When I Turned A Hundred
I wanted to go on an immense journey, to travel night and day
into the unknown until, forgetting my old self, I came into
possession of a new self, one that I might have missed on my
previous travels. But the first step was beyond me. I lay in bed,
unable to move, pondering, at one does at my age, the ways of
melancholy — how it seeps into the spirit, how it disincarnate
the will, how it banishes the senses to the chill of twilight, how
even the best and worst intentions wither in its keep. I kept
staring at the ceiling, then suddenly felt a blast of cold air, and
I was gone.
Once Upon A Cold November Morning
I left the sunlit fields of my daily life and went down into the
hollow mountain, and there I discovered, in all its chilly glory,
the glass castle of my other life. I could see right through it,
and beyond, but what could I do with it? It was perfect, ire-
ducible, and worthless except for the fact that it existed.
Anywhere Could Be Somewhere
I might have come from the high country, or maybe the low
country, I don't recall which. I might have come from the city,
but what city in what countries beyond me. I might have
come from the outskirts of a city from which others have
come or maybe a city from which only I have come. Who's to
know? Who's to decide if it rained or the sun was out? Who's
to remember? They say things are happening at the border, but
nobody knows which border. They talk of a hotel there, where
it doesn't matter if you forget your suitcase, another will be
waiting, big enough, and just for you.
——————————
Mark Strand
Almost Invisible
Knopf 2012
