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"AVIAN DREAMS"
copyright 2006 by BARBARA JACKSHA
fregata magnificens
Night . . .
. . . track lighting, high-speed fans, and the deafening roar of a Rockola jukebox . . . smoke . . . sweat . . . and the tongues of strangers stammering on the stones of crumbling relationships . . . some arms extending outward, grasping at shadows, shaping the night into hips and buttocks while others fall lifelessly onto slouched shoulders . . . abandoned old men sit hunchbacked at tables, the hard staring eyes of Frida all around . . . and the carpe diem hustlers playfully amuse the carpe diem tourists, while pint-sized girls scamper from table to table selling roses, Chiclets, and bobble-head beetles . . . .
"Si, si," he says to beautiful, buxom, black-haired Blanca when she asks, "Una mas, senor? Una mas?"
"Si, si," he says. "Si, si. Siempre."
The following morning he wakes to what he believes is the sound of soft thunder rolling through the sky above him. But when he becomes fully cognizant of where he is, he realizes it is the sound of the ocean and not the sky. Not far from where he is lying, waves fall languidly onto the shore, and the soft foamy residue knuckles its way toward him and then recedes in the same slow, gradual manner. He can clearly see how far the ocean has crept, as it left behind a crooked almost clinical line, where the wet sand is divided from the dry. He follows this line, traveling with it in his mind as it stretches the length of the beach, rising, falling, and registering itself on the shore like a heartbeat, or pulse. He follows it until it disappears well beyond the pier, until another wave falls, and from it, another line is created, another impression. And he follows this line as well, until it too disappears, and then another, another, and another. He follows each line as if he is toying with the ocean or vice versa.
In the distance, out over the ocean and miles from where he rests is another line, a finer line. Unlike the jagged, variegated line that traverses through the sand, this one is bent in a slight, smooth, perfectly arched curve connecting Punta de Mita to El Chimo. He is struck by the contrast between the two lines; the first seems to portray nature as being diverse, irregular, vagrant, while the second line, sitting like a thin strand of silver hair, suggests intense stability, where nature appears to be balancing the two spheres. This second line, smooth, defining, and regular, is the only thing that exists to create the narrow but absolute distinction between the ocean and the sky. For on this day, one cannot tell the difference between the two spheres, so aquatic the sky and cerulean, the ocean.
Childlike, in a simple, playful act of navigation, he journeys further into this deep blue world, immersing himself into it like returning to a desirable dream, completely letting himself go until the fine line over the ocean appears to rest on the bridge of his nose, until he is bestowed with the illusion that everything above the bridge of his nose merges with the sky, while everything below remains buoyant with the ocean. He lies still like this, incredibly still, absorbing the moment as though he were part of the elements or vice versa.
Even more playfully, almost deliriously, he begins to tilt his head from side to side, rocking it to and fro, left then right, slowly, back and forth, increasing the motion, imagining himself as a magnificent ocean liner sailing swiftly, mightily over the waters. He feels strong now. Indestructible. He intensifies this motion, leaning a little farther to the left and then a little farther to the right. The entire universe finally swaying in synchronicity with him. Then, sharper motions, deeper motions, until he feels as if he were being tossed about the sea, caught in a treacherous storm. Lost at sea. Suddenly, a fear grips him. He realizes that with one quick movement, one sudden jolt, he could deny the entire universe and send his sky crashing into his ocean. Like someone standing on a high cliff who has complete omnipotence. In the end, he becomes afraid of fear itself.
He closes his eyes.
Upon opening them, he's not sure how much time has passed, but he realizes that he must have fallen asleep because there is a drastic change in the sky. It is no longer azure as it had been before, but a soft, pastel white. He stares into it as if it were a sheet pulled over a canvas, which makes him think of the canvas he left at home, the painting he left unfinished, of all the paintings he has left incomplete or simply jettisoned. And he thinks of all the times he has walked the cobblestone streets of Vallarta, visiting the numerous galleries that populate the town, admiring the works of other artists simply because they are finished works. These artists all have something to show. But not him. He has never completed a single painting. He gets so far with one and then stops and abandons it, sometimes destroying it or sometimes just discarding it. And because of this, he too feels incomplete, a feeling that grips him on a daily basis and has become the very bane of his existence, fueling the feeling of utter uselessness in his life.
Above him is a bird, a Magnificent Frigatebird—fregata magnificens.
It circles the air above him, ascending and descending in giant loops. He begins to wonder if the bird's flight is out of necessity, if it is rapaciously pursuing its prey, or if it is simply drifting about effortlessly in a playful manner, amusing itself in the currents of the air.
He continues watching its flight, imagining the fregata magnificens as a paintbrush, his paintbrush, and the sky, a giant canvas. He immediately comes to the conclusion that the fregata magnificens is similar to himself; it leaves no lasting impression on the sky; not a single stroke on the canvas. He wonders if an artist can still be considered an artist without ever producing a work; engaged in the process but with no lasting impressions. Does the artist exist solely in his work? Or is it in the process? He thinks about something Giacometti said about his sculptures never being complete. He said it wasn't until they are in the eye of the beholder that they near completion. Like lovers, in a perpetual state of creation, engaged in a higher form of communication.
Communication—the exchange of ideas, messages, or information.
It suddenly strikes him that art is not tangible; that art, the very purpose of art is communication. The materials the artists work with are simply vessels, but the very aspiration of art is communication.
"They are great because they are engaged in a grand form of communication, conversing in a world of forms." He thinks of Plato.
"Am I an artist?" he wonders.
Voices. He is distracted by the sound of muffled voices. He looks out across the water and sees a small boat laden with a group of tourists, perhaps on its way to Yelapa or Quimixto. He can see the people on the boat waving to a cluster of people gathered along the shore; they return the gesture by waving and shouting; their voices carry along the water. He finds it amusing how people, when on the sea, always tend to look ashore, and how people along the shore always tend to look out to sea.
And then it comes to him. He sees it all around him, in the waves, in the sand, in the voices, in the people on the boat, the people along the shore, and in the fregata magnificens above him. Communication. Everything is engaged in a process of communication. He feels part of it.
He slowly lifts his hand from his lap, and extending his elbow, he waves to the people on the boat and whispers a soft,
"Hello."
The opening section "Night" first appeard as a poem on Latchkey.net.
Copyright 2006 by Darrin McCloskey
Darrin writes:
