Jonestown by Forrest Reid

Author:Forrest Reid [Wilson Harris]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780571283668
Publisher: Faber & Faber
Published: 2011-03-14T16:00:00+00:00

Breath

I am apprenticed to the Furies, apprenticed to Dread. How does one learn the complex arts and inter-related mysteries of the Furies across the ages yet see them in oneself and begin to turn them around by stages of incredible game into all-inclusive Love?

Francisco Bone

The Storm abated.

It seemed to arise within me all over again.

The relic of Storm within. It blew from some region within me that lay in a time before evolution was, in a time prior to evolution’s wasteland. How should a pilgrim such as myself, prone to bouts of amnesia in the wake of Jonestown, spell or paint or sculpt ‘wastelands’ or ‘gravelands’ and not make them excessively newsworthy in a violent age? Perhaps I should confess again to divergences built into numinous alphabets which witness to the unfathomable premises of creation. Is ‘wasteland’ a whisper of a nether world in THE WASTE LAND or in WASTE LAND, graveland in GRAVE LAND? Is ORACLE the heightened shout of brothel-oracle in Hollywood Limbo Land?

Evolution’s spectres are the pilgrims of time in Memory’s flesh, wasteland flesh, yes, surreal time prior to flesh, yes, graveland time prior to resurrections of consciousness, netherworlds, constellations, subjective time, objective time, post-subjectivity rooted in hypnotic objectivity, extremities of Breath, the breathlines infused into architectures of space in science and fiction and poetry and art.

Subjectivity is the comedy of intangible objectivity that ignites the stars into the ash of genesis, black holes, fuels the sun with greed for blood in ancient sacrifice.

On such altars of lust and catastrophe unimaginable Love is born for all creatures. And Evolution turns in its grave of space into the mystery of trial and judgement each and all must endure in Memory theatre.

Evolution becomes the resurrection of spectres to confront themselves, to indict themselves in bleak play, bleak but redemptive theatre, Memory’s head on one’s shoulders, limbs sculpted in ancient arts in one’s limbs, dismembered Prisoners, Gods, woven into one’s extinction through which – as if by another unsuspected Genesis of the Imagination – one accepts Dread and the gift of freedom to travel beyond the dice of Light in one’s Skeleton-twins, the flesh of Darkness in one’s Skeleton-twins, to travel beyond all wastelands and gravelands into ultimate transfigured Bone in the wilderness of space …

The Storm abated and I descended the stairway of subsiding waters to the floor of the Circus.

There I jested with my drowned Skeleton-twin who arose from the floor with sleight-of-Breath skill. I jested in a theatre of Breath, relic of Storm.

‘Fiery customer and performer you are,’ I said to him, ‘despite your drowned bones. You have changed. Two deaths! One in an ancient sea, one in the sawyers’ pit or grave in the land. We are ghosts of the sea and ghosts of the land in ancient and modern America. I am changed too. It’s this business of relics. They bring a borderline between the oceanic lightning of the mind and vestiges of unearthly Passion that retain a spark from the blaze. One is equipped to wear another Mask on one’s head and shoulders, a fiery Mask that cools.

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