When I first started reading Jorge Luis Borges (Collected Fictions, trans. by Andrew Hurley, Penguin. 1998) I thought I was only going to be caught up in the stories. Man talking to himself, but is he really in his head or, is it a dream, a doppelganger nightmare? Knife fights and Buenos Aires. Gallant gauchos. The thrill of somewhere different – Latin America at my mind’s door, knocking to be let in. It hasn’t worked out that way. Not exactly. While I appreciate the good stories (and there are many), there are phrases that catch my attention, hold my imagination, creep into something deeper.
- “Sleeping, as we know, is the most secret thing we do.” (p 378)
There are others, better ones even, that caused pause in my reading. They all led to more personal observations, more private speculations than I can relate here, but trust me, there were there.
I am always drawn to the good phrase, the things we say. Like this one from page 378. Sleep is the most secret thing we do. In that sleep come dreams that threaten to tell on us, to spill the beans of privacy and even secrecy. Last night I had crystal visions of lunch with my mother and sister. Both has just returned from separate trips, yet had similar stories to tell. I too, had something to say, but insisted on keeping quiet. We ate in an outdoor cafe that was crowded and noisy. My sister picked it out not knowing it was my favorite, yet I would not say so nor even admit as much when asked. Details stay vivid: a CT license plate on a midnight blue SUV, slipping on ice in the summer, iron chairs that scrape loudly on a brick-layed patio. Waiters nearly spilling glasses filled with fragile slices of floating lemon. Daydreaming about apple pie topped with whisper thin slices of cheddar cheese; catching frogs in a pond and slinging elastic bands.
Two nights ago I woke in the middle of the night, something for the pocket, for it bothered me so. I went back to sleep only to have it continue and mutate. Kissing someone who gave all the signs of puking in my mouth. Blood on the floor. In daylight I chewed on the images wanting to make sense of them. The secret too big for a pocket, maybe.
Words that evoke emotion should be taken as such – words with power. When attaching responsibility and ownership to words I lose the ability to see them as they are — without the owner in tow. Ownership becomes the end-all, be-all. I can not separate words from tongue and no longer blame the words, but the person who said them. Borges wrote something about dreams. Because I stripped away his ownership I was able to apply them to my mind’s way of seeing.
~*LunaSea*~ 