kokoro oishi des ke

by heytherewildflower

To the Desert

By Benjamin Alire Sáenzb. 1954

I came to you one rainless August night.
You taught me how to live without the rain.
You are thirst and thirst is all I know.
You are sand, wind, sun, and burning sky,
The hottest blue. You blow a breeze and brand
Your breath into my mouth. You reach—then bend
Your force, to break, blow, burn, and make me new.
You wrap your name tight around my ribs
And keep me warm. I was born for you.
Above, below, by you, by you surrounded.
I wake to you at dawn. Never break your
Knot. Reach, rise, blow, Sálvame, mi dios,
Trágame, mi tierra. Salva, traga, Break me,
I am bread. I will be the water for your thirst.

A man is being interviewed on the radio. He has written a book, Proust
Was a Neuroscientist
. I do not like Proust and so I am not really listening—
but then something happens and I am listening. The man begins talking
about the nature of memories and how they change. They change because
we change them. He says this is a fact. I have no reason to believe him.
Neither do I have any reason to doubt him. He has written this book so
he must be some kind of expert. According to this expert, every time we
visit a memory, we change it. If we are to believe the findings of this
erudite, disciplined, and articulate scholar, then we must conclude that
over the course of our lives, we completely change every memory we visit.
The final result is that there is no purity to remembering. Memories, he
says, are beautifully sincere. They also lie. The interviewer’s response
interests me. “That’s so sad,” she says. I do not share her sense of sadness.
The fact that our memories may be half-truths, doesn’t break my heart.
There is a litany of sadder things—much, much sadder things—that have
broken my heart. There is no need to be specific. Is there?

But now that I am on the subject of memories, I’m thinking that even if
memories lie, even if no memory is true, despite all of that, there must be
some truth that remains—even within the lie. And that truth is what I’m
hanging on to. That is all that remains.

I’d like to close the door, go away,

leaving the spider be.
I’d like to preclude the possibility
of angel, as of prey.

Today I listened to bluegrass radio for 5 hours. EITHER kill me or drag me back to Colorado where I might die.