SELF And SELF-Image?
Are they battling against the decline and decay of the body?
***
Is remembering historical events a craft of attaching narratives to an otherwise confused past with no intrinsic meaning?
Is it all some form of “spring-cleaning” of the past into events - an obscure logic binding the miscellany of life?
***
(SHE.
A figure denoted by lineaments of jewellery, neck dazzling and emboldened by bearing her motionless contemplation of something mysterious.
This canvas is taking shapes of mirrors.)
First, it was something like a memory -
A forgotten gesture -
A silence
A SIGHT MOVING ABOUT THE DUNES, SIGHTS OF FLICKERING RAYS BETWEEN SHAKING LEAVES OF GRASS BY THE BEACH AT DUSK.
To remember LOVE.
Loving.
Is an act that frightens.
A dedication to the unknown.
A FEMALE FIGURE WALKS IN THE DISTANCE, UPON A BEACH, FOAMY WATERS RACING ACROSS THE SHORE.
HER SERENITY AND POISE ARE FLOATING NEAR THE EDGE OF TURBULENT WAVES.
Would I be forgotten too, someday?
A sneeze in the wind.
WAVES CRASH AGAINST BOULDERS, AND BUBBLES ON WET SAND REVEAL SHELLS.
HER FEET WALK JOVIALLY OVER THE WET SAND.
Or, as an idle omen that makes one value life…
THE OCEAN ROARS AS THE FIGURE APPROACHES, RUNNING FINGERS THROUGH HER GREY DREADED HAIR.
A PROFILE OF HER MATURE FACE AS SHE CONTEMPLATES THE OCEAN, SUN SETTING ON THE HORIZON.
Is there any forgiveness from those left behind? The living.
Have they found a certain kind of peace, or contentment with loss and impermanence?
SHE WALKS AWAY FROM THE BEACH, AN INSIGNIFICANT FIGURE WITHIN THE PAINTERLY MAJESTY OF THE LANDSCAPE ABLAZE WITH A MOTLEY LIGHT.
OVER BOULDERS SHE CLIMBS, SILHOUETTED AGAINST THE SUN SETTING AT SEA.
HER NAKED TOES PINCH SAND AS SHE WALKS.
HER DRESS FLOWS IN THE WIND.
THE SHRUBS BRUSH AGAINST HER LEGS LIKE A PET.
HER HAND HOVERS OVER BLADES OF GRASS.
SHE PROCEEDS TOWARDS A SHED SEEN THE WOOD OVERLOOKING THE SEE.
AND THE WAVES CRASH.
STANDING AT THE DOOR OF THE SHED, SHE LOOKS ABOUT AND LANGUIDLY VANISHES INSIDE.
FOAM FORMS AND SEEPS INTO SAND, AGAIN AND AGAIN.
THE HORIZON, DARKENING WITH CLOUDS, STREAKS WITH LIGHTNING AS THUNDER ROARS IN THE DISTANCE.
***
Does the wait for death tire the aged, weary them with yearnings for cessation and proof of impermanence?
When words escape meaning from lips torched by age and the ever present taste of death, do the dying need an ear for their final confessions?
***
(HE.
Together reflecting epochs of their being, sit daunted by the inevitable.
Stillness, and the weight of silence hovers over the bed of departing man, overseen by a son disaffected by all things to become.)
SILENCE.
A NAUSEATINGLY PALLID ROOM WITH LARGE WINDOWS, WHITE CURTAINS DANGLE FROM GIGANTIC WINDOWS.
THE WIND BLOWS INTO THE ROOM, CAUSING A BALLET OF FABRIC CONCEALING A FIGURE ON A MAJESTIC BED.
SLOWLY SEEN FROM A PROFILE, A ELDERLY SICKLY FIGURE LIES IN BED, CURTAINS SLIGHTLY DIFFUSING THE LIGHT STREAMING INTO THE ROOM.
ANOTHER FORMALLY CLAD FIGURE IS SEATED IN AN ANTIQUE CHAIR, INTENTLY LISTENING. A DIGITAL PAD IS READY FOR WORDS SAID IN DREADY SLOWNESS, ONLY HEARD, NOT SEEN DEPARTING FROM ANY LIP.
If I die, it will be to protect you.
If I am dead, nobody will.
A SPIDER DROPS SMOOTHLY ALONG ITS WEB, SILVERY IN THE BEAMS OF LIGHT.
APPROACHED CLOSELY THE FACE IS SEEN FROM ABOVE, LIPS PARCHED AND UNMOVING.
A LONG SILENCE AND HEAVING BREATH.
I would rather you kill me before they kill you.
THE LISTENER SHIFTS IN HIS CHAIR, BUT SOON COMPOSES HIMSELF.
SILENCE.
THE FIGURE IN A WHITE SUIT LOOKS CAREFULLY ABOUT THE VAST ROOM.
HIS SIGHT PROGRESSES UNTIL IT RESTS ON THE BED OF THE SICKLY ORATOR.
For I would rather kill you, to save you.
THE CURTAINs WAVER IN THE AIR THAT IS FILLING WITH DUST SPECKS DANCING THROUGH RAYS FILTERING THROUGH THE ROOM.
THIS VISCERAL DANCE OF CURTAINS IS BLOWN INTO WHITE, FADING INTO BLACK.
***
In a pitch dark shed, a furnace is seen in the distance. A woman sits close to the crackling flames.
Her head craned towards the sky, in this shed, she sees immense starts in clusters and splendour assortment.
A SILLOUHETTE AGAINST LUMINOUS FLAMES.
CLOSING PATIENTLY TOWARDS HER LOTUS POSTURE BY THE FIRE.
HANDS PLAYS WITH THE FLAMES, AS EMBERS RISE.
STARS MINGLE WITH SMOKE AND FLICKERS DWINDLING IN THE VAST EXPANSE ABOVE HER HEAD.
SHE
How fleeting memories twinkle.
Yet we hold onto the modesty and lyrical stretch of recollections, descriptions of faces and gestures.
What beautiful self-deception.
Would we be as disarmingly delighted at moments of dying?
SILENCE LISTENING TO THE CRACKLING SONG OF COLOURFUL FLAMES.
SHE LOOKS UP AT THE NIGHT SKY FULL OF MYSTERIOUS NEBULAE.
Perhaps my soul will reach that remarkable precipice, that gulf that separates worlds - into pasts, presents and futures.
So, is life but a veil that keeps the lived and unloved at bay from the rose gardens of our human experiences?
***
HE LIES STILL IN THE COLOSSAL BED, OVERSEEN BY AN EYE HOVERING.
THE STRANGER IS NO LONGER WITH HIM.
HE SEES HIS OWN FIGURE UNDER WHITE SILKEN COVERS, TOES POINTED TOWARDS DANCING SILKS.
IN THE DISTANCE A PAINTING OF A SUBLIME LANDSCAPE IS DOMINATING THE FIELD OF HIS WEAKENING VISION.
HE
Is it truly the duty of the living to recall the million corpses spoiled by time?
SILENCE.
THE CURTAINS DANCE LIKE WAVES OF A STRANGE OCEAN, CONFINED WITHIN PALES OF A ROOM OF DEATH.
I sadly possess not many tangible memories, be they in photographs or hand-written postcards.
I have no scents from perfumed undergarments, not even the smell of old books - dust infectiously pregnant with meanings and stories of collapses.
THE CURTAINS DANCE IN THE FINAL GOLDEN GLOW OF SUNSET VISIBLE THROUGH THE GIANT WINDOWS.
A WHITE HAZE WASHES OVER HIS ROOM.
HE
When my absence is truly silent, unnoticed as the raw shrill of an ant underfoot, perhaps then, my not being needed will release me from needing others.
But will I deserve their grief? Will their presence haunt me - in my absence?
Would their absence be alive - a gaping labyrinth of essences gone?
I would I then long for then?
A CRESCENDO OF MELODIES CRASH IN THE PALENESS, WHICH EVENTUALLY GIVES SIGHT TO THE MAN, REMARKABLY AGED AND WEAK, SEATED ON THE SIDE OF THE COLOSSAL BED.
HIS LEGS DANGLE AND HIS WRINKLED FEET, CAKED WITH SORES NEVER REACH THE GROUND THAT SEEMS INFINITE AND TRANSPARENT.
HIS FACE AND EYES ARE SOMBER, A DREAM IN HIS EYES DANCING WITH THE SLIGHT TEARS FORMING ON HIS LIDS.
***
IN A PITCH COOLNESS OF AN SPECTRALLY ILLUMINATED SHED - SILENCE.
ONLY THE CRASH OF WAVES IN THE DISTANCE.
HER SHAPE SITS, NECK CRANED TOWARDS THE NIGHT SKY.
IMMENSE STARS IN CLUSTERS AND SPLENDOROUS ASSORTMENT FILL HER SIGHT.
SHE
I lived for laundry of bloodstains and piss, thankless meals and quarrelsome dishes.
Yet, this final place, hellish as it maybe, is far warmer than those coals for eyes that always followed my every move in life.
This divinely undisturbed sky awaits my birth - among many births that are catastrophes, squandered potentials in the tragic purity of life.
SILENTLY HER HANDS DANCE IN THE FLAMES, TAKING THE COLOUR OF THE STRANGE FIRE THAT ALSO GLISTENS O THE INTENT FACE.
SHE
I feel cleansed.
I am blind to this continuity of unlived to lived life.
This fullness of being, chaotic and human, of dented halos and tongues lacking compassion - what a marvel it has been.
A delicious blend of the ironical and sentimental.
Sounds of housework, a toilet flushing, a sizzle of onion rings in hot butter.
A heartbeat and a wind.
A cat’s cry in the silent night.
Leaves crushed under nimble feet.
These sounds are memories.
THE WAVES HUM IN THE DISTANCE, AMIDS A MEDLE OF CHILDREN’S VOICES IN UNDECIPHERABLE CONVERSATIONS.
OTHER VOICES AND MUSIC FUSE INTO THE SILENCE IN A SUBLIMELY INAUDIBLE ORCHESTRATION OF REMEMBERED SOUNDS.
***
SHE
Will I ever forget the sounds of a child’s laughter - a sight of butterflies in a field of sunflowers?
The smells of a drenched garden.
Will I hum a ditty I never learned for my grandchildren unborn, with eyes the mirror of all creation?
A MONTAGE OF THE BEAUTY OF THE EARTH AND ITS ALL THAT PEOPLES IT IS PROJECTED IN RHYTHMIC PULSATIONS ACROSS THE SKY FILLING THE DARK SHED.
What a life, stocked with illuminating mirages and controversies, omitted names in the parade of spirits - all drawn towards memory like magnets of pain towards a euphoric heart
What clarity is abound in dying?
THE BEAUTY OF THE IMAGERY OVERWHELMS THE SKY.
HER SILHOUETTE IS DANCING ABOUT WITH A CLOAK OF STARS AROUND HER STOIC POSTULATIONS.
HER DANCE IS MESMERIC AND SOON HER FIGURE FADES INTO SHEETS OF WHITE SILK SINKING INTO THE SHED CASTING LIGHT THAT POWDERS THE SPACE LIKE A DREAM.
Yes, those overheard and unmapped minds await my a journey of eventful self-discovery.
All shifting sands of identity - their ancientness gone, shatter into a mosaic of an incomprehensible self-image, a book unfinished but that which altered me forever.
THE CURTAINS AND FABRICS OF STARS IN THIS CLOSE-HELD SKY MERGE AND MORPH INTO SHAPES TAKING A RESEMBLANCE OF HE AND SHE, AND THIS FINAL MOVEMENT OF SOULS BECOMES A UNION THAT WILL BE VEHICLE FOR THEIR SOULS’ JOURNEY.
THE END
Khahliso Matela 2023
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