Peb 16, 2007

This Godfriday

No es un viernes,el dia regido por la divinidad que en las selvasentreteje los cuerpos de los amantes.

—from “Cambridge”, Jorge Luis Borges

This invulnerable day with the knowledge that I will not die. Although somebody lies dead and somewhere certainly somebody is dying as much as I am, I decide to draw none from my last breath. Today my word feels binding. Therefore, it is. Having chosen life, I decide further: I shall become a something. Something, while the druidic school feasts and plays; while my students and friends tease out a spiny vine of drama from rock ruins; while she mourns. I shall become this something which is all I could become to be of some use: a worker. Not a craftsman, no. Let the others climb such an illusory hierarchy of skills. Not an artist, definitely. Let others feed on the concrete self-importance that they can never imagine as dream. Surely not – today – a godcreator. I shall not presume to toil under so a grand an assumption. A laborer is all I am, all I shall be in this indestructible moment. I am this employee of the universe. I am the drafting of the lesson plan, checking of the tests, breathing and all its corrections. I am the tossing of the square-holed coins. I am the work, the sheer telling of a story. Somewhere under this sun, within my pages, and among the wilting carnations, I will write: “Allow her rest. Allpeace upon her.”

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