The very first time I made the entire universe explode, I tried to count all the galaxies that wheeled around the clutter of the bunk-house, shedding stars and solar systems and little lunar white droplets that splashed across the loose hay-stuffing of my bed-spread like errant little satellites knocked out of orbit by some sudden, ecstatic force. I counted about fourteen spiral galaxies and two distant ellipticals that expanded and contracted with an ebbing series of sensual pulsations before sudden, squeaking door-hinges precipitated a sudden surge of heat, a flush of blood, and the rapid, panicked consolidation of all the bits and pieces of the fragmented universe. The door swung open; the newly discovered source of vast, celestial wonders was hastily obscured beneath a scratchy fold of rough wool blanket. I guess every single piece of the universe withdrew inside me like the big bang rewound just before it burst into its infinite entirety. I was a crucible, I was the sun itself; I could torch the fields, set the hay bedding ablaze; I could drive off storm clouds, dictate the seasons! My older brother laughed like hell and then he laughed some more. He said just wait until you do it with a girl. Then he told me that I had to get my ass out to the fields. It was my turn to watch the grazing sheep. He went to his bunk and I put on my shirt and trousers and went out into the bright sunlight and its spearing light-beams felt a little bit different, like I was tougher after that.
No comments:
Post a Comment