In the land where people live through four seasons—sorrow, memory of sorrow, anticipation of sorrow, and rainy season—I wake. Time flows along motionless damp fields toward the city and thin anemic smoke shyly streaming from the chimney of the guard’s cabin.
The city grows on the horizon as the mirage of obsolete monstrous constructions emerges through the fog. People, sealed in their vehicles on the approaches to the city, think about the season, frame frozen outside, grow old, and exchange their impressions about the perennial rain, the currency exchange, and their dreams of waking up in paradise.
There the tables set by the swimming pool, loaded with produce, all-inclusive. Tenacious calling of the muezzin, lonely figures cleaning the beach after yesterday, day that seemingly never happened, while the wife makes out on her side of the bed.
Next day I had a bad dream: friend of mine, wonderful poet, died, and we, small circle of close friends, concealed the fact, sat around, and ate dead chicken from plastic plates.
And I think that my friend liked chicken so much, and everything could turn differently, and as a matter of fact, there is still time to fix everything if only the season changes on time and, at least, for the time being.
In the twilight of waking up, I could not clearly understand where I was. But the disposition of framed prints on the wall in front of me, outlines of a woman in the corner (a nightgown on a hanger), and an erection, convinced me that I am home, life goes on, everything goes its preconceived way, he is alive and I am alive. His widow is also alive and confined to her office; muezzin is yelling somewhere safely faraway, and fruit and vegetables one can buy at the Korean market on the corner.
Therefore I calm down, curse in two languages readily available to me, and eventually find my glasses. As I approach the window, I freeze speechless: Rainy season has just started.
Mad Hatter’s Review, 3/14/11