Chromatism Dusk paints the sky with a diaphanous chromatism before you can see the stars sparkling matches and Bic lighters while the naked oak stares as the young falcon ruffles his feathers and clips his talons “Bring me a soft feather and a wing” you cry in agony as the petals of gardenia flowers decide to turn yellow and signal their wish for an end like the rainbow wishes for the end of rain and the chrysanthemum laughs out of embarrassment as you pull the chair closer to sense my sighs which settle here once and all the short laughs heard nearby when the moon stands alone in the firmament and the sin was a myth “Call me a messenger and get my love letter to her tender box” you shout yet the worm is implanted in the apple and Eros is turned into a curse like Phaethon was turned to a devil at a convenient moment peace spent and many bodies sat here on this chair that still bows
“How can you do this?” She said, breathing hard, with bitter contempt. I felt that I had her pinned with a spear against a wall. “Urquía and Matyba were right. They warned me. You are a white man, and I’m just an Indian. I was foolish to believe You.” She fought to keep her dignity. She stood up. “I will take herbs to kill your spirit in me. That way You will not have to return here. That way I will never have to see you again.” “You mustn’t! That would be an even greater sin. Please, if you love me at all, please, please, Apacuana. I beg you . . . you cannot do that. You cannot kill the life that might be inside you.” “But you can? You are killing me right here.” Her voice broke as tears filled her eyes and the corners of her mouth drooped. I felt my determination falter; my voice was thick with unshed tears. “I’m sorry. Were I not a man of God, I’d be with you until the moon falls from the heaven, but I can’t. I’m sorry, so sorry.” “The Spanish kill with the sword,” she said. “And the Spanish kill with the word.” And so she left, in sorrow and anger. I saw her slowly walk away and disappear into the jungle. I remembered how sick I had felt during the storm, as we crossed the ocean, locked in the bowels of the ship, breathing the suffocating air, and this felt much worse. Despite the miles of lush, green hills stretching before me, I felt I could not breathe. The pain was choking me. God, how I hated You that day.
‘Whatever. Who knows what’s true and what isn’t? But you know Flynn Casey. Always the rebel Republican. Loyal follower of James Connolly, his hero. His socialism got him involved with the IRA in strikes in Belfast in the Thirties. In fact he was shot in the leg during a march in the Lower Falls area that led to clashes with the police. Three years ago he was interned in Crumlin Road jail after that IRA campaign of protest against the arrival of the American forces.’ ‘I remember that,’ said Seamus. ‘De Valera considered the arrival of the Americans an intrusion on Irish territory. And he was born in America himself. New York, if I remember rightly. And his father was Spanish. What a mad world we live in, Caitlin.’ ‘Let’s hope the real madness is over now, Seamus.’ ‘Amen to that. So what’s Flynn doing in Belfast? Apart from stirring up trouble.’ ‘He’s managing a pub on the Falls Road, though he longs to be back in his Drumard hills. But he has Dermot in Belfast, and a grandson, if you can picture Flynn Casey as a grandfather.’ ‘Happens to most of us,’ Slattery declared. ‘A grandson’ll keep him anchored in Belfast.’ ‘Dermot married the youngest Sweeney girl, didn’t he?’ Michael said, without taking his eyes off the dancers. ‘And carried her off to the big city,’ Seamus replied. ‘They’re very happy there, so I’m told. Dermot has his own business as an electrician.’ Seamus paused momentarily. ‘Now there’s another good man gone. Ignatius Sweeney. Got out of bed one morning and dropped dead. And he hadn’t a grey hair in his head when he died. Still that short hair that stood straight up on his head. What your father described as the unravelled end of a rope. Good old Ignatius. I think he ate himself to death.’ ‘That’s a terrible thing to say, Seamus Slattery,’ Caitlin chided. ‘Oh you know I didn’t mean it. A poor joke, Caitlin, and I shouldn’t have said it. Though old Ignatius might have enjoyed it. Violet, of course, went to Belfast to live with Dermot and Maire after Ignatius died, but I hear her health is not too good.’ ‘I don’t think she ever got over Ignatius’s death,’ Caitlin said. ‘It was so sudden and unexpected.’ ‘And Joe Carney’s another one,’ Seamus continued in his vein of In Memoriam. ‘His heart let him down. And young Joe. Joe-Joe we used to call him. Remember?’ Seamus leaned forward. ‘Remember the day you pulled him out of the harbour, Michael?’
For A Young Man Who Took His Life For who was chased by a ghost in the dark extensions of his life his joys, his commitments in a flash turned into pretenses for his ardor. The beautiful books, his mind a starting point, some moments violent lover then his face turned mysterious nothing next to him would match a strange man who stayed around us with a distorted face he wouldn’t accept our suspicion that something horrible was coming to him he was strangely beautiful like those who Death had already marked he gave himself to every danger as if someone had already claimed him. They found him with a single mark on his temple, he was a total victory like the light that sheds around it darkness. He was simple and serene a smiling reborn face as if he had become a thank you logos on the cross hairs of evil.
Eternal Power Savage freedom, primeval force, creative Monad enduring the tediously passing time that was his doctrine, the comfort for the thin man with the thick eyeglasses and the gigantic moustache the Dionysian transcendence of normal and humble life, his dogma and his resolve to spread over the land, everywhere humble men found comfort, he saw rebellion, where they found solace, he found strength to stand up and demand renewal and constant change. Anywhere the humble men accepted only the useful, he accepted only the dangerous and renewing eternal retribution, eternal re-wording; he sought to live the life of his beloved Übermensch
…the moment if they didn’t interfere with his driving them to their destination. On the other hand, could he ask them to stop? Why, could they answer, and what could he say to such a question? Strange beast, the human mind, as it went from one thing to another, like a crazy monkey who jumped from one branch of a tree to another, just like Costa’s which ran to his good trip back at the Four Seasons to which he was eager to reach on time, so his customer wouldn’t get impatient and take a different cab to the airport. He looked at his watch: his time was just fine; finally, he arrived at the Cypress Bowl, and he realized that his customers in the back were half dressed and half not, such was their erotic oestrus during the trip… upon realizing that they had arrived at their place they quickly fixed their clothes, the man paid the driver and taking his half-dressed sweetheart by the waist they walked to the front door of their place. The driver said goodbye to them and started his return to the city of Vancouver and to the Hotel where he arrived earlier than the time we had agreed with the smoker. However, Costa saw his customer waiting in the lobby. Costa walked over, grabbed his bag, put it in the trunk, opened the back door for him, and started the trip to the airport. Around the sixteenth and Granville, they started the usual little talk, “Where are you from? How long have you been here? Etc. Costa informed his customer that he came from Hellas and had lived here for six years. The customer mentioned that he was a Turk, from Ankara, on his way to Los Angeles for business. Oh, God, what just happened? The earth started swirling around like a wind vane, like a top on a flat surface. And all this buzzing noise was like a swarm of bees in Costa’s head, as if desperately looking for honey. Endless pounding against his two temples turned that buzzing noise into a thundering hatred. In which school have they taught him to hate this man so much? In which church have they turned him into such a fanatic? How many eons of anger and hatred has he lived, and why is he in such a dreadful condition? How was it possible that all his ancestors had resurrected and stood before him demanding revenge? Why all this hatred today, and why have all his ancestral parents, brothers, and sisters awakened…
He threw his head back and laughed. But it wasn’t a mirthful sound. “In Nimkus? That’ll be the day.” He gulped his coffee, pushed his chair back roughly and went out. Sarah stared after him, unaware that two tears were sliding down her cheeks. O The road to the neighbours proved to be little more than a cow trail across the adjoining farms. Flicka’s hooves scattered yellow petals of black-eyed Susans as she trotted over the dry pasture land. Due to Ben’s warning, Sarah became especially cautious when they reached the path along the ravine. But she need not have worried, because Flicka navigated it with a sure-footed gait, and ignored the brush covered bank that fell away to the gully a hundred feet below. Only a thin ribbon of murky water was visible at its base, but Ben said that after a heavy rain it became a gushing river. Another quarter mile along the path, after rounding a poplar bluff, Flicka came to a halt at a barbed wire fence that obviously divided the Fielding and McNeill properties. Sarah dismounted to open the prairie gate. The farm site was now visible, and she could see that they were approaching it from the back. A country road ran close by the front of the two-storied white frame house. The house itself stood in the shade of a grove of maple trees. A windmill stood sentinel between the house and the outbuildings, and Sarah felt a pang of envy when she realized that their neighbours had electric lighting. This farm seemed a sharp contrast to the ones she had seen on the road from Nimkus. Every outbuilding, from the smallest shed to the imposing hip-roofed barn, sported a dark red coat of paint. They came to another gate and, as Sarah prepared to dismount, she saw a man wave to her from where he had been bending over the engine of a red tractor. “Hold it,” he called, “I’ll get the gate for you.” As he walked towards her, closely followed by a brown and white mongrel dog, Sarah could see that this was not Dave McNeill. Although tall, he appeared shorter than Dave, and his curly hair was darker although definitely auburn. But when he grinned up at her where she sat astride Flicka, she could see the features were …
Whispers ran through the audience. As Swan spoke, Engine Fred saw a tall man with powerful shoulders enter the chamber through a door in the wall behind the council table. The man stood looking out at the audience. I’ve seen him somewhere, Fred thought. “However, our population does not qualify us to be considered a first class city under the state’s definition. Therefore, section 34 does not apply.” At the end of the table, a large councilman’s face reddened. His jowls shook as he spoke. “Mr. President, I move that this council go on record as recognizing that we are a first class city in every respect, I don’t care what some state law says. Why, there’s no greater place in the United States to raise a family and……” “Mr. Stout,” Spear said, “I’m sure we all agree with that sentiment, but I would like to ask you to hold your motion for a regular meeting of the council. Mr. Swan, you may proceed.” Swan cleared his throat. “There is another section of the code that may apply in this matter. RCW 9.66.010 says, ‘A public nuisance is a crime against the order and economy of the state. Every place (1) Wherein any fighting between people or animals or birds shall be conducted; or, (2) Wherein any intoxicating liquors are kept for unlawful use, sale or distribution; or,’ ” Swan paused, cleared his throat and ran his hand down his tie and shirt front. What an annoying little man, Fred thought. The way he reads those numbers, you can see the parentheses. “ ‘or, (3) Where vagrants resort; and every act unlawfully done and every omission to perform a duty, which act or omission (1) Shall annoy, injure or endanger the safety, health, comfort, or repose of any considerable number of persons; or, (2) Shall offend public decency; or, (3) Shall unlawfully interfere with, befoul, obstruct, or tend to obstruct, or render dangerous for passage, a lake, navigable river, bay, stream, canal or basin, or a public park, square, street, alley, highway, or municipal transit vehicle or station; or, (4) Shall in any way render a considerable number of persons insecure…
…his eyes bulged with anger, and his lips curled back like a snarling dog’s. His right hand swung from his side and slapped Padraig so hard across the face it seemed to smash every bone. Then back the big hand swung. The knuckles smacked Padraig across the cheek and nose. The nose spurted blood. Padraig felt the hot stream on his lip and chin. “You sneaking, cowardly lecherer!” Michael roared. “You guttersnipe priest! You bastard son of Satan! I’ll kill you.” He burled his fist and crashed it down on Padraig’s face and head and shoulders. Then he pushed the priest away from him with a snarl. Padraig stumbled backwards and fell against the chancel steps. Michael rushed forward, roaring like a bull. With both hands he picked up the priest’s limp body and hurled it the full length of the chancel. Like an empty sack Padraig hit the floor and slid forward. His back struck an upright of the altar-rail, and his body swung round and stopped with a crack of his head against the altar. Michael’s chest was heaving up and down, pumping his anger. He threw himself against the pulpit; it keeled over and crashed like a felled tree. In a frenzy he could no longer control he turned and ran to the opposite wall, tore down the picture of Christ walking on the water and smashed it against the front pew. Then he raced out of the church. Michael knew that Caitlin had taken the shore path homewards. He had seen her wend her way through the graveyard and head westwards along the cliff-top. She had pulled her shawl tight around her against the coldness of the bright, clear dawn. He followed her, walking quickly, almost running. He reached the end of the line of low cliffs. The path slithered down a steep hill to meet the shore. Pausing on the lip of the hill, he saw Caitlin ahead of him, hurrying homewards like a cat. He left the path and ran straight down the grass-covered hillside. A few sheep bolted in front of him, then swung away to one side or the other. A couple of gulls rose from a rock in the grass, wheeled in a wide arc through the air and settled again. Michael was blind to them. He saw only the lonely figure in the white shawl to which he was drawing closer. He rejoined the path near a patch of brambles. Caitlin was barely a hundred yards away. Michael chased after her. The chumpf of breaking waves and the roll-rock chinner of the backwash sounded in his pounding ears. Then Caitlin’s head jerked round. She stopped and turned to face him. Fear and guilt froze in her eyes. “Michael,” she cried, but more in a plea than a greeting.
“You mean with tax collectors and sinners,” Tyne had said, tonguein- cheek. “Well, I didn’t mean it quite like that,” Morley said, grinning, “but how can people be saved if they don’t hear the Word? And how will they hear the Word if no one tells them?” Morley may not be preaching the Word as he mixed with people but, Tyne was quite sure, his life and the way he lived it would be a testimony in itself. Tyne had spent a troubled week, and it was only because of Aunt Millie’s persuasive powers that she was here tonight. Since the morning her dad had dropped the bombshell of Morley’s involvement with Jennifer Sears, she had been determined not to attend this meeting. Now she knew why the schoolteacher had suggested a combined meeting with the Building & Grounds Committee. Although, Tyne had to admit, Aunt Millie had been receptive to Jennifer’s idea, so she must have thought it had merit. Unless …. Why had the schoolteacher’s suggestion appealed to Millie? Had Jennifer played right into her hands? Without any effort on her part, had Millie seen the perfect way of getting Tyne and Morley in the same room together? Tyne’s thoughts were jumbled. Why would Aunt Millie want to throw us together again? Doesn’t she know how much it hurt me when we broke up? And even if she’s entertaining hopes of us getting back together, can’t she see it’s all so hopeless? Tyne was jolted from her thoughts when she heard her name spoken. Startled, and not a little disoriented, she looked up. “I’m sure you all know my niece, Tyne Milligan,” Millie was saying. “She came home to look after her father when he had a stroke.” Millie turned her head to look fondly at Tyne. “Since she’s now a graduate nurse, I’m sure she’ll be a great asset to our committee.” There were murmurs of assent around the table, particularly from the men who had been unaware of Tyne’s involvement. She tried to avoid looking directly at Morley, but her eyes were drawn to his face. His look was inscrutable as he said, “Welcome, Tyne. We can certainly use all the help we can get.”
Manolis Aligizakis 