TRANSIT VISA: At Bay

AT BAY                                             

Potter’s Line Market, April 10, 2010

A calf was born!

“This night!” the Portuguese farmer yells across to me.

“Last night?” I ask.

“Yesterday night!”

His son tells me they had no idea the white cow was pregnant when they bought her. But just yesterday as we stood watching them in their pen Alex asked suddenly if she wasn’t pregnant. The mother is cream white with coal black eyes and ears. Her calf is all black with a wide belt of white around its middle. No one has seen anything like it.

In spite of this miracle I go up and out of the yard for a walk to strategize the means of my escape. Death is too good for me I decide. Besides, how would I do it? I crouch over, letting my crocodile tears hit the dirt, wishing urgently it was as easy to disappear as to be conceived – some shit about back to stardust and all that. I realize that all my strategies for keeping my depression at bay have been removed – yoga, money, meetings, friends, work – and I’m left with only my pills and powders. 

You were my last, best hope I want to say to him. All of my patience and tolerance is only for trade. I want my affection. This is all barter here, and I keep thinking – I don’t ask for much! I don’t ask for much!

 When Death moves off a bit I think of a third option between death and life - solitude. Beat the retreat. The elusive ashram! I tell him that’s the only thing I would throw him over for. The over-dramatic and elusive ashram.