An Impenetrable Screen of Purest Sky Read Online Free
Author: Dan Beachy-Quick
a
        musical note
       Â
        Olin cleaning the chairâs glasses with the end
        of his shirt and then kissing him
        I stood in the room, reading
        the old book, a cut on my finger
        left my fingerprint in
        blood
        on the page
       Â
        A whale sounds down in the ocean.
        Eye as small as a foalâs. I know
        he sees me watching him
        the white whale. There is a tarred
        rope tangled around him, but
        it does not slow his descent.
        Placid as ice as it forms
        within the element of its
        own composition.
        There is a man in the mouth.
        That man is me.
I was glad to be hungover when the sun woke me up. There is no doubt the hangover is realâexcept when I try to explain it to myself. I drank, I walked home, I read. I had many dreams that I dreamed. And now I have this pain behind my eyes, it has a shape, a circle or an orb, it isnât largeâthis pearl that is the pain in my mind.
CHAPTER 6
I POURED MYSELF A CUP OF COFFEE AND WALKED DOWN the hall to the study. My father had lined the walls with cork to quiet the noise of the street. He feared that the intermittent voices of women discussing their children, of children furtively whispering their cruel taunts of the local man who, half-crazed and half-drunk, knocked on doors and yelled into houses, âEncyclopedias for sale!â but who had no books to sell, of vendors selling their wares on the streets, pushing a cart with bells dangling from the handle, âIces, ices, ices and treats,â a song in refrain syncopated by the tinkling notes, the man who every day chose a different corner from which to proclaim, in stentorian tones, âThe world has ended, and itâs gonna rain, the world has ended, and itâs still gonna rain, get out, itâs calling, get out, itâs too late to repent, the world has ended, and hereâs the proof,â at which point he would sing hymns from the old hymnal, his eyes closed, in a profound bass that at its lowest notes seemed not to be heard so much as felt, of daily conversations, of men discussing the derby, of the poor woman who as she walked talked to herself, âIt couldnât have been different, it could have been differentâ over and over again, just as the young girl wandered with the daisy in her hand, âHe loves me, he loves me not.â Father said the slightest intonation overheardcould destroy a dayâs work; a single word could make worthless hours of concentration. This language, heâd tell me when Iâd listen, couldnât be translated by simply referring to a dictionary; there was no dictionary. But the difficulty was far greater, he claimed. One couldnât, he couldnât, nor could anyone, create a dictionary of this language, write down the various parts of speech, what transliterated words referred to object or person or action or comparison or indication or conjunction or division in our own language; this language was rooted, if such a word can be used in this case, in a profound instability, in which no single word ever stilled into definition of one single thing. Not only could one not tell apart the definite article from the indefinite, that sound that word is, slightly altered by intonation, extended by breath, could become not only a word referring to a bird, but
        musical note
       Â
        Olin cleaning the chairâs glasses with the end
        of his shirt and then kissing him
        I stood in the room, reading
        the old book, a cut on my finger
        left my fingerprint in
        blood
        on the page
       Â
        A whale sounds down in the ocean.
        Eye as small as a foalâs. I know
        he sees me watching him
        the white whale. There is a tarred
        rope tangled around him, but
        it does not slow his descent.
        Placid as ice as it forms
        within the element of its
        own composition.
        There is a man in the mouth.
        That man is me.
I was glad to be hungover when the sun woke me up. There is no doubt the hangover is realâexcept when I try to explain it to myself. I drank, I walked home, I read. I had many dreams that I dreamed. And now I have this pain behind my eyes, it has a shape, a circle or an orb, it isnât largeâthis pearl that is the pain in my mind.
CHAPTER 6
I POURED MYSELF A CUP OF COFFEE AND WALKED DOWN the hall to the study. My father had lined the walls with cork to quiet the noise of the street. He feared that the intermittent voices of women discussing their children, of children furtively whispering their cruel taunts of the local man who, half-crazed and half-drunk, knocked on doors and yelled into houses, âEncyclopedias for sale!â but who had no books to sell, of vendors selling their wares on the streets, pushing a cart with bells dangling from the handle, âIces, ices, ices and treats,â a song in refrain syncopated by the tinkling notes, the man who every day chose a different corner from which to proclaim, in stentorian tones, âThe world has ended, and itâs gonna rain, the world has ended, and itâs still gonna rain, get out, itâs calling, get out, itâs too late to repent, the world has ended, and hereâs the proof,â at which point he would sing hymns from the old hymnal, his eyes closed, in a profound bass that at its lowest notes seemed not to be heard so much as felt, of daily conversations, of men discussing the derby, of the poor woman who as she walked talked to herself, âIt couldnât have been different, it could have been differentâ over and over again, just as the young girl wandered with the daisy in her hand, âHe loves me, he loves me not.â Father said the slightest intonation overheardcould destroy a dayâs work; a single word could make worthless hours of concentration. This language, heâd tell me when Iâd listen, couldnât be translated by simply referring to a dictionary; there was no dictionary. But the difficulty was far greater, he claimed. One couldnât, he couldnât, nor could anyone, create a dictionary of this language, write down the various parts of speech, what transliterated words referred to object or person or action or comparison or indication or conjunction or division in our own language; this language was rooted, if such a word can be used in this case, in a profound instability, in which no single word ever stilled into definition of one single thing. Not only could one not tell apart the definite article from the indefinite, that sound that word is, slightly altered by intonation, extended by breath, could become not only a word referring to a bird, but
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