The cat walks past, cobwebs in her whiskers
clearing up the cardboard boxes
I thumb through picture books and socks
I listen close and hear laughter,
from a picture of my sister, who I take after
I fold it away, reach past a button-box,
I remember, every outfit, our stilted talks
so little was said, my sister’s sick bed
her hands as cold as mine
It was the kind of day that makes a spider’s web flash golden in the sunlight. When I think back I remember the musk and stink around the houses, along with the scampering, dressing and dashing off to college.
A free afternoon is a thing of beauty, with the creaking and reluctant windows gone you could peer right up. They could build around you but not above you. While I praised the logic of the chaotic room, rented while the old house decayed, she assured me I should try living there.
Time went by quick stride the three legged bed ride, the sky open, vast, deep, lavender. We should be afraid, floating in the air. I am. I wish I could hang all night, climb the roofs. Climb up with a blanket.
“You like the house or you like me?”
A year later. I tell them I wish I lived there.
When L laughs her shoulders shake. I’ve invited M & K. She’s in bed with P but I’m the main attraction. They kiss, juicily. She grabs P’s squirming hand.
I’m trying to recognize the song while I rant about something I can’t remember anymore. I can’t do both. I can’t do either. I put a hand to my head and forget both. I open my mouth and I wonder what’s wrong. It was a second. Must have looked like surprise. K sees.
“A penny for your…”
I raise a hand. I’ll take it elsewhere: my problem.
I didn’t want to see the house half empty, dishes packed, mats rolled up. Her house – so unlike mine. I remember it’s dim and the wall a strange damp. I am not facing the window, I look into my shadow and see others around it. One a shepherdess. I’m not like these sheep I tell myself. I have a lot of spite. It’s an easy feeling.
Big windows, bright colours. If I go now, I see the doors gone. Empty and abandoned. None of us could cook or afford to order. Sad snacks we called what we could make. I think I should call them but what’s the point? We’re strangers now but I still wish I had that house.
By the darkness hollowed out by orange light sat an old ginger cat, his perch holding him far above the quiet of the street.
You’ll be amazed by what goes on in those eyes beyond the topsy-turvy glass mirror to the street you might catch if you every got close enough. The moon is several days past full and for no reason other than its own his eyes take a snails pace. Now and then go the afterlife of fireflies flirting by before they are lost and then found.
There’s no real wind… still what is it with that one leaf above him?
A shuffle somewhere, after some quiet he glances but knows not to care. He only stares at emptiness, his pupils slinking into shape as he moves through nightlight. A chill passes and he shifts. By the now the cloud that never moved disappeared. His eyes gleam then go. Has he left or has he slept?
Where do I start with Marquez? The first story is about a corpse[?] describing his long draw out decomposition.
Nearly 300 pages of bizarre, strange stories that baffle you with ever line. When Marquez had a normal story halfway through the book I was certain I was reading the wrong book.The book will be really hard to follow for the uninitiated but if you stick with it and try to figure out what Marquez is doing with every line, story and idea that he throws at you, you’ll be amazed. You’ll still be a little dazed and lost but it’s worth the effort.
The reading experience is mystical. The various sections of the book seem disconnected, like surreal images from forgotten dreams. Now and then a few… ideas [not characters, ideas] in earlier stories, within a section, make a cameo in the most random places in another story and you are left wondering what just happened. Once you’ve picked yourself off the floor and try to figure out what happened, you realize everything makes sense even if you can never explain it with words.
I worry that this little write up isn’t long enough but in my defense Marquez needs to read to be understood, it’s hard to describe the sort of literary wizardry Marques puts on display. Describing a ghost ship that makes no sound the first time it crashes and hides for half a life time is like a lamp. Functional but not crafted with passion. Reading about Marquez just isn’t as reading Marquez. If you don’t mind having your brain tossed around like salad the book is definitely worth picking up.
Rijul Ballal 