A Ritual-Drama in Four Movements
(Recovered by an anonymous compiler from a notebook found in a dry field near Brentwood, California. The notebook’s inside cover bears a schedule: “Saturday / 7:30 / 12:00.” What follows, I am persuaded, is not a play but the record of a play performed by those who knew that the world itself is performed.)
Dramatis Personae
- The Archivist, who narrates and sometimes loses the thread.
- The Hierophant, a woman whose voice is not hers alone.
- Six Adepts, neither men nor women until named in the rite.
- The Vineyard, a chorus of leaves and rows in the guise of wind.
- The Concrete Threshold, a slab where the sign is drawn.
- The Empty Field, stage and page.
- The Notebook of Hours, a prop that remembers.
Movement I: The Threshold of the Letter
(Late afternoon. A concrete path that divides dust from light. At the left edge, a black shoe like the footnote of a vanished author. On the concrete, a figure is traced in water or ash: three vertical segments bound by angles, the old school S that every hand once knew and no one can source. This letter is called by the adepts the Lineage-S, which conjoins six strokes into a single labyrinth.)
ARCHIVIST
I was told the cult met at sundown, when the wind from the Delta cooled the
fields and the shadows lengthened into insinuations. They named themselves The
Lineage of the Stamen, but they swore by the Lineage-S, the glyph
that schoolchildren propagate without genealogy. The Hierophant explained (I
preserve her commonplace mysticism) that the sign is the fossil of a secret,
the way a river remembers its vanished glacier. She said the letter’s origin is
unknowable and thus inexhaustible; every copy restores the source.
(She kneels by the sign with a cotton cord wet from the irrigation ditch and traces its channels. Each stroke is a spoke; each angle, the hinge of an invisible gate.)
HIEROPHANT
Every symbol is a small country from which we exile ourselves by knowing it too
well. We will attempt ignorance. We will walk the six streets of the letter
without reaching its center.
ADEPTS, in chorus
Let the Lineage be the bridge we cross and never finish crossing.
(A breeze moves the unseen trees. The concrete’s pale austerity becomes a page; the letter, the sentence that begins the world.)
ARCHIVIST
Here the drama begins. I confess I am not impartial. I have traced that letter
in the margins of ledgers, on desks, on the breathless cover of a library book;
I have imitated its angles as if the geometry could absolve me from invention.
Many have said it is a childish emblem. The cult says childhood remembers what
maturity must relearn: that six lines can be a destiny.
(They step beyond the slab; each footfall erases the sign’s gleam as water dries. The threshold is crossed by vanishing.)
Movement II: The Vineyard that Speaks
(The path descends into a geometry of vines. Leaves frame the world as if the sky were viewed through the serrated aperture of an emblem. Down the long perspective of the rows, a horizon of palms and houses resembles a painted end-wall.)
VINEYARD, as Chorus in the wind
We are the pages of a book that rewrites its paragraphs nightly. Our ribs
remember drought; our grapes remember the invention of sweetness under duress.
Walk us as you would a labyrinth: not to escape, but to discover a slower
center.
ARCHIVIST
In Brentwood, the vineyards are modest, but they possess the ancient arrogance
of agriculture: the will to grid the world. The adepts enter the aisle between
vines as actors enter a corridor of probability. The rows run in parallel, like
the six strata of the letter—three down, three up; what the hand achieves in
seconds, the field rehearses for decades.
ADEPT ONE
The sign’s first stroke.
ADEPT TWO
The second, which cannot forget the first.
ADEPT THREE
The third, which pretends to be the last of the descent.
ADEPT FOUR
The fourth, which begins the ascent.
ADEPT FIVE
The fifth, which corrects our impatience.
ADEPT SIX
The sixth, which claims to finish what cannot be finished.
(They pace forward, then back, switching aisles at measured intervals, stitching the space. The Hierophant remains at the hinge between rows, turning with them as if she were the pivot of a concealed compass.)
HIEROPHANT
To write a letter is to walk. To read it is to be walked. We are written by our
habits; we are read by the wind.
ARCHIVIST
I could have left then; what followed is difficult to render without parody.
Yet the vineyard’s voice (it was only wind, I assure you) described a doctrine
severe and persuasive: that repetition is not the enemy of meaning but its
generator. The cult’s rite is the practice of becoming a copy that surpasses
its original by duration.
(They stop at the far end where the field opens.)
Movement III: The Empty Field
(The land is a plane of dust subtly ribbed by the memory of machines. Houses keep their distance like quiet witnesses. The sun stoops but does not break. A rectangle of shadow, produced by nothing I could identify, covers a patch of dry grasses; in its center stands the Notebook of Hours, unbound and open.)
ARCHIVIST
The notebook was already there when I first came. It appears in the photographs
as an object like any other: bent corners, dirt, the ink’s obstinate survival.
Yet it is the play’s axis. On the visible page the same lines are written and
erased: Saturday 7:30 – 12:00. The dashes are bars of redaction.
HIEROPHANT
There are two times. One is measured by the hands we don’t possess anymore; the
other by intervals that return. We meet between them.
(She lifts the notebook. Dust streams out as if a moth were shaken.)
HIEROPHANT
Listen.
ADEPTS
We listen.
HIEROPHANT
At 7:30 the wind rises, like a book closing on a word it cannot pronounce. At
12:00 the sun writes the same word in white. Between the wind of 7:30 and the
noon without shade, this field is a stage on which all former Saturdays are
performed again.
ARCHIVIST
She speaks and the field seems to agree. A gullible witness might say that the
air tightens. I note only that my shadow lengthened eastward and paused, as if
awaiting a cue.
(They divide into two triads, one facing west, one east. The Hierophant, at the center, holds the notebook open to the blank half.)
HIEROPHANT
Name yourselves with names you have never had.
ADEPT ONE
I am the Stone That Remembers Its Quarry.
ADEPT TWO
I am the Line Drawn on Water.
ADEPT THREE
I am the Sixth Version of the First Attempt.
ADEPT FOUR
I am the Palm Tree on the Horizon of Those Who Never Arrive.
ADEPT FIVE
I am the Listener of Dust.
ADEPT SIX
I am the Hour Without a Number.
HIEROPHANT
These names are theatrical masks; keep them until you forget them.
(The triads walk in intersecting diagonals, their feet sketching the S again, monumental yet invisible. Each crossing is rehearsed twice, then thrice, and then—because repetition summons revelation—once more.)
ARCHIVIST
The pattern they inscribe is the letter transposed into geography. Each
diagonal pleats the earth; the center (which is nowhere) is reached
redundantly. By the tenth crossing I believed I could predict the next. By the
fifteenth I was wrong. The ritual demonstrates that prediction and surprise are
the same act perceived through different delays.
VINEYARD (a faint rustle from the far edge)
We are listening to the page turn.
HIEROPHANT
Now the memory.
(The adepts gather near the notebook. One by one, they bend and pretend to write, though the page remains unmarked.)
ADEPT ONE
I inscribe the First Memory: a cement slab and the letter no teacher
taught me.
ADEPT TWO
The Second Memory: a corridor of leaves, whose shadows repeat the
strokes of an alphabet cut by light.
ADEPT THREE
The Third: the field that is a stage and a desert, which expects a word
to justify its emptiness.
ADEPT FOUR
The Fourth: the houses that pretend to be distant cities.
ADEPT FIVE
The Fifth: the collector of times, called Saturday.
ADEPT SIX
The Sixth: the noon that erases all names and leaves the act.
HIEROPHANT
The six memories and the six strokes cohere; we are enscripted. Do not mistake
this for magic. It is only accuracy.
ARCHIVIST
Borges wrote, somewhere, that to name is to save. The cult, perhaps because the
century has grown economical with salvation, believes the inverse: that to name
well is to perish tastefully. Their rite proposes a mortal elegance.
(The Hierophant closes the notebook on an unseen sentence and sets it again on the ground.)
Movement IV: The Noon Without Witness
(Time accelerates into interchangeability. The sun attains its plaza of zenith. The field brightens to a single word.)
HIEROPHANT
At noon we perform the Drama of Dispossession. Whoever carries a secret
must abandon it to belong to it. Whoever draws the letter must let it be drawn
by drought. Whoever speaks must become the echo that corrects him.
ADEPTS, each removing a small object
from a pocket
We surrender our reasons.
(One offers a coin pried smooth by years; another, a photograph faded to the color of unwritten paper; another, a key that never opened; another, a folded note; another, a grape shriveled to a raisin; the last offers the cotton cord now dry.)
HIEROPHANT
These are not sacrifices. They are indexes. Every object we owned is a
bibliography of our omissions. Let the field be our librarian.
(She distributes the objects at the six terminals of the invisible letter, as if aligning the points of a star with its preceding nights.)
ARCHIVIST
For a moment I believed the ritual complete. But the Hierophant spoke again—the
utterance that converts a liturgy into a labyrinth.
HIEROPHANT
Now the Counter-Rite: we play the Drama of Undoing.
ADEPT TWO
We must leave no trace.
HIEROPHANT
Correct. (To the Archivist) You too.
ARCHIVIST
I am only a witness.
HIEROPHANT
Every witness is a conspirator prolonging the crime of happening. Help us
erase.
(They step backward along the diagonals, upsetting the dust, confusing the footprints. The adepts retrieve the objects and scatter them farther, or pocket them again, or give them to the Archivist to misplace. The notebook is closed and turned over, so its white page faces the ground that cannot read.)
VINEYARD
A leaf falls. Its choreography corrects the human one.
ARCHIVIST
A scruple compelled me to photograph the notebook before it vanished into my
satchel. The image I made is on that very page you hold: a square of white in a
field of brittle grass, a faint inscription of hours, my shoes at the bottom
like attendants to an altar. I pretended documentation; I enacted theft. In my
defense I offer only the law of the cult: that a copy extended in time—be it a
letter, a walk, or a photograph—becomes the original by outliving it.
HIEROPHANT
We will meet again when Saturday remembers us. The hour will be 7:30 becoming
12:00. All other hours are glosses.
ADEPTS, dispersing toward the
vineyard and the road
We are the Sixth Version of the First Attempt.
(The wind rises. The field returns to its generality: soil, residues, rumor. The Hierophant, whose name I never learned, does not leave. She watches my hesitation.)
HIEROPHANT
You have the page that belongs to the field.
ARCHIVIST
I will return it.
HIEROPHANT
Do not. Return is a story; keeping is a ritual.
(She turns and follows the others among the vines. For a moment, framed by leaves, she is the letter itself.)
Coda: The Commentary That Pretends to Be a Stage Direction
I left the field by the concrete path where the Lineage-S had dried into invisibility. The shoe at the edge of that first photograph was mine. The letter, which the Hierophant called a country, had been the gate and the play. I did not then know that certain signs abandon us only to become our habits. I traced the letter on the dust that clung to my car’s hood and on the condensation of my kitchen’s window, in the margins of a book of Borges (who elucidated, with his normal courtesy, that all letters are maps). I traced it once, absent-mindedly, upon the notebook itself.
I have decided to reproduce the rite for you, reader. It requires only a path, a vineyard or other repeated geometry, a field, and a notebook, which is to say: a sequence of planes. If you lack a vineyard, an alley flanked by garages will suffice; if you cannot find an empty field, a room where furniture has been pushed aside will serve; if you have no notebook, a schedule remembered from childhood is adequate. The movements are simple. At the threshold, draw the letter’s six strokes with water that will forget you. In the geometry, walk forward and back until prediction fails. In the field, name yourself with a name that cannot survive noon. Deposit six objects as an asterisk; retrieve them; then cancel your footprints with other footprints whose intention you refuse to clarify. Finally, hide the notebook somewhere you will not think to search.
If you perform this drama accurately, time will imitate it. Your Saturdays will come disguised as each other. At 7:30 a breeze will edit your plans; at 12:00 a brightness will pretend that plans were never necessary. You will notice that the letter writes you from the inside. You will pretend to be indifferent.
I keep the notebook on a shelf among the fatiguing curiosities of the world. The field, meanwhile, continues without me. The vines rest in their green corridors; the concrete slab returns to dust one fleck at a time; my shoe has extracted itself from the image. Someone—perhaps a boy who has never heard of us—will draw the letter there again, six insolent lines making a house that cannot hold a body, a crest that all nations share. He will not know he is re-enacting our doctrine. He will think he is passing the time.
The last entry in the notebook is not an entry. It is a pleat left by my hand pressing the paper against the field while I took the photograph. The pleat suggests a seventh stroke, which the letter does not have. I have considered this treason and finally adopted it as a commentary. Let the seventh stroke be the pressure of the world; let it be the fold that is not drawn but suffered. The adepts would approve. Their theater preferred the rigor of what cannot be finished.
The ritual has one more direction, appended in a tight marginal script that might be mine or the Hierophant’s: “Erase after reading.” I obey inadequately. I publish this instead. If you think this action violates the cult’s discretion, remember their law: the copy that outlasts becomes the source. I am not betraying; I am founding.
(Lights at noon. Curtain without shadow.)
No comments:
Post a Comment