a cloud of smoke. Who knew a gun could cause so much smoke. Maybe because it was damp. And we are both looking straight at the camera. Staring deep into it with all our might. The famouser musician is drawing the blade across his throat but not really. There was barely a mark. He was only acting. Whereas I had really pulled the trigger. If I hadn’t had my trigger finger in some girl’s butthole. If I hadn’t had my trigger finger in some girl’s butthole earlier I might have scored a direct hit and drilled a hole through my own brain. But my finger slipped. And the gun moved. And the bullet skimmed the back of my head. But in the picture I didn’t know that. But in the picture I was a dead girl. I recalled my father on the TV programme. The one with the comedy protest singer. I remember how he said we needed new men. New women. People who did things in blood. Then I thought what was the point. Then I thought about the cowboys murdering the Indians in the pass. Then I realised I was in the saddle. I was in the saddle more than any of them. I realised that the night my father came home in the early hours and threw my blankets out of the window. Even though I was nauseous and I was the one with the sore head I sat back down on my bare bed and stroked his head softly while he wept. I should have been here. He kept saying. It’s okay. Little one. I said. I took the words right out of his mouth. It was time. It’s okay little one. I said. Everything’s okay. Everything’s all right. I knew he was crying for lots of things. Some things that I knew about. Some things that I never would. Some things to do with my mother. Some things to do with the hopelessness of his career. I knew really it was nothing to do with me. And that was fine. After that if I needed anyone to talk to I talked to the photograph. I talked to myself one second before my death. That’s called being enlightened. And it’s easy. When you have seen yourself dead then everything feels like saying goodbye forever. But then you realise you are always looking at everything like death is just up ahead. I would stare at my father as he smoked a pipe and listened to Leonard Cohen. And Nick Drake. That was another one. I would stare at him in the light of a candle. And under my breath I would say bye-bye. Bye-bye. He would tell me that Nick Drake is dead. Nick Drake died. He would say. Nick Drake is dead. He killed himself while listening to the “Brandenburg” Concertos by J. S. Bach. He was listening to it on LP. On an old stereo. So that it kept repeating the final bar. That’s what he said. He would say to me the final bar. Again and again. And then he would look at me significantly. I’m hearing the final bar right now. I would think. And I would look at my father. My father bent over the old stereo. Nick Drake had no ego. My father said. Then he shook his head. Leonard Cohen went into a Zen monastery. He said. That was because of girls. He said. He was getting too many girls. Can Zen cure you of women. Not cure you. He said. But everybody needs a break. Nick Drake said fame was like a fruit tree. He said. Who needs it. That made no sense to me. Surely everyone could use a fruit tree. Free fruit. It’s not exactly hard cash. But still.
* * *
There was always dust in our old house. Dust in the air. You could see it tinkling in the candlelight. That’s what dust does. It tinkles in the light. Normally a shaft of sunlight. But we didn’t see much of those. My father and I. My father liked to keep the curtains closed. Plus. He preferred to use candles. Plus. He abhorred central heating. Plus. He never painted over the damp spots on the walls. He just let them hang there. It occurred to me that everything was changing. Everything was breaking free. Even the tinkling dust. I got up from the armchair next to the fire. I walked deliberately next door. I chose to end that scene right then and there. By the time I came back it was gone forever. Even though my father was still there. And even though he was still bent over the stereo. And even though the dust was still spinning slowly in the air. Still spinning slowly and tinkling. I knew. I knew I had limited time left with my father. In the slow spinning and tinkling I knew that time was running out. Still I knew. It would be easier for me to love him when he was dead. When he was helpless and dead like a little child. But what about this precious moment passing in the light and the dust. To give up to this moment as it is passing. Can you. I thought I would try my best while he was alive. The best way I could think to do this was to keep saying goodbye to him. Under my breath no matter what. Goodbye. Beautiful moment. Dear father. Goodbye. Light tinkling. Me. Echoing. Goodbye. Goodbye. But then I started saying it to rooms and to certain streets and to whole cities even. And mixing them up. Goodbye City of White Nights. Goodbye old chess piece. Goodbye old shoes laid out to dry. Goodbye peeling wallpaper. Goodbye Church of the Vladimir Icon of the Mother of God. Goodbye strange ornament. Goodbye sad old pigeon-stained monument to Mikhail Lermontov. Goodbye bedroom of my childhood. Goodbye far-off galaxies. Up above. Goodbye rotten fruit bowl. Goodbye Sennaya Ploshchad. Goodbye little warm stove in the living room. Goodbye little smoke rising up. Goodbye tattered old paperback. Goodbye little moon. Up above. Goodbye Bol’shaya Morskaya Ulitsa. Goodbye depressing painting on the wall. Goodbye old penknife. Faded postcard of Marc Chagall. Farewell! Faded postcard of Marina Tsvetayeva curled up with the damp and the cold and with the little spores on it. Goodbye! Faded postcard of Gloria Swanson. I’ll be off now! Farewell torn tea towel. Farewell stained teapot. And little box of matches. See you! Golden icon of Xenia. And to friends. Goodbye Marja. Goodbye dear friends. Faithful companions. Farewell! And to the dust itself too. Goodbye old dust. Tinkling. Play me a song about saying goodbye. I asked my father. I know just the one. He said. Then he played me “Hey That’s No Way to Say Goodbye.” By Leonard Cohen. What is the correct way to say goodbye. I asked him. That’s a good question. I’m not sure Leonard Cohen answers it. He said. That’s his genius. You would think genius had a few answers to things. I thought. But I held my tongue. I think you say goodbye with gratitude. Do you say it softly. I asked him. Oh yes. He said. The softer the better. My dad was a genius with the answers. That’s what I told myself. As I softly told him goodbye. Are things softly said the better. I asked him. Think about it. He said. Would you rather be whispered to. OR SHOUTED AT. A whisper is closer to a last breath. I thought. That is why we are able to love it more. But did Leonard Cohen have to go into a Zen monastery because girls were whispering sweet nothings in his ear. I asked him. He wanted the whispers to last forever. My father said. The nothings. But that’s demanding the impossible. Do you miss the whispers. I asked him. The nothings. It was the closest we had come to talking about my mother. Nick Drake has a voice like a constant whisper. He said. And he played a song called “Hazey Jane.” That was an up-tempo whisper. It’s like he is singing really close to your ear. Besides. He said. I get the whispers. I get them when I play my music. The nothings. He said. I get them when I play my music. And everyone is hushed. And they have to whisper between themselves. If they want to talk. You can hear their breath beneath the guitar strings. Whispering. It’s a great feeling. He said. If Nick Drake had no ego why did he kill himself. I asked him. I mean. I said. What was there to kill. His genius turned on itself. He said. And he nodded. As if he understood it all too well. Was he disappointed that he wasn’t more successful. I asked him. That too. He said. And he nodded. But fame is just a fruit tree. I told him. He nodded. Maybe that’s all he was asking. He said. Then he asked me if I still said my prayers at night. Do you kneel down next to your bed and say your prayers. He asked me. I wasn’t sure what the correct answer was. I wondered what Leonard Cohen and Nick Drake thought of prayers. Do Zen people pray. Then I said. I whisper them under my breath. Like I’m talking into the ear of God. That’s good. He said. That’s fine. What I didn’t tell him was that really I had started praying all the time. Every minute under my breath. And that my prayer was saying goodbye to everything.
What did Leonard Cohen die of. I asked him. Leonard Cohen isn’t dead. He told me. That didn’t make sense according to his records. In that case how did he live. I asked him. He had a song called “Hallelujah” for example. My father said. I think that helped. Would you like me to sing it for you. He asked me. I said yes. Even though I hated my father’s singing voice then and felt embarrassed for him. I closed my eyes and kept saying bye-bye bye-bye bye-bye under my breath. Like a mantra till he stopped. To try to get me to like it. Then I smiled awkwardly. I couldn’t even make it natural. I was furious with myself. Even though I had a nauseous feeling in my stomach. And my flesh crawled. Is hallelujah the correct way to say goodbye. I wondered. Then I asked it out loud. It’s a hallelujah like a last gasp. My father said. Tell me how mum died. I asked him. We had never talked about it really. Because I was too young. He picked up the guitar and strummed it. While he spoke like he was introducing a song. She was on her honeymoon. He said. Then he played a few chords. She was on holiday with her new partner. He said. This was in Bulgaria. He said. This was in the summer. He said. He played a little run on the strings. He began naming the chords as he played. E minor. He said. With her treacherous true love. He said. If this was a song. I thought to myself. If this was a song it would be called “The Treacherous True Love.” But then I thought. Why isn’t it a song. Is the only reason it’s not a song because my father is singing it. Later on I made a list of things that happened after my father died. Things that he would never experience. And even that reads like a song. But somehow when he was alive it was a different story. B. He said. A minor. I’m making these chords up by the way. I can’t get his song exactly right. My mum used to sing me a song when I was little. She would sing Aneliya is a lovely girl. She’s a lovely baby. E minor. He said. They had gone for a walk on the beach. He sang. All the stars were out. She took her shoes off to feel the sand on her feet. It was the first time she had seen the sea. C. He said. I had never brought her to the ocean. He sang. Never took her to the sea. The sea air and the waves. He sang. Her arms so delicate and small. He sang. Her tiny waist. Her handbag all filled up with treasure. He sang. A minor. And she took off her dress in the rocks and the sand. She untied her loose dress and dived in. She was into the water up to her waist. And she went under and came up again. E minor. Three times she dived. Three times she rose. Three times she went down into the sea. Now she is laughing and looking back up. Now she is nowhere to be seen. I heard they had been drinking earlier that night. C. I heard that there had been a scene. But now the waters are as still as can be. A minor. Now your mother is drowned in the sea. E minor. Now your mother is drowned in the sea. Little one. Now your mother is drowned in the sea. How do you know what happened that night. C. From the true love that won her hand. How did he win it. Fair and square. He was a better man than me. A minor. Was she swept beneath the waves do you think. Or did she dive on her own as if free. Or did he press a foot down upon her pretty head. So that she would drown in the sea. We’ll never know. My little one. Not in this life. I’m afraid. But I think of your mother still tossed in the waves. And not under the ground asleep. Not under the ground asleep. I said. Do you think she still moves on the waves. C. I think she still moves and she’ll never be still. She’ll never be held in her grave. A minor. And that’s how it is. And how it should be. That a woman so fair should be free. E minor. Should be free to be tossed in the dark of the sea. Just as the world turns. A minor. Endlessly.
ANOMIC APHASIA IN XSTABETH
by Denise Kaufman (Sr|Sif)
Anomic aphasia is the feeling that a word is on the tip of your tongue. It is a feeling where a word becomes a sensation, an entity, a ghostly presence whose shape and form you are aware of and yet whose word you are unable to speak. God had much the same problem with the creation of the world, which is why it happened at a specific date and has not been around forever, which every scientist will tell you so.
Anomic aphasia, then, can be seen, equally, to be a feeling that the world is on the tip of your tongue. In the beginning, the prophets write, was the word. But why wasn’t it spoken earlier? The big bang, in this scenario, represents the explosive retrieval of the word, the word that was on the tip of God’s tongue, and considering that no word up until that point had been spoken, we can well believe that the first word was in fact a saying of the ability to form words, in other words the discovery of the tongue and more particularly, its tiny tip, upon which uncounted angels no doubt danced in its aftermath.
Which is to say that God had forgotten his ability to speak. It was on the tip of his tongue all along. But the tip of his tongue remained to be spoken. The tip in turn would speak the mouth, would sound its limits, which would then speak the throat, and the lungs, which coupled articulation to volume, to great booming basso volume and vibrato, even, befitting a/the God.
This process of the formation of the House of God can be tracked throughout Genesis.
Handy hint: the Hebrew letter for mouth is Pey/Fey (פ) whose number is eighty and which also can be taken to stand for word, expression, vocalisation and breath.
Handy hint: God remembered the world when he spoke it.
But what of the teeth? Speech makes much ado of the teeth, which any linguist worth their “salt” (handy hint) will tell you so. There are thirty-two teeth in the mouth of a human.
Handy hint: the Kabbalistic tree of life, which itself is derived from the repeated appearance of god-angels in Genesis, has thirty-two paths of wisdom.
Handy hint: the term anomic aphasia relies for its pronunciation on four alephs whose number is one. Four.
Extra handy hint: the Hebrew letter for the House of God is Beth (ב) whose number is two.
Next comes our turn to speak.
But will we (final handy hint) “remember”?
Did you hear about the satellite. The one they sent into space. Seduced out of the world. Only to look back down on it. That was me. For a few months at least. I was like that. Unmanned probes. They call them. An empty echo. Always saying goodbye. Do you know things have seasons. Not just forests. Everything has seasons. I told that to Jaco. Everything has its season. I said. Who’s that. He said. Epicurus. I actually got it from Bob Dylan. You and I. I said. You and I will have our season. What season is that. He said. Oh. It’s spring. I said. I knew he wanted me to say it was autumn. Or something more poetic. The universe is infinite and eternal. I said. But still it likes to be done with things and get them over with all the same. He was telling me about my father’s performance on the night I died.
There had been about twenty people in the audience. Which I didn’t think was too bad. Jaco heard the story from the club promoter who had done him the favour in the first place. He said that my father turned up and made a big fuss about emptying the club. Emptying the club so he could soundcheck in privacy. Then he asked to be shown to the green room. There was no green room. But they bought him a vodka and let him sit at the bar. Then they broke the news that there was a support act. Didn’t Jaco tell you. He fumed. No support. We need it for the door. The promoter said. To get people in. My name gets people in. My father supposedly said. Then the guy turned up. A young guy with messy hair and an acoustic guitar. He had a set of keys connected to the belt of his jeans by a chain. No key janglers. My father kept saying. Until it got awkward and the guy had to take his keys off and put them in his pocket. This guy was playing all original material. This is like Donovan never happened. My father is supposed to have said. When my father got onstage he did a Bert Jansch thing. Which I didn’t know what that meant. But apparently it means a complicated piece that people in folk clubs challenge each other with. The young guy was trying to be friendly. Or so they say. That shreds. He said. Or something young like that. Shreds. My father is supposed to have said. Shreds. I shred my skin every time I pick up a guitar sunshine. I don’t think he would have used the word sunshine. But then Jaco said it was probably a Donovan in-joke. I shred my skin. He is supposed to have said. And then I drive a guitar string straight into a vein. And then I’m cooking. I don’t think he would have said that either. But that’s how it was reported. The Donovan guy played his set. It was good. My father was drunk. There was a drum kit onstage. As my father was getting ready to go on someone came up to him. Who knows what he looked like. He’s lost now. But he was breathing hard and had his hair in his face. It was likely he was on drugs. If you suck. He said. If you suck I’ll get up onstage and join you on drums. He said. To my father. My father was intimidated. For a moment. Who says that kind of thing. But then he just went on with tuning his guitar. Then he makes a decision. Or perhaps he had made it already. Perhaps it was the Donovan guy being so good. Perhaps it was the lack of respect from the drummer. Perhaps it was because there were only twenty people in the room. But he decides to make up a whole set of songs on the spot. Now original songs were not my father’s hot spot. He was an imitator. A tribute act. I have to be honest. This was a radical step. This was more like a tightrope walk at the circus. He comes onstage and he sits down on a stool. The room goes quiet. There’s some of that quiet whispering that we talked about. Nothings. Then he sings these two lines. It’s so cold. He sings. In the summertime. That’s all. Again. And again. In this pained voice. In this pained voice like it’s beamed in from another planet. Then more lines. Mountains yes mountains. He sings. Then he plays a one-string solo by de-tuning the bottom E string on his guitar. Someone said it was like Kundalini. A new-age person. Obviously. Which is when a serpent crawls up your spine. There were more soft whispers in the audience. Then the drum guy gets up from the audience and sits behind the kit. There’s no way of knowing if my father saw him get up or not. All the time he was singing and playing the guitar with his eyes closed. But of course he hears him when he comes in. And the drummer plays this march. This crazy off-tempo march. And it’s like a legion of ghosts marching right through the music. Right through the mountains. In the cold of the summer. Then he sang some more. My father. Is it not for kings. He sang. My father. Is it not for kings. This summer. Who knows where he was coming from by this point. And the drummer starts rubbing his hand over the skin of the drum. Like he was stroking the pale yellow skin of a dying man. So gently. Whispering. It was like classical portraiture. Someone said. They play on. My father teases slow single notes from the guitar. It’s like it is expiring. There’s a back and forth between the soft drums and the notes like tiny heartbeats. Then the drummer gets up. He gets up and crosses the stage. Then he steps onto the floor. Then he walks across the room and up the stairs. Then he walks straight out of the club and into the street. And is never seen again. My father sat still on the stage for some time. There was awkward applause. No one knew what to think. Then he came home and threw my sick covers out of the window. Then he cried in my lap and regretted everything.
