SNIPPETS... (Continuation)

Mother,
Why is the river singing?

Because the skylark praised the river's voice.***

The "river journey" came to an end at the river bend - the spot where The River naturally turns westward and our train had to proceed up north towards its destination at the border. It was an unforgettable part of the trip, that "river journey", which made the parting of ways kind of difficult to accept for someone as river-sentimental as myself. I was expecting the guy on the speaker to accord a higher "riverence" for such parting, rather than announce a casual and uninspired "That's it for the river-view ladies and gentlemen, and now if you will please look at your left, that huge building over there yadda, yadda, yadda..."

Past gray crags and red chalk mountains
the train advances, swallowing steel rail.
The row of shiny windows
carries a double imprint, cameolike,
seen through the silver pane, repeated.
Who has pierced the heart of time? ****

I was neither a Justin T nor a singing crybaby and so I did not sing, Cry me a river, sweet Jesus! but instead I spent time listening to my life professor's anecdotes of sweet and bittersweet, affectionately watching her change essence from roses to neuroses, feeling the flair of her concurrence, smelling the tempest of her discord, tasting the sanctity of her counsel.

And then out of nowhere, fooom! this city came into view.

One of the three biggest cities up north, this first one we hit was the most eerie. We could have traveled in time, I swear, because the old buildings of ravaged red bricks made the ground looked red, too, and the air and the ambience all seemed to carry a red hue, and you would have to say, I did not want to party here and paint the town red because it is already red so let me get the hell out of here!!! The city looked so much like the setting of old western movies where the only thing moving was time, but it was sooo sloooww, and sooo ooolllldd. At one point, I was thinking that a dude a la Dillinger would climb up the train for a great train robbery, and I was thinking, too, that if that happened he would have to contend with my life professor, "Hey you with the crappy moustache, you smell awful you know, here's ten dollars and buy yourself a bar of soap and find a better life!"

In a few hours came the next city, a great university town, the vibrance and dynamism immediately evident even if, lo, it was summer yet and classes were not to open until the next month. Ahhhh school!!!, I could only say and reminisce my own college days, half wishing at the same time to have studied along the halls of that university over there, close to downtown, so conducive, so inspiring, Would I have loved literature more in this place? hmmm...

And finally, the last city before the border, a great one, dearie me, a great sports town you jock! The home of one of the most fanatical fans in all of professional sports, this city spawned the production of a movie with this plot, listen and shiver: a mother continued to bear hatred for her grownup son for an unforgiveable reason - during the only time the city's team played in the championship (and they ended up as champions), she was at the hospital delivering him.

The nerve! And I have to surmise, there must be something in the environment to have caused these people to act this way. And I have to conclude, albeit sardonically, this must be caused by what's on the border, our destination, the raging of the waters, the roaring of the cataracts.

Aches and stabbings,
visions, voiceless aqueducts,
inarticulate rising,
unbearable tension
of verticals between up and down.*****

(to be concluded)