The Carpenter's Son

 

Untroubled Now

is an infallible square under the modest four-legged table, unbothered by climate, by outside noise; yet when tried by the tremolos within bamboo houses of creaky floor strips (add to this maybe the unequal reach of the table’s supports), it starts troubling in turn the, say, stand of bottles, beyond its control. Though it maintains to be impressive as a figure. Yeah, it’ll keep us amazed at a certain certainty in it yet: excited when it is but eternally suspicious, guarded yes, and wisely quiet. Well, the three-legged table does something like this to observers—the dynamic triangle there, but actually a "tri-podal pretense and deception". The four-legger’s the ultimate, no-tilt lateral measure of space and energy . . . nothing can be more seeing than the human heart that rests its head upon the care of this table’s top, sleeping on the comfort of this furnishing that desires and purposes to support the master.
    The master, he rests his fingers on the table’s shoulders, knowing: these never fail him; as tables of past experiences in no remembrance did stop paying homage to the owner (never mind now the maker), yea it truly becomes the slave. And yet, too, the mistress, or heroine, thus: the table’s a lover to him that needs the sermon, positively the steady direction. Yep. The human, then, rests his head upon his arm on the table and he cannot keep his eyes from the table’s legs, like it were a prideful lady, stared at blindly by a present anger in one confused glare of perhaps tear-filled eyes; and the table whispers its observations—it may give thoughts of suits, or repentance, all according to the color of the situation, against the color of the floor, or the color of the ground . . . gives them all to the master, gives these options to the son of the present, the intelligent present resultant of the past, him then history’s baby—furniture man. Okay; you do it yourself one time, make some table of like design and spite your wife—one spite most likely to end in battle; and when in the doldrums of aloneness forthwith rest upon this table. Then see what it might give. You may see thineself initiate light or serious weighing. Then what? But, these musings in you would not have been hatched sans the four-legged table’s easy invitation to, say, a bottle of beer.
    But look at what you do: you bang your fists, where? Break your bottle, ruin your house, how divine of you. Go and build it again, man.

 

Untroubled Yet,

the carpenter hammers his nails to the lumber, saws and planes, works with his proud sweat. Sometimes hurrying to finish, otherwise, waiting for the best, slowly working. When the sale is done, that is when the table begins to rot; when not sold, rotting in the disappointment, just like a human, yes? And it is—human. So tables rot, inevitably, they receive the decay e’en under some family’s care. Though these receive the care without caring. For even facing death, believe me tables rest with open eyes in attics or in dead houses.
    Later, who says a table’s then in trouble! Even the pieces breathe, man! How, now? Does it continue to roam the land without walking, with the—it hopes it guards—worthy purpose that will live on forever? In a contradictory, complex harmony of recalling work, luxury, negligence, decay, ingratitude, death, awareness, hope, finally cycle?

 

Jesus. Why wash the islands now with queer typhoons, o you wrathful winds so cold (what-have-you), rains so bitter, dammit we have lost our houses, we saw our furnitures broken, saw parts plunge through the good flesh of our women, our children, our wiry large warriors, navies, boxers, our heroes gone sick with diarrhea, now the carpenter’s nails lost in the highway of our progress, the rust washed on to this blind flood and confusion, the dark skies I don’t know complaining, my daughters I own wailing, lost in the world of working and intelligent sinews now . . . shit, dying, you sonofabitch of a god, look at all that. Tell me the truth though you shut your mouth. Show me your veins! . . . And I’d rest assured this is all an invitation for all to walk again on four legs.

 

Troubled,

I forget all. Thinking a table’s in a worse position.

 

 

 

Copyright © 1999, 2004 Vicente-Ignacio Soria de Veyra. All rights reserved. Readers are welcome to view, save, file and print out single copies of this webpage for their personal use. No reproduction, display, performance, multiple copy, transmission, or distribution of the work herein, or any excerpt, adaptation, abridgment or translation of same, may be made without written permission from the author. Any person who does any unauthorized act in relation to this work will be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

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