I've been offering a Writing Circle at the Tompkins County Public Library this month on Thursday mornings — a group of women and men of all ages; it's a terrific group! Each week we write in response to visual images as well as text, sometimes directly and sometimes loosely. Yesterday, we were in the company of art work by Rex Ray and words by the poet Joyce Sutphen . . . . and Peter Quinn-Jacobs wrote the following piece.
—zee
I used to climb on the rooftops and watch the sunset. The stench of the streets held no sway there, and the air was fresh. The wind could whisk my soul from my flesh for a moment and sweep it to and fro. I would often stay until I could see my father's star on the horizon.
I used to wander the city in the rain, and no matter where I went, I always ended where I wanted to be. The rain was warm, and when I finally went home, I would peel of my drenched socks with a smile. It rained almost every day.
When I could, I used to buy old trinkets from the street vendors, their wares spread before them on rough blankets. Belt buckles, wallets, books, umbrellas.
I used to be the only god I prayed to. I knew that I would always listen, always answer, always act where other gods shrouded their deeds in mystery.
Now the rooftops are a dangerous place, and the sunsets have changed from brilliant orange to dusty gray. Wood rots, plaster chips, and one man's ceiling and my floor are like to collapse under my weight. I stay close to the ground, but on clear nights I can still see my father's star.
I still wander the city, but the streets are strange to me now, and by nightfall I rarely know where I am. It seldom rains anymore, but when it does, I find shelter where I can.
The street vendors are gone, their blankets and umbrellas discarded in heaps, riddled with holes from the rain. In their places are gaunt men. They carry knives, pipes, sometimes guns, and always sacks of bliss to trade. They like valuable things. Guns, knives, food, people.
Now I don't pray at all. Even my god no longer answers. He has grown silent in the presence of the spirits who have come to share his home.
Dear Reader, I am Sage.
