I hiked the
Haines Valley today with Ian. There was a plethora of bird chirps and the forest heaved with
chlorophyll. Steam rose from the trail as the day heated up. The local mountains were still festooned with snow. I was once again reminded why I live here.
I fly 8:30 tomorrow via Montreal and Brussels. Then to Buju Burundi. Excited. Flipping through an old diary I found this poem - advice I think yet the speaker is definitely not me.
An Admonition
(Joseph Brodsky)
Trekking in (Africa), spending nights in odd dwellings, in
granaries, cabins, shacks-timber abodes whose thin
squined windowpanes harness the world-sleep dressed,
wrapped in your sheepskin and do your best
always to tuck your head into the corner, as
in the corner it's harder-and in darkness at that-to swing an axe over your heavy, booze-laden gourd
and to chop it off nicely. Square the circle, in short.
II
Fear broad cheekbones (including the moon's), pockmarked
skin, and prefer blue eyes to brown eyes. Search hard
for the blue ones, especially when the road takes you into the wood,
into its heart. On the whole, as for eyes, one should
watch for their cut. For at last instant it's
better to stare at that which, though cold, permits
seeing through: ice may crack, yet wallowing in an ice
hole is far better than in honey-like, viscous lies.
III
Always pick a house with baby clothes hanging out
in the yard. Deal only with the over-fifty crowd:
a hick at that age knows too much about fate to gain
anything by attempting to bust your brain;
same thing, a squaw. Hide the money in your fur coat's
collar or, if you are travelling light, in your brown culottes
under the knee-but not in your boots since they'll find the dough
easily there. In (Africa), boots are the first to go.
IV
In the mountains, move slowly. If you must creep, then creep.
Magnificent in the distance, meaningless closer up,
mountains are but a surface standing on end. The snail-
like and, it seems, horizontal meandering trail
is, in fact, vertical. Lying flat in the mountains, you
stand. Standing up, you lie flat. Which suggests your true
freedom's in falling down. That's the way, it appears,
to conquer, once in mountains, vertigo, raptures, fears.
V
If somebody yells "Hey, stranger!" don't answer. Play deaf and dumb.
Even though you may know it, don't speak the tongue.
Try not to stand out-either in profile or
full face; simply don't wash your face at times. What's more,
when they rip a cur's throat with a swa, don't cringe.
Smoking, douse your butts with spittle. And besides, arrange
to wear gray-the hue of the earth-especially underclothes,
to reduce the temptation to blend with your flesh the earth.
VI
When you halt in the desert, make an arrow from pebbles, so,
if suddenly woken up, you'll fathom which way to go
in the darkness. At nights, demons in deserts try
travellers' hearts. He who heeds their cry
gets easily disoriented: one step sideways and-well, c'est tout.
Ghosts, specters, demons, are at home in the desert. You
too will discover that's true when, sand creaking under your sole,
all that remains of you is your soul. \
VII
Nobody ever knows anything for a fact.
Gazing ahead at your stooping guide's sturdy back,
think that you gaze at the future and keep your distance (if
that is possible) from him. Since, in principle, life
is itself but a distance between here and there, and
quickening the pace only pays when you discern the sound
behind of those running after you down the path
with lowered heads-be they murderers, thieves, the past.
VIII
In the sour whiff of rugs, in the burnt dung's fume,
prize the indifference of things to being regarded from
afar, and in turn lose your own silhouette, turning, thus,
unattainable to binoculars, gendarmes, mass.
Coughing in a cloud of dust, wading through mud, muck, map-
What difference does it make how you would look close up?
It's even better if some character with a blade
figures out you are a stranger a bit too late.
IX
Rivers in (Africa) are longer than elsewhere, more rich
in alluvium-that is, murkier. As you reach
for a mouthful, your cupped fingers ladle silt,
and one who has drunk this water would prefer it spilt.
Never trust its reflection. Crossing it, cross it on
a raft built with no other hands but the pair you own.
Know that the gleam of a campfire, your nightly bliss,
will, by sliding downstream, betray you to enemies.
X
In your letter from these parts, don't divulge whom and
what you've seen on your way. If anything should be penned,
use your varying feelings, musings, regrets, et al.:
a letter can be intercepted. And after all,
the movement of a pen across paper is,
in itself, the worsening of the break between you and those
with whom you won't any longer sit or lie down-with whom,
unlike the letter, you won't share-who cares why-a home.
XI
When you stand on an empty stony plateau alone
under the fathomless dome of Africa in whose blueness an airplane
or an angel sometimes whips up its starch or star-
when you shudder at how infinitesimally small you are,
remember: space that appears to need nothing does
crave, as a matter of fact, an outside gaze,
a criterion of emptiness-of its depth and scope.
And it's only you who can do the job