La Garonne
Water
Before, there is water.
After, there is water.
during, always during.
—Lake water?
—River water?
—Sea water?
Never water over water
Never water for water;
but water where there is no longer water;
water in the dead memory of water.
—Edmond Jabes
Twenty years ago, in a Paris bookshop, I picked up a little book by Edmond Jabes called La Memoire et La Main and proceeded to translate it on small pieces of tracing paper I interleaved in the book. Then, nothing. Before coming to France, I thought to have a look through my book shelves at the few French books I owned and came upon this book once more and thought to bring it to France to work on. But the book struck me as too fragile, so I scanned it in to my computer and left the physical copy home. Twice. Now those scanned copies hover somewhere in iCloud, or iTunes, unreachable by me. Sounds very Jabesian. The Book, the absence of the book, its silence.
The translation above, is taken from the one I did 20 years ago. Cleaned up as I could, with no access to the original French and given the still very limited French I have acquired.
I wanted this poem here on this day, because today is my birthday and, like Jabes, I am of the desert always in search of water. The photo above is of the Garonne River, right down the street from me, supposedly very dangerous and therefore unswimmable. Every time I asked someone, I heard a different story. Oh, a family of 4 drowned several years ago, pulled down by the algae. Algae?!!!! Oh, the currents can suddenly become very swift and drag you off. . .
Oh. So for several days I was frightened off and biked to the local pool of screaming kids and no real lap lane.
But yesterday, along with 2 other artists, I braved the river. It was like a mucky pond, lots of large weeds, but swimmable (supposedly upstream from the nuke plant) and, if not delightful, certainly far more satisfying than the French pool.
So, as is my birthday custom, I intend to dip myself (a mikveh, ritual immersion of sorts) in the Garonne this afternoon at precisely 3:13pm, the moment of my birth, despite the time zone difference . . .
Let's assume I'll survive to tell the tale tomorrow of the birthday dinner tonight.
