The rain lightened up a bit. Now that I am soaked! I thought. I stood there, acutely aware of having been soaked in the rain. How else, I thought—my clothes burdensome now, heavy against my skin—but with sheer madness could one explain? The old lady, thoroughly interconnected, yet making herself impossible to be seen. All along, I thought, if I had matched the madness of the events. All along I would have seen them the way they needed to be seen. Because just as one cannot discover a treasure without a map, one cannot use reason to find events that are maddening. I should have matched the madness, I thought, I should have maddened myself to match the madness—events hiding where they should have been seen. Proof of their unfriendliness, I thought, and began panting again in the rain. One needs madness in the mind, I thought, and chuckled to myself—a slight twitch, I thought, on my lips—in order to detect madness in the world where it needs to be seen. The thrill of madness, I thought, and began to walk again in the rain. I raised one hand to slap against my knee, but stopped myself, because the sun gave a light shudder behind the clouds, and the rain ceased, and I heard a bird or two chirping. Just like that, I thought. One minute it is raining—devilish sky!—the next the birds are chirping. “Imbecile birds,” I said out loud to nothing, because I could hardly walk with my trousers sticking to me.
Then I thought, no. Another thought inched itself into my brain. A spear of reason. I thought, one has a choice, in life one can choose between a mind of reason and a mind of madness, and which of the two will allow me to make the quickest sense of the unfriendly events? Madness versus reason, I stopped to weigh in my head. Suddenly I realized I had walked too far, that I would have to turn back and walk in the opposite direction. “Madness,” I muttered, “versus reason,” and turned around so that the ascent was ahead of me again. I felt time wasting away. I should walk a calculated walk so as not to pass the ascent again. I would not want to miss my mark just as the events line themselves up for my taking. At once, I thought, I must do something! And with a mind of reason, I thought, because as I turned to face the right direction the decision congealed inside of me. A mind of reason, and I repeated this calmly to myself to confirm the decision. I walked quietly, calmly, looking up for the ascent every few strides. Not to miss it again, I thought, because the old lady is there, down the street, due her proper portion of the blame. Yes, I thought, it was her the whole time, maneuvering the mailman, this way, that way, old maverick, I thought, old trickster. I could hear the stream. I looked over my shoulder. “Aha!” I said, because at once I saw the ascent. I stepped off the belt of the canyon, onto the incline, amid the bushes. I took one last look at the canyon, one last look, with a mind of reason. I scanned the bushes, the trees, the rocks near the stream. I looked overhead for birds. I saw a flock align itself slowly into a V, and thought, in every instance there is a leader, a decision maker, the precision of a mind sifting through time and all the events time has to offer. How helpful the slice of bread had been, the walk in the canyon! An honest slice of bread in the morning to keep the mind tethered, securely fastened to all its potential and logic. The birds disappeared into the eastern sky, beyond the canyon. Yes, I nodded, a very good decision, a slice of bread followed by a walk, and I began my ascent. Only I turned, turned and faced the canyon again. “One last look,” I said, one last look, I thought. My clothes were damp against my skin. I was all calm, all logic. All laughter had evacuated itself. My chest was flat and level, nothing roaring inside it, and I thought this is life, this is peace of mind, when one is able to line up the events and point one’s finger at them, draw a line—from here to there—and I drew my finger across my mind, a constellation, I thought, every event in relation to another, my finger going over the events as though over the shell of a snail on gravely terrain. I stood there staring at the canyon, balancing my form on the ascent, facing the canyon without taking anything in. Everything lines itself up, I thought, full of resolve and confidence.
I tugged at my shirt. It peeled away from my chest, tightened at my armpits. I was beginning to grow cold. A clear sentence dashed through my mind like a strike of lightning. I wanted to read the sentence out loud. It was as though the sentence did not belong to me. I grew feverish. Greatness, I thought, comes at the strangest of moments. Because I was anxious to get up to the road, change my clothes, and further pursue my findings on the old lady. I grew impatient trying to recover the sentence that had dashed through my brain like lightning. I thought, if I don’t recite it out loud it will burn a hole through my skull, and where would that leave me? A sparrow landed under the bushes, pecked the dirt for berries. I felt the ground give way underneath me. The canyon tipped to one side as though it were a giant ship sinking and then righted itself again. “Recite,” I whispered to myself, calmly. So that I caught the tail end of the sentence, just as it finished its second dash through my brain. Greatest failure, I read, and I thought, if the sentence has anything to do with failure it should be known to me. The sun was strong now, after the rain. I could feel the back of my neck burning. What’s this? I thought to myself, because my mind followed the sentence to its earlier scene, and I saw the whole phrase in my brain.
Impossible, I thought to myself, how could it be? Because I read the sentence, recited it out loud, word for word and in total disbelief: the moment of our greatest impulses—I read, parsing out the words—is the moment of our greatest failure. I slapped the back of my neck so as to awaken myself from a dream. The sentence, I thought, is pure madness. I looked around the canyon to see if anything had changed. But everything was crystal clear, accentuated even; I focused on the tip of the sparrow’s wing. It twitched, then the bird fluttered into flight, so that my eye followed it from tree to tree, then farther up to the edge of the canyon, its limit. Above the canyon, the clouds were disappearing into the western sky just as the flock of birds had disappeared into the east. Beautiful, I thought, the canyon, to see it in such a precise way. I took a few deep breaths to calm myself. “This is beauty,” I said, “this is persistence.” I felt a weight drop down into the base of my chest. A mysterious thing, I thought, the sentence. The weight settled in my chest. The feeling congealed itself. Sadness? I asked. I investigated, but came up empty. I wanted to probe the feeling with my finger, to see what it would yield. Only more sadness, I thought, one layer of sadness giving way to another. I grew heavy; I slouched like a pear. I felt too weary to keep standing. Our failure, I thought, and lowered myself to the ground. Just on the other side of our success, our failure. That is what the sentence is saying. And not altogether wrongly, I thought. I picked up a few rocks, rolled them around in the palm of my hand as I sat there. At any moment now, I thought, I could burst out crying. Because our greatest impulses are the under-face of our worst, and vice versa too, our worst failures married to our greatest impulses.
I wanted to burst out crying, except I couldn’t. Not capable of shedding a tear, I thought. Miserable wretch, I said to myself, pitifully, so as to make myself cry, but my mind was racing away with thoughts, and the sadness was small as a rock at the base of the canyon compared to the vast sky above. Tears, I thought, not worth a thing. I was shivering. To hell with it, I thought, and stood up and took a step farther up the incline. It must be five o’clock, I thought, because the air was growing raw and cold, and the sky was dimming, slightly more gray than blue as the day surrendered to the evening. It is only a matter of neglecting my resources, I thought—the yurt, the trees—I could go back to them. No failure could ever be permanent. I felt the weight begin to lift from my chest. I felt I could begin to walk. Strange, the impact of a sentence. My mind had reeled itself in. I was thinking with a mind of reason now. I felt odd to have stood there for such a long time reflecting on a random sentence. One for that matter that was pointing at me with blame. After all, the canyon had helped me to gain perspective. I had seen a bird, a stream, a sparrow, slept leaning against a rock listening to the sound of trickling water. What more could a person want? Nothing. I hugged my elbows to my
sides; I began walking.
Back in the house I changed my clothes. Dusk had fallen. How, I wondered, had I gone for a walk in the canyon? I took a drink of water. It is not for nothing—I thought, leaning against the kitchen counter—that one has one’s thoughts. All day in the canyon the events had lined themselves up. Now everything felt magnetic in the kitchen. I swirled the water around in the glass. The sediment rose, did a wild dance through the water, then settled again. Suddenly an image of the skylight flashed before my eyes, sliced through my skull like a razor. I stirred the water again. The sediment rose. A faint, evening light filtered through the window. The water appeared as a white cloud, a fine mist amid the kitchen’s darkness. The light was trapped between the water particles.
A thread of hope produced a warm sensation in my chest. A ray of light, I thought, responding to the hope with childish excitement. I thought, what if I were to hold a flashlight up against the skylight? To climb up onto the roof? I could leave the flashlight there, with the bulb against the glass, climb back down, walk through the kitchen, into the living room—my heart was racing now—and stand beneath the skylight and watch the light from the bulb filter through. Surely the light would break through the sediment-encrusted skylight, just as the sediment in the water appeared to expand, plump and golden under the light. I grinned with happiness. It is not for nothing, I thought again, that one has one’s thoughts, not for nothing, all day in the canyon the events lining themselves up. This is peace and happiness, I thought, the humdrum of the everyday. Sorting through one’s life, one’s immediate past, sifting through one’s life minute by minute. I leafed through my day at the canyon as though through a book, event after event, and felt very satisfied. Everybody—I nodded my head to reaffirm the thought—is in the midst of an investigation. A certain project. And if not a project, then to say the least in the midst of probing their lives. Melding them, molding them, one way or another bending their lives, stacking their days, straightening their hours, one minute and then the next, lining their seconds up, pointing them in a very specific direction. Only no one will admit it, I thought. So that suddenly I felt proud and honorable for admitting my own agenda. My own agenda, I thought, and his name floated through the room as the feathers of a bird would float through the air, very softly, very gently, tapping the ground. What pleasure, I thought, and his name rolled off my tongue, “Fra Keeler,” I said, “Fra Keeler,” I sang and ran over and stood under the skylight. I lifted my voice to the glass, I sang, I screamed, I thought, I will crack the glass with my pleasure—but suddenly the lights went out. I paused for a moment under the skylight. I was utterly disoriented, totally and utterly confused. Had I touched the light switch, flipped it by accident as I walked into the living room? Had I brushed up against the light switch as I ran under the skylight? But no, it couldn’t be, I thought, because at all times I have been far away, equidistant from the walls. I stood there in grand amazement, his name drying on my tongue. Again the scene with the mailman flashed before my eyes. “The mailman,” I screamed in the darkness beneath the skylight, he is in on it! “Indeed,” she had said. “Trouble with the lights?” the mailman had asked. The whole time pretending to hand her a package, talking to her in a special tone so as to make it known to her that he was suppressing any knowledge of her plan. It wasn’t I who had ordered the package. Infiltrating my research, I thought, the pair of them. I ran to the kitchen window, and pressed my face against the glass. It was difficult to see. I squinted, lifted my hands and cupped them against the sides of my face. The glass grew foggy, I wiped the moisture with my sleeve, I looked again. In the distance I could see the edges of the trees, but nothing beyond them, only a silhouette, I thought, the trees, their leaves bouncing on the branches in the breeze, nothing else.
Life, I thought, and everything that goes with it, is nothing but trouble. Very troublesome, I thought, indeed. And without thinking, I grabbed my jacket and walked out the front door. Because in situations like this, I thought, pushing out my chest, one needs to do something, to pick oneself up by the bootstraps, to look people in the face, to face one’s demons, to grab the bull by the horns, to push oneself to the edge of one’s courage, to call it like it is. I stopped short just outside my door so as to pause respectfully at the end of my sentence. Then I shoved my hands into my pockets, leaned forward as though into a harsh wind, and walked down the sidewalk. The light, I thought, the package, chuckling. Imbecile of a lady, I thought, chuckling some more, because she couldn’t even do her own job, using the mailman to infiltrate with a package. For a second I deliberated, then withdrew my hand from my pocket, made a fist and knocked harshly on her door.
She must be deaf, I thought, because already a minute had passed and she hadn’t answered the door. Suddenly my mind was running away again. Events—I paced back and forth by her front door—get in the way of knowledge, wedge themselves intrusively between oneself and one’s knowledge, and not just that, I thought, pacing very rapidly back and forth. New events introduce themselves, become involved with other events. So that one morning you wake up and find yourself tangled up in them. Events become inextricable from you, you inextricable from them. Just as thoughts bleed into thoughts, events run amuck, in the most disorganized state. One event inextricable from the next, a past event indistinguishable from a future event, I thought. I was facing her door again. Just like that, I chuckled angrily to myself, one’s knowledge is procrastinated, one’s investigations left in suspense. I raised my fist—like splitting water, retracing events—and brought my hand down onto her door again. I knocked louder. Now she will see, I thought, calming myself. I took a deep breath, and as I took in the breath I witnessed a brilliant image: I saw myself sitting near the yurt, pulling event after event through the eye of a needle, as though life were a single continuous golden thread.
“How can I help you?” she asked. It occurred to me that she could have been standing there for quite some time, staring at me with the door open. I took a curious look at her hand. She wasn’t holding her candle. She is trying to pretend, I thought, that living in the dark comes naturally to her. I leaned in to take a peek over her shoulder.
“Excuse me,” she said, repositioning herself in the doorway, “Is there something I can do for you?” And I thought, really, I could shed a thousand tears for you. An old lady asking such inane questions, and I leaned in a little farther, because I had spotted a lamp around the corner. She shifted uneasily. I was close enough now that I was breathing down on her. Perhaps I should use a different strategy, I thought.
“Hello,” I said, trying to smooth things over. If she is going to pretend, I said to myself—I was standing on the steps now so as to give her more room—I should pretend as well, make the best of this little game. Then, without thinking, I said, “I was only wondering if you had any special antiques, and if you might have a mind to sell them.” I had no idea how the thought had come to me, and was surprised myself for having uttered it without flinching the slightest bit.
“Excuse me?” she asked, looking as though she was about to blow out a puff of air. I felt my eyes roll back in my head, because I was utterly at a loss for what to say next. An old anger boiled up inside me, the same feverish chill that had come over me in the canyon. She held the door open with one hand and nervously bunched her nightgown with the other. Now, I thought, is the time to muster up all my strength, because I couldn’t—but I lost my train of thought, she interrupted me:
“How can I help you?” she asked.
“By letting me in,” I said, very directly. Because it seemed to me she had ironed her voice, forced it straight, a narrow spear of a voice darting forth, out of her mouth to dangle in the air and frighten me. For a moment, I had the vague feeling of something crawling up the back of my neck. I felt an old shiver in my brain. Everything was drawn up as though by a hook or a bucket—feelings … anger, or something less … and there it was: sadness, as though from the bottom of a well. Because the old lady’s cheekbones were
impressing themselves upon me. My eyes began tearing. Something, I thought, has gone dead inside me. I looked at her. My thoughts shuddered in my brain. I felt utterly disoriented. What am I doing here? I thought. I looked around. How did I get here? The club, I thought, the skylight, and remembered the feeling of lying down amid the trees. I grew dizzy. I couldn’t tell if I was lying down or standing, though I could clearly perceive her form in the doorway, turning her words over and over on her tongue, her “excuse me?” still lingering in the air. I took hold of myself. I watched her. I thought, ah, I have come to observe her. Because, knowingly or not, she is at the center of so many things. I felt a strange love sprout in my veins. Look at her, I thought to myself, shrugging my shoulders kindly. Because she was simply standing there, waiting with all her patience and her anger, holding the door with one hand and blocking the doorway with the other. What could I possibly say to her? I thought.
Behind her I saw a cat jump from a bar stool to the edge of the couch. “Why,” she asked—the cat positioned herself, stretched one paw out to its limit and began to lick herself clean—“should I let you in?”
“Because I’ve seen you,” I said, suddenly.
The cat curled into a ball and went to sleep.
“Excuse me?” she asked again. I had a strange feeling she was trying to get the upper hand. You love someone one moment, I thought, and the next they render themselves suspect. What would it have been like, I thought, if I had something to offer, some flowers, a gesture so that she would let me in—because certainly we had been intimate with one another, all along—and then quite suddenly my thoughts stacked one upon another more clearly than ever: she has been sending men and women to my door at all hours of the day to throw my research off course, I thought. I rode the wave of lucidity. I thought, it is she who planted the papers in my kitchen, she who twisted the mailman’s arm, she who sponsored the phone calls from Ancestry.com. The mailman, I thought, puffing, the broad-shouldered lady with her fish-mouth and waving arm.
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