Xstabeth, page 6
TRUE LOVE IN XSTABETH
by David W. Keenan
True love is when you see yourself out there, in the world, completely, and when you forgive yourself, also, because it is hardest to forgive the devil, yet artful, for it was he, among all of God’s angels, who was most in love with the spirit, and who most begrudged gifting it, entombing it, in the flesh, which is the art of love.
Love is tied up with birth, and death, and is its third. Its third being part of the trinity required for the game of love. I love because of gifts, and because I abound. And because of endings I am in love with beginnings. I abound by the seashore, and I give myself up to the waves. I accept angel names as they are given, without question. I have been haunted and occupied by places, just as I have haunted them in return. I am jealous of all that the world will spend on unknown others. I have pursued youth as I have pursued the most rarefied ideas, as I have pursued distances; in longing. My experience of angels is real. While thoughts have bound me. Still, I write in gratitude. For all of the impossible detail. Meeting you. For all of the endless nuance. Of rivers, and barren trees, of golf, and pale ale, and lingerie. And for the way in, and out. You who have answered all of my questions as endings without questions is, I name you, beginnings. It is you I have sung after; after you I have implored. You; I’m an idiot. But to bear to let go is only to be in your arms.
I’m taking up art again. My father announced. This was one evening. I thought you had come out the other side of art. I said. I thought you had finished with it. I thought that was the point. The point of art. But you have to really be done with it. My father said. You have to wash your hands of it completely. You have to be able to walk away and not look back. No loose ends. He said. Won’t there always be loose ends. I said. Won’t it never be tied up. You can say what you want to say and damn the rest. My father said. He was thinking of Jaco. I knew it. He was thinking of Jaco walking off the TV set and disappearing. Because that is exactly what he had done. No one had heard from him since. He had walked off the set and out into the snow and disappeared down a snowy side street in St. Peters never to be seen again. It was exactly like the secret drummer. But this time more personal. Of course there were rumours. That he had slipped and fallen into the frozen river in his drunken state. That happened all the time. Maybe he had tried to come to me. I thought. Maybe he had tried to come to me and had tried to cross the frozen river. Maybe he had tried to cross the frozen river so that he could signal beneath my window. So that he could signal to see if the coast was clear. Maybe even now he was there beneath the water behind my apartment. Like a saint in a glass coffin. Or maybe he had been kidnapped and done in by the secret service. Maybe he had been executed as an undesirable by the KGB. After all. You can’t go saying these things about God and socialism on TV. At least you couldn’t back then. But maybe it was less poetic. And more hurtful. Maybe he had gone to one of his other girls. Maybe he had positioned her on a tall flight of stairs. Much taller than the one that led to my apartment. Maybe he had hovered over her. Maybe he had looked down upon the vista of her limbs spread out in all the different positions. Maybe he had said to himself. This is the one. This is the one I could never grow tired of. Maybe they had fled together into another life. Maybe he had abandoned his baby. Maybe he had taken the plunge with someone else. Or maybe it was art. My father interrupted my thoughts. Maybe his life has become his art. My father said. And now he is done with it. Yes. My father said. Yes. And he marvelled at it. Then he said. He always had the edge over me. He was always one step ahead. God damn it. He said. It’s perfect. What a performance. He said. And here’s me. He said. Back to art. Back to figuring it all out. We could run away. I said to my father. We could disappear. Don’t you see. He said. Don’t you understand. The gesture has to be just right. He said. We are weighing our lives here. He said. You can’t weigh your own life. I argued. That’s why they say God has judgement. Our lives are in the balance. He said. What about that. That’s more justice than judgement. I said. Okay. He said. Well. I have to do my life justice. I can’t be less than my own life. It’s too much thought. I protested to my father. What Jaco did was spontaneous. He didn’t sit and plan out the justice of his life. No. My father said back to me. He came to the point where his life was acting through him. How can your life ever not act through you. I asked him. That puzzled me. Haven’t you ever heard of bad conscience. He replied. And he picked up his guitar. Haven’t you ever heard of Jean-Paul Sartre. I heard he was an existentialist. I said. That doesn’t mean you need to be one. A man is shot from a bow. My father said. C. Did he mean the genitals. I thought to myself. A man is shot from a bow. He said. Towards what. I asked him. A minor. His fate. He said. E minor. His truth. But things get in the way. He said. Like what. I said. But I knew he would say mountains. C. Mountains yes mountains. He said. F. But a man can change his bearings. G. A man can adjust his flight. C. Through the air through the air. He sang. A minor. A man can sail through the air. E minor. With such grace. C. If only. He sang. If only. F. A man is shot from a bow. He sang. G. A man rises in an arc. But what if he falls short. I asked him. What if he hits the ground. C. A rainbow. He sang.
Through the water. I thought. A man and a woman can adjust their path through the water too. A man and a woman can walk through the fire. It’s when you are brought back to earth. That’s the problem.
My father took me to Jaco’s apartment. It was on the corner of an old street with a wrought-iron balcony a few minutes from Kirov Factory in the snow and in the cold coming from the Gulf of Finland. The sky above. Vaulted. That cold the poets talk about is true. That sky too. Beneath the balcony in the snow and the poetic cold and the sky like a great terrible vault holding it on their backs were two stone elephants. I’m reading this like a book. I said to myself. There were large bay windows. Reflecting the end of the day. Portals. Passing through. By this point I was interpreting everything. From the other side of the road we could see into the apartment. It was completely empty. A vault. A cold grey vault in the snow. Except for a dreamcatcher in the window. My father pointed out. And a bongo drum in the kitchen. He said.
I took photographs of both of them. It was like a crime scene. Spectacular. My father said. Look at that. He said. What a disappearing act. He said. This is like an installation. He said. This is greater than anything in a gallery. He said. Then he took me for an ice cream.
Do you think that when a life is realised it gets cut off. I asked him. By God. Or by the fates of realisation. Who are the fates of realisation. He asked me. I made that up. But you know what I mean. I said. We’re here to achieve something. I feel sure of that. He said. I had a scoop of vanilla pod and a scoop of coffee cream. What am I here to achieve. I asked myself. What are you here to achieve little one. I asked my baby. And where does it all end. And why. Questions like that. Was mother fulfilled. I asked my father. Was mother at an end. What did she achieve. She achieved you. He said. But if everyone has to achieve everyone else. Then things will never end. Things end and they begin again. My father said. That’s how things begin. Through endings. What did Jaco say on TV. Birth and rebirth. Do you think Mummy could be reborn. I asked my father. I put my hand on my stomach. I held my baby. I think my father saw me. I think I’m pregnant with Mummy. I said. At first my father looked at me like that. What. Then he thought that I was making a joke. That’s funny little one. He said. That’s funny. We’ll all end up as our own mothers and fathers at this rate. He said. Then he made an announcement. I’m getting back into music. He said. I’m putting on a final show. For Xstabeth. He said. I have it all worked out. He said. Then he ordered a coffee. I’m booking the same venue. He said. I’m going to work out a series of songs. But I’m not going to ask to have it recorded. I’m not going to ask to have it out on LP. I’m going to leave it to the fates. He said. You mean the fates of realisation. I said. He laughed at that. I want to see if she is still true. He said. And I want to prove my love for her. Then maybe we can disappear. Baby. He said. Then he stroked my face. I thought about Xstabeth. And what I could achieve for me. But also who was this ghost saint in the face of the real world. And I thought about paying attention. And how you can miss the target completely. Without even realising.
XSTABETH
isappearing isappearing
xstabeth isappearing
xstabeth
isappearing
quiet the one
one isappearing
( )
( )
(..................................... n)
(.............. on)
(.......................one)
((reflectione))
(....................... one)
(.............. on)
(..................................... n)
( )
( )
I am
(softe stone) (serene)
(moone rackte) (visione)
I
isappearing isappearing
xstabeth isappearing
xstabeth
isappearing
quiet the one
one
isappearing
you may compare me to the moone
you may stare still moone
little moone
you may stare that a snowflake is an reflectione
if you like perhaps is as suiteable
they must stare
the girls
for miles go the girls oone
an up
yonder yurroughe
be the name
oone
an up
O
oone
where us girls go
up
upone canale
little ones be still gainste
tieme!
upon the tip of the tongue you are the highest
stare still
comaneth your creator!
O
let me look at you from another whorl what vision
I am overcome
with the beauty of the softe stone I place insize you
moone rackte
is what you are to me
still stare
now stand
visione
isrobing
isislence
islence
isappearing
quiet the one
one isappearing
But first we took a holiday. And on top of that I had an affair with a dastard. With a dastardly man. We took our first holiday together since mother had died. The first holiday we had taken since mother had died on her holiday. But that was a different holiday. We went to the home of golf. We went to St. Andrews. In Scotland. We flew to Edinburgh Airport. Which was covered in fog like an old ballad. Then we drove through the fields of Fife. My father and I. And our secret baby. Which didn’t look so secret anymore. But which I covered up by eating ice creams. You’re getting fat. My father said. As we drove in the car. My father had no tact sometimes. Lucky for me. You’re fat when you’re happy. He said. We took a hotel on The Scores. With a view out to sea. There was a golf tournament taking place.
Every morning we would get up. Then we would take our towels and lie on the beach. My baby was kicking more strongly now. So that I began to feel funny vibrations running up my spine. My spine where it had tried to heel me backwards. Don’t babies normally kick from the front. What did I know. But I couldn’t help getting the feeling. The feeling that it was turning me backwards. That my baby was pushing me into the past. I looked at my father on the beach. Standing in the water with the soft waves lapping. Lapping around his legs and with his dark trunks on. His dark trunks with the white pull-string. His hair like a Fifties rock ’n’ roll star. And the people in the background. Running into the sea. And already it was like an old yellowed photograph. Already it was like all the colour leaking out of the world. Then my father would take notes. He would sit on a towel on the beach. Just as if he was sitting in the past. In another holiday altogether. That’s how it felt when I looked at him. It must have been all those goodbyes. I told myself. He would sit there. Or he would sit on a bench. Just above the beach. A bench where he could see me. From a distance. A bench where it must have appeared that I was in the past. That I was a photograph. With all the colour leaking out. And he would write. He was working on lyrics. He said. But when I sneaked a look at his papers. When I opened his bag when he was in the shower. It was mostly drawings. Drawings like this. Let me see. Like this ˄.˄ or like this ~.~ or like this ᴖ.ᴖ or like this «.». And that’s when I realised. He was drawing birds. He was sitting at the beach and he was drawing birds. Like a little child. Now there are a lot of birds to draw in St. Andrews. That was understandable. Gannets and terns. Oystercatchers and fulmars. Pied wagtails and greenfinches. Warblers and fieldfares. But most of my father’s doodles. They were doodles if I’m being honest. Most of them looked like gulls. Like gulls flying in from the sea. Which was his vantage point. Of course. On the bench and on the beach. Of gulls returning. Coming back. That’s how it seemed. Gulls crossing oceans to come back home. This will be a good start. If he can sing this at the concert. That’s a love song. I thought. That proves it right there.
My father had bought us tickets for a golf tournament. It was the first time we had seen it in real life. We had seats on the stands. On the high stands. No one told us that it was impossible to see the ball. That the ball was so small. And so white. So white against the landscape. Invisible. Especially from the stands. We had been used to seeing the golf on TV. Where the camera follows the ball. God only knows how. That’s a real skill. Because in real life. From the stands. It was impossible. And of course fascinating. It was like acting. Or mime. Where in the sky was the ball. The players would walk up in front of the stands. And everyone would applaud. They would walk up in smart black tank tops and gloves. And they would wave. A casual sideways wave to the fans. That was us. Then they would survey the land ahead. Everyone was silent. Except for the gulls that my father drew. Everyone was silent as they surveyed the vista up ahead. Everyone was silent as the land came to speak. Vista. Everyone tried to listen. Everyone tried to listen to things like dog-legs and bunkers and fairways. And of course rivers. Small rivers. You can see why this would appeal to a Russian. Or a novelist. Or a Russian novelist in particular. The fairway. The blank canvas. The page. The always up ahead. Like in a Russian novel. Faith. Faith in the future. Faith in the up ahead. And awe at its construction. And the relationship of everything with everything else. Up ahead. When you arrive there. And the small part you played. In its construction. Up ahead. Yonder. Even as playing is effortless. Golf.
Then the golfer would touch their hat. Not their hat. More like a visor. They would adjust their visor. Then they would have a talk. They would have a talk with their caddie. Talking wasn’t forbidden in golf. Quiet talking. Confessions. You would imagine. Confessions of nerves and confusion as to what lay ahead. A nervous joke. Perhaps. My father and I were sure we witnessed several of them. Then the reading of the grass itself. The squatting down and the laying out of the club on its side. What are they doing. I asked my father. Taking the lay of the land. It is called. He said. You can take that. Wow. Then there was the approach. The approach to the ball. Which involved the caddie laying down the golf bag at a particular angle. Then putting his hands in his pockets. Golf is a two-man sport. I realised. Then. Then the golfer approaches. He imagines the flight of the ball through the air. He imagines moving while not moving. Which is swinging. He makes calculations. He wets his finger sometimes. And puts it up to the air like a ship’s captain maybe. He practises his swing. Next to the ball. Next to the ball so close he almost dislodges it. Why so close. It has to seem real. My father said. Then the golfer looks down. He has internalised the landscape. My father told me. He now feels it inside. He looks down. He will not look up again until the ball is in flight. He adjusts his leg. His eyes run down in a straight line. He locks his body while keeping it loose. How does he do that. In that moment he is perfectly in tune. What is perfectly in tune. Everything. Corpuscles. Lungs. The soft triangles at the back of the eyes. The cool flesh. The faint electric charge that the flowers next to the fairway give off. The impossible flight of a bee. His cream slacks. Golfers wear slacks. That’s another thing. The perfectly creased slacks. Everything and nothing counts. Everyone holds their breath. Except for the golfer. It is important that he does not obstruct his breath. What is perfectly in tune. Then he swings in a perfect arc. Like Michelangelo or Da Vinci. Watch the toe of his right foot. How delicately it stands on end. Tiny toes. The ornate white shoes are tough and delicate. The impact makes a satisfying noise. Like hard bubblegum. The ball disappears into the air. It is eaten by the air. It is confused by the sky. Which in St. Andrews is pale white and blue. Everyone looks. Everyone’s eyes scan faster than ever before. Everyone’s eyes attempt to follow the arc. Everyone estimates then follows through. Everyone repeats the actions of the golfer in their own mind. But sees nothing. Where will we end. The golfer too. It has to be imagined. He often sees nothing. He goes on faith. That what is up ahead is exactly as visioned by him. That he has set the future perfectly in place. But a reaction is required. A hand is brought up as if to shield the eyes. From the soft sun. It becomes like a mime. Just as in the theatre. Small actions are amplified. Exaggerated silent discussions take place between the caddie and the golfer. The headshakes. Whether in doubt or amazement. Elsewhere there is a reaction. Distant applause. He is still on the fairway. A good golfer you would imagine could detect the subtlest impact. But everyone is playing at once. There are many golfers on the one course. Playing through. They call it. Many subtle impacts. Up ahead and way behind. And many balls too. A confusion of golf balls. Which is why there are people up ahead. To bear witness. Golf balls in a certain position. It occurs to me they can be read themselves. What is the lay of the land. The balls have been cast. The balls have been cast as if through an invisible curtain.
