Building Fires in the Snow
Page 11
Then David, afraid of the ideas that were multiplying in his mind, stopped himself. He tucked the letter back inside his pocket, bowed his head into that familiar pose, and asked God to forgive him, one more time, for his sins.
INDRA ARRIAGA
Indra Arriaga is a Mexican artist, writer, and research analyst. She enjoys the great Alaska outdoors from the comfort of warm spaces, along with good food, strong drinks, and great company. A Libra, she is fascinated by noses and is a sucker for full lips.
Fragments
Fragments of light
In the sea.
Fluid pieces
Like blood spilled that runneth over
And taints and stains pieces of my skin.
And suddenly I feel creation, all over again.
I become the lifeless Adam,
Touched by you.
I am now back on my native island, surrounded by the sea and
green fields.
The only noises are the waves and the wind on the trees.
Everything moves really slowly and I am resting with my sister
who is pregnant
And as happy as ever.
So many questions keep racing in my head
And I don’t know when I’ll know the answers.
It’s hard for me to understand that the months will pass and
You will be far away.
You have given me so much,
All of which I carry with me further on in my life.
Now I hear the distant thunder, I better move inside.
Within minutes it will start raining.
Fragments of me,
Divided by you.
Raindrops are fragments of sky,
Droplets of sea returned to me.
How different the world through shattered glass.
How different my heart from having loved you.
My mother cries,
At a distance she can see me in pieces,
A useless attempt to gather, and replace.
I sweep as she taught me,
I weep as I walk,
Her footsteps followed.
The light shattered.
The lamp fails,
Its nature distorted and destroyed by fragments of itself.
It’s funny how you noticed the different colors of the lizard on the
postcard. The first thing I
noticed was how he laid on his back, dead—or maybe resting. Why
do you think I noticed only
that he was on his back and not the colors that you immediately
saw?
I see how much you miss home.
I don’t know if it’s better to be in a place that reminds you of what
you love the most . . . or is it a heavy load on your heart to be
reminded of it so often?
Now that I carefully study the belly of the lizard, I notice the blue
of his belly and how it travels to the other parts of his body and
dominates the other colors, but his feet are without color and
they’re disfigured and it pains me.
The heatwave . . .
It is unbearable.
Right now I’m in a bathing establishment (only females).
The air is filled with high-pitched voices and laughter.
I have been fixing my bicycle all morning, and finally, I made it work.
I’m not a wiz with mechanics but my stubbornness brings out results.
I think of you often, I think of what I’ll show you . . . someday, when
I’ll be showing you around in my town.
How different the world through shattered glass.
How different my heart from having loved you.
The light shattered.
The lamp fails,
Its nature distorted and destroyed by fragments of itself.
I miss your voice.
Your laughter and clever comments on life and
Other causalities.
It’s past midnight; I’m at school, still working; though my eyes start
to fail.
I have coffee at my side, pushing and helping me along.
I think of you in the most peculiar moments and I enjoy it, though I
wish you were closer to me. But things can change quickly.
Fragments of me,
Divided by you.
Raindrops are fragments of sky,
Droplets of sea returned to me.
How different the world through shattered glass.
How different my heart from having loved you.
It’s Sunday evening, the sky hangs heavy on the city and
I am alone.
I feel trapped! My life is small and narrow these days.
Autumn is heavy and in my private life I am torn.
I miss you. I miss a lot of things.
Life goes on around me, people around me are getting married and
having babies, and I don’t want any of it. I want out . . .
I’m going to do whatever I want to. I wish so much that you were
here . . .
(I miss driving rented cars . . .)
How different my heart from having loved you.
A useless attempt to gather, and replace.
I sweep as she taught me,
I weep as I walk,
Her footsteps followed.
The light shattered.
Pedazos
Pedazos de luz
En el mar.
Piezas fluidas
Como sangre derramada que se corre
Y tiñe y mancha trozos de mi piel.
Y de repente siento la creación, toda otra vez.
Soy el Adán sin vida,
Tocado por ti.
Ahora estoy en mi isla natal, rodeado del mar y
campos verdes.
Los ruidos sólo son las olas y el viento en los árboles.
Todo se mueve muy lentamente y yo estoy descansando con mi
hermana que está embarazada
Y más feliz que nunca.
Hay tantas preguntas acelerando por mi cabeza
Y no sé cuándo tendré las respuestas.
Es difícil para mí entender que pasarán los meses y
Tú estarás muy lejos.
Tú que me has dado tanto,
Todo lo cual lo llevo conmigo más allá en mi vida.
Ahora escucho los truenos en la distancia, es mejor que entre.
Dentro de unos minutos comenzara a llover.
Pedazos de mí,
Divididos por ti.
Las gotas de lluvia son Pedazos de cielo,
Gotas del mar que vuelven mí.
Que tan diferente es el mundo a través del vidrio roto.
Cuán diferente mi corazón por haberte amado.
Mi madre llora,
A una distancia ella me puede ver en pedazos,
Un intento inútil para recoger y reemplazar.
Barro como ella me enseñó,
Lloro mientras camino,
Sigo sus pasos.
La luz rota y estrellada.
La lámpara fracasa,
Su naturaleza es distorsionada y destruidas por los Pedazos de sí misma.
Es curioso cómo notaste los diferentes colores de la lagartija en la
postal. La primera cosa que yo noté fue que estaba acostada sobre
su espalda, muerta—o tal vez descansando. ¿Por qué crees
que sólo noté que estaba sobre su espalda y no los colores que tú
viste inmediatamente?
Veo lo mucho extrañas tu hogar.
¿No sé si es mejor estar en un lugar que le recuerda de lo que más
quieres . . . o es una carga pesada en su corazón el recordarlo tan a
menudo?
Ahora que estudio cuidadosamente el vientre de la lagartija, noto
el azul de su vientre y cómo viaja a otras partes de su cuerpo y
domina los otros colores, pero sus pies no tienen color
y están
desfigurados y eso me duele.
La ola de calor . . .
Es insoportable.
Ahora estoy en una casa de baños (sólo mujeres).
El aire está lleno de risas y voces con tono altos.
He estado componiendo mi bicicleta toda la mañana, hasta que por
fin hice que funcionara.
Yo no soy un genio con los cosas mecánicas pero mi terquedad da
resultados.
Yo pienso en ti a menudo, pienso en lo que te voy a mostrar . . .
algún día, cuando te mostrare los alrededores de mi ciudad.
Que tan diferente es el mundo a través del vidrio roto.
Cuán diferente mi corazón por haberte amado.
La luz rota y estrellada.
La lámpara fracasa,
Su naturaleza es distorsionada y destruidas por los Pedazos de sí
misma.
Extraño tu voz.
Tu risas y chistosos comentarios sobre la vida y
Otras causalidades.
Ya es medianoche; Estoy en la escuela, sigo trabajando; aunque mis
ojos comienzan a fallar.
Tengo café a mi lado, empujando y ayudándome.
Pienso en ti en los momentos más peculiares y lo disfruto, aunque
deseo que estuvieras más cerca de mí. Las cosas pueden cambiar
rápidamente.
Pedazos de mí,
Divididos por ti.
Las gotas de lluvia son Pedazos de cielo,
Gotas del mar que vuelven mí.
Que tan diferente es el mundo a través del vidrio roto.
Cuán diferente mi corazón por haberte amado.
Es domingo por la noche, el cielo se cuelga pesado en la ciudad y
estoy sola.
¡Me siento atrapada! Mi vida es pequeña y angosta estos días.
El otoño pesa y en mi vida privada me siento dividida.
Te extraño. Extraño muchas cosas.
La vida sigue a mí alrededor, la gente que me rodea se casado y
tienen bebés y yo no quiero nada de eso. Quiero salir . . .
Voy a hacer todo lo yo quiera. Me gustaría tanto que estuvieras
aquí . . .
(Echo de menos conducir choches alquilados . . .)
Cuán diferente mi corazón por haberte amado.
Un intento inútil para recoger y reemplazar.
Barro como ella me enseñó,
Lloro mientras camino,
Sigo sus pasos.
La luz rota y estrellada.
In the Bay
I wish you could see what I see
Grey shades layered
Like thick paint on a canvas
Sea. Sky. Grey. Light.
A grey giant ship with blue letters
And red cargo
Is followed by an even bigger one,
Red and black . . . white letters that say HANJIN.
The fog is closing in
And in the middle of it
A small shimmering white boat
With sails against the wind.
En la Bahía
Deseo que pudieras ver lo que yo veo
Sombras grises en capas
Como la pintura espesa sobre lienzo
Mar. Cielo. Gris. Luz.
Una nave gigante y gris con letras azules
Y carga roja
Es seguida por una aún más grande
Rojo y negro . . . letras blancas que dicen HANJIN.
La niebla se cierra
Y en medio de ella
Un pequeño bote blanco y brillante
Con velas contra el viento.
There was a time, she said
There was a time, she said
When cobbled streets were wet and
My footsteps to your door reflected more
Than my feet and the underneath of my red dress
Tak, Tak, Tak
There was a time, she said
When the smell of dirt was being freed by rain
And it made angry ants move animals, plants and
Made us to jump
Ay, Ay, Ay
There was a time, she said
When you foolishly collected clothes drying out in the dark of night
And I heard my name from your lips invoked
The ants grew angry at your feet
Oof, Oof, Oof
There was a time, she said
When the angry ants were no match for me,
Nor my hands, nor my feet
There was a time.
Hubo un tiempo, ella dijo
Hubo un tiempo, ella dijo
Hubo un tiempo, ella dijo
Cuando calles empedradas estaban mojadas y
Mis pasos a tu puerta reflejaban más
Que mis pies y la parte inferior de mi vestido rojo
Tak, Tak, Tak
Hubo un tiempo, ella dijo
Cuando el olor de la tierra fue liberado por la lluvia
E hizo que las hormigas enfadadas movieran animales, plantas y
Nos hicieron saltar
Ay, Ay, Ay
Hubo un tiempo, ella dijo
Cuando tontamente recogías la ropa a secándose en la oscura noche
Y oí mi nombre invocado por tus labios
Las hormigas se enfurecieron a tus pies
Oof, Oof, Oof
Hubo un tiempo, ella dijo
Cuando las hormigas bravas no fueron nada para mí,
Ni para mis manos, ni para mis pies
Hubo un tiempo.
19 Crescent
Queen: “How, from where we started, did we ever reach this Christmas?” King: “Step by step.”
—The Lion in Winter
After all the years, all the lovers, and a few significant relationships that broke my heart so it could open; after late nights spent greasing the wheels of corporate America and enduring the inadequacies of the public sector; after making a million mistakes, hurting and being hurt, I still sleep well at night.
I don’t know if it’s because my conscience is clear or if I’ve simply lost count of all the lovers that comprised the landscape of my life. Sleep comes no matter what, and all things lived, big and small, are folded into my body’s history.
Illusions and disillusions, doing and undoing, creating and destroying, it all leads to the same place.
The 19 Crescent rattles the tracks and cradles my sleep. The journey is long from New York to New Orleans. The landscape is foreign to me. The South unravels. It is far wilder than the North. I recognize the state of entropy reflected in the rail-side chaos washing up to the tracks. I mourn the loss of passenger trains in Mexico. I remember the sleeper train from Laredo to Mexico City. The luxurious dining car with waiters carrying towering trays of porcelain dishes and wearing ill-fitted tuxedos, serving fine foods, whiskey, and wine. The towers of clanking dishes swaying foretold of dish implosions and a chaos that never came. I still blush remembering the gentle knock at my compartment door by a stranger briefly encountered in the bar asking to spend the night. The tracks cut across the Mexican desert. The value of the land lies in the placement of these tracks. Otherwise, the land is dry and cracked, and only cactus, snakes, and lizards have a chance to thrive. Defying the uninhabitable nature of the landscape, socially invisible people construct wooden dwellings. Scattered across the shores of the railroad, these wooden shacks squat on federal lands. In other areas, the squatters constitute the underbelly suburbs that hide the secrets of larger cities. Standing in the open-air cars of the train, we passed anthills of existence. Kids run alongside the train the moment the engine slows down. Their dissimulated smiles veiled desperation, a hopelessness trailing in the poisonous smoke, only to be left behind with the whining and elongated sounds of the screeching steel. I never knew how to feel or what to think, there wasn’t time. Well-dressed passengers standing beside me waved imperiously and smiled at the hordes of half-naked and dusty children. Standing among the bourgeois in the open-air ca
rs, I was just as guilty.
Cutting through the lower 48, the changes in the soil evoke imagery of a geographic crosscutting, with layers representing time. The soil has turned from mossy green to black, from black to red, from red to yellow, and now from yellow to white. Buried in metaphysical layers are the histories of the places, from the beginning of time to the present. In this part of the country, the calcified history of slavery and injustice sustains the tracks that carry us. Cold steel grows hot and sparks fly at high speeds. As we hug the curves following the contours of rivers, opposite trains pass at the same speed, somehow without colliding into us. The physics is truly poetic.
The unraveling of the South loosens my ties to Alaska. The more I lose, the more of myself I regain. Retracing my steps from the tropics, to the sandy deserts, to the creeping fog of San Francisco, north to the arctic desert, and to now, I am humbled by the realization that I am an orphan. My greatest consolation is that I am among a family of orphans like me. Friends become family. At home we say that one doesn’t know what one is made of until one learns to love God in a foreign land. I am an atheist, but I think I understand. Love is the beginning, the sustaining force and what we look forward to in the end—but along the way there is the responsibility to be outside one’s self, no matter the heartache, we owe the world more than it will ever owe us. I have no right to complain.
The farther south we go, the more frequent the delays. A passenger complains that he has to be somewhere and will now be late. I think he should get off and push. It’s curious that the temperature in the train drops whenever we’re at a standstill. There are parts of the South that are rusty, the trains are rusty, and machinery is left to rot on the backside of lands along the tracks. There are old or badly damaged cars that sit in lots waiting to vanish with the ages. In contrast, the Meridian Mississippi Union Station stands proud and well loved amid manicured lawns like a red-brick gatekeeper. The South is a cross-section of American history that, like the geographic layers of a riverbed, has in its folds the remnant histories of the past. The industrial America piled on agricultural and Civil War America, with LNG cars rolling on top—manufacturing skeletons on top of displaced farming roots. The firm soil gives way to swamps, the trees are drier and the light is brighter.
Nestled into the southern wilderness are pockets of affluence. From tee to green, far in the distance small speckles of white fly toward flags dancing on skinny poles. In the lounge car a man sits alone playing solitaire. He seems frustrated, his opponent must be better than he. The lazy sun throbs through the curtain of trees like it does in the tropics.