Companions of the Day and Night by Harris Wilson

Author:Harris, Wilson [Harris, Wilson]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Faber & Faber
Published: 2012-11-14T20:00:00+00:00

THE SIXTH AND SEVENTH DAYS

(Door into the Creation of the Gods)

Teotihuacán’s doors into the creation of the gods lay a giant fire-eater’s hand from Cholula, Puebla and San Francisco Convent in a desert of painted landscape. The Idiot felt he had been tumbled into his Seventh Day when he came in sight of Teotihuacán’s pyramid of the sun, pyramid of the moon, sea, land, shell, serpent, all exposed to him upon their beach of sublimated seas and spaces.

Which way lay the door into the gods? Which way lay the door into the riddle of early cloven settlement, lapsed settlement, extinguished settlement? Did it lie backwards through the Way of the Dead, forwards into the Way of the Unborn or by way of deaf, dumb, blind traces of fire, tongues of ash, staccato voices of moon, erratic abysses of time, serpentcraft around Jupiter, Venus?

Painters, sculptors in the school of the fire-eater had drawn the pyramids and their associated temples like commodities upon a chessboard of time across nameless cities beached here and it was this sensation that wakened the Idiot to nurse his own shadow into indistinct senses of economic nakedness.

Anything first of all, in the rat-race of economies of fate, to appear naked while richly clad, to camouflage lust and disaster even as the paint on one’s lips cracked into charismatic sex, charismatic vessel, charismatic metamorphoses of ex-god, ex-goddess, ex-priest, ex-priestess, ex-Christ, ex-nun. There was a time to marry landscapes and a time for divorce from landscapes. A time to visualise concealed force, concealed reason, concealed unreason and how these concealments drew one to the threshold of change even as they frustrated the pregnant scandal of an age into an assumption of static property or constitutional dress.

A time to be innocent carving, a time to be pathological carving of blind, deaf, dumb commodities of god. To be an orator, an emperor, a dictator, a president, a captain of ships, a member of oracles. To be the child of wretched ambition, the child of desired greatness, the child of paradise, hell.

“Are you unwell sir? Are you . .?” He stopped, his eyes hardly discerning the face of his interrogator half reflected, half blurred across a trance of seas in the blind shout of vendors like a marketplace of shells that rose to one’s ears. Confessions of the sea, of hollow faintness, indistinctness of memory. Articles thrust at him—at his eyes, nose, throat—unfathomable confessions, vanished wave. Tricks of memory. Agents of the fire-eater’s sea, conspiracy of emotion.

“Conspiracy of a shell,” he breathed. “I am … I am … nothing.”

“Are you unwell?” The question was asked again with studied care, implicit hostility (idiotic poverty versus idiotic wealth), indistinct sales-talk.

“Let me help you sir.”

They (the vendors) had concluded that he was their ancient victim (half blind, half deaf) for they swarmed upon him with a new vehemence. He was abreast of the pyramid of the sun, the shell of the sun. They swarmed. He was deluged by misery and chaos, tides of nameless feud. Yet hardly able to see, hardly able to hear.

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