How It Is (3 page)

how it was I quote before Pim with Pim after Pim how it is three parts I say it as
I hear it

voice once without quaqua on all sides then in me when the panting stops tell me again
finish telling me invocation

past moments old dreams back again or fresh like those that pass or things things
always and memories I say them as I hear them murmur them in the mud

in me that were without when the panting stops scraps of an ancient voice in me not
mine

my life last state last version ill-said ill-heard ill-recaptured ill-murmured in
the mud brief movements of the lower face losses everywhere

recorded none the less it’s preferable somehow somewhere as it stands as it comes
my life my moments not the millionth part all lost nearly all someone listening another
noting or the same

here then part one how it was before Pim we follow I quote the natural order more
or less my life last state last version what remains bits and scraps I hear it my
life natural order more or less I learn it I quote a given moment long past vast stretch
of time on from there that moment and following not all a
selection
natural order vast tracts of time

part one before Pim how I got here no question not known not said and the sack whence
the sack and me if it’s me no question impossible too weak no importance

life life the other above in the light said to have been mine on and off no going
back up there no question no one asking that of me never there a few images on and
off in the mud earth sky a few creatures in the light some still standing

the sack sole good sole possession coal-sack to the feel small or medium five stone
six stone wet jute I clutch it it drips in the present but long past long gone vast
stretch of time the
beginning
this life first sign very first of life

then on my elbow I quote I see me prop me up thrust in my arm in the sack we’re talking
of the sack thrust it in count the tins impossible with one hand keep trying one day
it will be possible

empty them out in the mud the tins put them back one by one in the sack impossible
too weak fear of loss

no appetite a crumb of tunny then mouldy eat mouldy no need to worry I won’t die I’ll
never die of hunger

the tin broached put back in the sack or kept in the hand it’s one or the other I
remember when appetite revives or I forget open another it’s one or the other something
wrong there it’s the beginning of my life present formulation

other certainties the mud the dark I recapitulate the sack the tins the mud the dark
the silence the solitude nothing else for the moment

I see me on my face close my eyes not the blue the others at the back and see me on
my face the mouth opens the tongue comes out lolls in the mud and no question of thirst
either no question of dying of thirst either all this time vast stretch of time

life in the light first image some creature or other I watched him after my fashion
from afar through my spy-glass sidelong in mirrors through windows at night first
image

saying to myself he’s better than he was better than yesterday less ugly less stupid
less cruel less dirty less old less wretched and you saying to myself and you bad
to worse bad to worse steadily

something wrong there

or no worse saying to myself no worse you’re no worse and was worse

I pissed and shat another image in my crib never so clean since

I scissored into slender strips the wings of butterflies first one wing then the other
sometimes for a change the two abreast never so good since

that’s all for the moment there I leave I hear it murmur it to the mud there I leave
for the moment life in the light it goes out

on my face in the mud and the dark I see me it’s a halt nothing more I’m journeying
it’s a rest nothing more

questions if I were to lose the tin-opener there’s another object or when the sack
is empty that family

abject abject ages each heroic seen from the next when will the last come when was
my golden every rat has its heyday I say it as I hear it

knees drawn up back bent in a hoop I clasp the sack to my belly I see me now on my
side I clutch it the sack we’re talking of the sack with one hand behind my back I
slip it under my head without letting it go I never let it go

something wrong there

not fear I quote of losing it something else not known not said when it’s empty I’ll
put my head in it then my shoulders my crown will touch the bottom

another image so soon again a woman looks up looks at me the images come at the beginning
part one they will cease I say it as I hear it murmur it in the mud the images part
one how it was before Pim I see them in the mud a light goes on they will cease a
woman I see her in the mud

she sits aloof ten yards fifteen yards she looks up looks at me says at last to herself
all is well he is working

my head where is my head it rests on the table my hand
trembles
on the table she sees I am not sleeping the wind blows tempestuous the little clouds
drive before it the table glides from light to darkness darkness to light

that’s not all she stoops to her work again the needle stops in midstitch she straightens
up and looks at me again she has only to call me by my name get up come and feel me
but no

I don’t move her anxiety grows she suddenly leaves the house and runs to friends

that’s all it wasn’t a dream I didn’t dream that nor a memory I haven’t been given
memories this time it was an image the kind I see sometimes see in the mud part one
sometimes saw

with the gesture of one dealing cards and also to be observed among certain sowers
of seed I throw away the empty tins they fall without a sound

fall if I may believe those I sometimes find on my way and then make haste to throw
away again

warmth of primeval mud impenetrable dark

suddenly like all that was not then is I go not because of the shit and vomit something
else not known not said whence
preparatives
sudden series subject object subject object quick
succession
and away

take the cord from the sack there’s another object tie the neck of the sack hang it
from my neck knowing I’ll need both hands or else instinct it’s one or the other and
away right leg right arm push pull ten yards fifteen yards halt

in the sack then up to now the tins the opener the cord but the wish for something
else no that doesn’t seem to have been given to me this time the image of other things
with me there in the mud the dark in the sack within reach no that doesn’t seem to
have been put in my life this time

useful things a cloth to wipe me that family or beautiful to the feel

which having sought in vain among the tins now one now another in obedience to the
wish the image of the moment which when weary of seeking thus I could promise myself
to seek again a little later when less weary a little less or try and banish from
my thoughts saying true true think no more about it

no the wish to be less wretched a little less the wish for a little beauty no when
the panting stops I hear nothing of the kind that’s not how I’m told this time

nor callers in my life this time no wish for callers hastening from all sides all
sorts to talk to me about themselves life too and death as though nothing had happened
me perhaps too in the end to help me last then goodbye till we meet again each back
the way he came

all sorts old men how they had dandled me on their knees little bundle of swaddle
and lace then followed in my career

others knowing nothing of my beginnings save what they could glean by hearsay or in
public records nothing of my beginnings in life

others who had always known me here in my last place they talk to me of themselves
of me perhaps too in the end of fleeting joys and of sorrows of empires that are born
and die as though nothing had happened

others finally who do not know me yet they pass with heavy tread murmuring to themselves
they have sought refuge in a desert place to be alone at last and vent their sorrows
unheard

if they see me I am a monster of the solitudes he sees man for the first time and
does not flee before him explorers bring home his skin among their trophies

suddenly afar the step the voice nothing then suddenly
something
something then suddenly nothing suddenly afar the silence

life then without callers present formulation no callers this time no stories but
mine no silence but the silence I must break when I can bear it no more it’s with
that I have to last

question if other inhabitants here with me yes or no obviously all-important most
important and thereupon long wrangle so minute that moments when yes to be feared
till finally conclusion no me sole elect the panting stops and that is all I hear
barely hear the question the answer barely audible if other inhabitants besides me
here with me for good in the dark the mud long wrangle all lost and finally conclusion
no me sole elect

and yet a dream I am given a dream like someone having tasted of love of a little
woman within my reach and dreaming too it’s in the dream too of a little man within
hers I have that in my life this time sometimes part one as I journey

or failing kindred meat a llama emergency dream an alpaca llama the history I knew
my God the natural

she would not come to me I would go to her huddle in her fleece but they add no a
beast here no the soul is de rigueur the mind too a minimum of each otherwise too
great an honour

I turn to the hand that is free draw it to my face it’s a resource when all fails
images dreams sleep food for thought something wrong there

when the great needs fail the need to move on the need to shit and vomit and the other
great needs all my great categories of being

then to my hand that is free rather than some other part I say it as I hear it brief
movements of the lower face with murmur to the mud

it comes close to my eyes I don’t see it I close my eyes
something
is lacking whereas normally closed or open my eyes

if that is not enough I flutter it my hand we’re talking of my hand ten seconds fifteen
seconds close my eyes a curtain falls

if that is not enough I lay it on my face it covers it entirely but I don’t like to
touch myself they haven’t left me that this time

I call it it doesn’t come I can’t live without it I call it with all my strength it’s
not strong enough I grow mortal again

my memory obviously the panting stops and question of my memory obviously that too
all-important too most important this voice is truly changeable of which so little
left in me bits and scraps barely audible when the panting stops so little so faint
not the millionth part I say it as I hear it murmur it to the mud every word always

what about it my memory we’re talking of my memory not much that it’s getting better
that it’s getting worse that things are coming back to me nothing is coming back to
me but to conclude from that

to conclude from that that no one will ever come again and shine his light on me and
nothing ever again of other days other nights no

next another image yet another so soon again the third perhaps they’ll soon cease
it’s me all of me and my mother’s face I see it from below it’s like nothing I ever
saw

we are on a veranda smothered in verbena the scented sun dapples the red tiles yes
I assure you

the huge head hatted with birds and flowers is bowed down over my curls the eyes burn
with severe love I offer her mine pale upcast to the sky whence cometh our help and
which I know perhaps even then with time shall pass away

in a word bolt upright on a cushion on my knees whelmed in a nightshirt I pray according
to her instructions

that’s not all she closes her eyes and drones a snatch of the so-called Apostles’
Creed I steal a look at her lips

she stops her eyes burn down on me again I cast up mine in haste and repeat awry

the air thrills with the hum of insects

that’s all it goes out like a lamp blown out

the space of a moment the passing moment that’s all my past little rat at my heels
the rest false

false that old time part one how it was before Pim vast stretch of time when I drag
myself and drag myself astonished to be able the cord sawing my neck the sack jolting
at my side one hand flung forward towards the wall the ditch that never come something
wrong there

and Pim part two what I did to him what he said to me

false like that dead head the hand alive still the little table tossing in the clouds
the woman jumping to her feet and rushing out into the wind

no matter I don’t say any more I quote on is it me is it me I’m not like that any
more they have taken that away from me this time all I say is how last how last

part one before Pim before the discovery of Pim have done with that leaving only part
two with Pim how it was then leaving only part three after Pim how it was then how
it is vast tracts of time

my sack sole variable my days my nights my seasons and my feasts it says Lent everlasting
then of a sudden Hallowmas no summer that year if it is the same not much real spring
my sack thanks to my sack that I keep dying in a dying age

my tins all sorts dwindling but not so fast as appetite different shapes no preference
but the fingers know no sooner fastened at random

dwindling in what strange wise but what is strange here
undiminished
for years then of a sudden half as many

these words of those for whom and under whom and all about the earth turns and all
turns these words here again days nights years seasons that family

the fingers deceived the mouth resigned to an olive and given a cherry but no preference
no searching not even for a language meet for me meet for here no more searching