A journey through the woven web of criss crossing info in its infancy, can be amusing, confronting and oh, so ridiculous to be of little informative use. In moments of absolute boredom (when one not even feels like rehearsing tomorrow), or some inner sense of self analysis, double check, a la ‘who am I’ and one may try to google oneself, in order to find, just in case one forgot who one is. If my father were still alive, he’d ask me, ‘How does one google oneself? …in a mirror?’ He was spared a lot; he died before the spider started weaving. The new spiders don’t weave anymore, spiders ‘spider’ with woof and weft to tie it all. Adhesive threads bond every word I said in writing to its web. We are the weavers.
So what did I discover? It’s news to me, but so I’m told: I’m dead. I died some time ago, over two years actually, on the other side of the earth. I also have a grave stone to prove it, across another ocean. It’s a very nice grave stone, my admiration to the sculptor. I also have a boyfriend and I categorically state hereby, that no male in my world or any other world I do consider ‘boyfriend’.
Even in 97 years from now, my deadness age is 2, there, on the thread it’s frozen. When this now, far behind, has aged beyond my comprehension, my comprehension’s left, as death paid me a visit in due course, perhaps it knows me not, forgets, vain optimism peaks, just for a fraction, then it’s dead, illusion without breath. In time, when else, deadness will start another count. Yet woven in the webbed words, time slice of someone I don’t know, ensures my aging deadness toddles is timeless toddlers’ age, forever there suspended.
Deed poll could grant divorce of name, that upon birth I carried, then deadness age of 2 clearly not me or I. Better not ponder this too long, ‘cause who I was would never die, yet could not live forever either. Who’d I become, birthed not from life, pond-less the ponder hints with grin, ‘no birthdays either.’ Stop teasing, grey hair will find the colour they once were, each night. Wrinkles not know how to undo. Have none when all the mirrors die, except one, when arm shapes to a bow.
There is a consolation, as any death begins with infancy, no matter how old deadness grows, infancy is forever, as long as one not speaks after one’s death does deed.
How did my mother know that long ago? As child I heard her say, ‘When you are dead, they need to shut your mouth.’ I must not forget to let them know.
© Heinz Ross, Gold Coast, Australia
7,15 Jan 2009