Miekal And (California, USA): from Samsara Congeries

In the back room she has been working for some time, elbow-deep in dishwashing. The job is unfulfilling, the customers never clean their plates, and she has all this time to recognize. Like experimenting with the dishwater. Not at all surprising are the contents. Eggs. Cigarette butts. Chili. Green peppers. Cheese. Sponges. Soap. Soggy cookies. Napkins. Hands and dishes. The sink is an open field, she has all day to make the contents obey her imagination. She is a molecule from some years before suddenly brought to consciousness. It was from her time that great megaliths of ice overthrew the continents. Programmed in her DNA, once a protean swelling form of ice, she is presently reduced to an aberration in a back room in a sink, in a molecule of water. Silence and paradox, working to earn enough money to send the writer to an ocean, where he will sit lotus endlessly, waves crushing his lap, his pencil and notebook wet and useless. All this while she is still there, sifting through the dishwater, closer to water, to luxury.

Makeshift and misplaced in alien havens, the writer took residence on a river-dazed pier. Wharf. Imagine the controversy when he organized a rendezvous in the night, pretext dreaming new verbs and nouns for said book. “The wharf is very accommodating, wooden slats carved and initialed. I could tell you any story you’d want to hear.” The wharf floated and bobbed, indicating that the turbulent city had little enough squirreled away, this generation should follow the water elsewhere. The writer waited, without precedence. He wrote many books and waited. The wharf grew weak, collapsed into the water. No one objected, the city ignored the river, the fishermen ignored the flotsam, the river registered the change, the writer maintained his network of speculations, waited to rendezvous. Water is priceless again, water is priceless.

© Miekal And 2005