Some Lines Written in Clare Priory Yard

Abstract

Some Lines Written in Clare Priory Yard G. C. Waldrep (bio) I hurt myself into imagining. The flies, the priory flies,settle over the length of my body, the blue of my shirt,my vest. At one time I wanted music so badly I carved itinto the back of my left hand—the staff at least.This was, notionally, to serve as a reminder. To carveanything into the flesh, with any implement—the surgeonsdo it, we (who survive) applaud. We (who are artists)suspended. In the light of the priory yard, the fruitsof that labor, no longer visible (as they were, earlier,under the awning of the pub). The flies avoid my skin,prefer my shirt, its wavelength. All changed,in the twinkling of an eye, but the wounds go with us.Perhaps that is what attracts the flies, which do not askanything of me, save surface. Surface, the surfaceof music, a guardian. It holds its crooked finger to its lips.Sounds made by flies, spring warblers, rooks, the threegardeners (two women, one man, all elderly) bearing& then bearing away. Look, now I'm down on my hands& knees, says one. But I am surfeited with looking.I close my eyes. Such a great brightness reaches us.In the walled courtyard of the priory, I am a stranger,but—a permitted stranger. In the absence left by music,the world multiplies. In its presence also. I am,in these moments, at the center of the world worlding.Each fly, each jackdaw, each devotee, at the center:a simultaneity of centers. Music threads us like a needle.My garment sewn from scraps the dead pass through.I don't mind, I am at rest among absolutes. To share,to apportion: the great sum. Music in its measure. I leanforward, I squint: Christ is still there. He measuresthe distance, or—He is the distance, measured. It's true,I thought I could sing my way to Him. Now I pressthe back of my left hand to my dry lips. Some of thiswas long ago; some of this is now. I spread my dreams [End Page 35] out on the priory lawn to dry. There is a certain peacein being a guest among guests. The world, worlding,falls away—a bit, to a respectful distance. Then I hearthe siren of the ambulance rushing as if towardsme, towards where I am, but veering off, somewhereto the north. My friend says we are almost donewith these expressions of faith. It does not grieve him.We must start over, he says. With what, I ask.With small, informal associations grounded in friendship,he replies. Friend hand. Friend breath. Friend rook.Friend pain. The world cries Welcome welcome welcomewelcome! It is wildly indiscriminate. One gardener,two pass me with their wheelbarrows. Don't mind me,I want to say. They don't mind me. This is my belonging-place. The blue of my shirt, the same blue as this lateApril sky—perhaps this is what confounds the flies.Friend fly, spinning your decimals. In season of patronage.Tithe of the material, stored in the soul's broad barn.I replenish my testimony. The Christ of here,vs. the Christ of there (there, in the visible distance,beckoning, unbeckoning). This song is a measurementI wake into. Its consciousness which, being song,is a musical consciousness, a set of relationships.A woman passing says, to her lover, That's my favorite,the one I always give away. She says, I'm not so proud. …The bearing-away, vs. the giving-away. Music does both.Mind does both. Spirit embraces these motions.To relinquish. To rise, into the ember of the now:blow on it, watch it glow. It seems to do this silentlybut, since it is matter, I assume it makes some sound,however imperceptible. I am scoring the soundof that glow for rooks, ambulance, & passing aircraft,with warbler canticle. And three gardeners at their labors.I will never know their names. I am astonishinglyat peace with this, as with the certainty of my departure.The flies...