Earth, Africa, Apollo 11
Borges. Moon Mirror. Mirror Moon.
On the pampas. Buenos Aires. “O Poet of the Moon!” Under the Southern Cross, bitter juntas of the soul.
And so I find myself standing before what I’ve thought of for decades but have not been able to confront, write about. Thinking of it, year after year. An omnipresent obstacle, challenge, too hot to handle, stepping around it, sensing always its presence, why me, why me, who assigned this to me? A choice, an answer to a call, by default, delegation, destiny, long refused, evaded, a sense of futility overwhelming, filling me with a loathing for its very terms, find another scapegoat….
Mirror moon draws me in, and I cannot refuse to go, on to another continent… time come… its arduous demands, relentless, sacrifice of self, safety and content, all past, receding, far away now…
Passage to the Americas
Passage from India. Passage to the Americas. Walt captains the Persona back from the “streams of the Indus and the Ganges.” “Circumnavigation.” Pacific blue.
I had not intended it. The thought hadn’t even occurred to me. It was a discovery of the writing itself. The journey was so arduous I had wanted to end it in India, go back to the moon… “have done, have done, with every vain, dinning complexity.” I might have thought of it a few times, but always dismissed it, couldn’t see a way through South America.
And then I stood on the pachisi courtyard. Alone. Believing it was time to return to the moon.
Borges opened the door, showed me the way, my reading of him, forty years ago, overwhelmed me to my utter amazement. The structure through the struggle. Neruda’s “The Heights of Machu Picchu,” Octavio Paz, Archibald MacLeish’s “Conquistador.”
Mayans, Aztecs, Incans. Argentina’s “disappeared.” Borges, through a mirror…