but I found myself, by chance, on the bank of a river and, when the last memory of all of you blurred, I noticed the day and the greenery which, from the earth, penetrated the water; the blue boat oscillated toward the tree it had been tied to, and also oscillated toward the mouth of the river, and I then began to accumulate memories of the future in a great meditation; the river seemed to me to be the walls of this house which were sailing and each part, with its own function, was present but dissolved in the water, running. My habitual somnolence had abandoned me, waiting to see the gliding of the water, I felt I would be awake forever. But this state was more restful than sleep, without any of the dreams I did not want to have. It is the future, I thought. The river runs very fast, and what I was thinking transformed over time, which is shadowed and full of whispers, close to my feet; once in a while, the blue boat tied to the tree stretches the whole length of its chain and bends toward the bank covered in green plants where a salutary dampness begins to descend. Do you know this unforgettable place? The wind picked up and blows over me and through the tree, which lost the brightness I remembered; it became colder and I think only of the torrent whose speed is always increasing; at a certain point, as there is a small island in the middle of this turmoil, I begin to believe that, in the other branch of the river, the waters rise toward the source. Today the weather still hasn’t changed and, within a few days, I will return. I don’t know if you will be able to see me right away; it’s better for you to busy yourself writing, even in my room because for some nights yet I will live in the garden and look at your illuminated windows; I will call them illuminated leaves. If you find a cradle in my room
I spent the night on the bank of the river, for nowhere else do I sleep with such serenity. The boat is still tied to the tree and I know it is morning by the sound of the water, by the hasty passage of the current, shadowed but without storm; the low tree trunks formed a kind of cavern; and the noise, beginning there, disappears at a distance, in the middle of the mass of water.
voices of your brothers
To find a place called Fontiveros, remember that I will be there, within a few days; I will get up and follow the river, leaving the garden. Knowing you well, I believe you will begin to descend the river, rigid as you are. The infantile
His waning face fought the current and it seemed as if he fled when, in fact, he left for the meeting he had arranged. A powerful sound came out of the water and commanded him to immobility. He knocked on the door and the midwife said to them: — Enter, please. — He sat down at the table and raised his head toward the ceiling, eyes closed. Ana de Peñalosa sat down as well, identical to her son. The lamplight fell on her hand and Saint John of the Cross’s face rose, studying all the corners of the room. It seemed to Ana de Peñalosa that her illuminated hand had trembled and that her fingers had become light and tapered; her wrist, lying on the table, beat. It is the water’s current, she thought. But she felt her fingers to be increasingly tenuous in such a way that when Saint John of the Cross lowered his head, her hand had disappeared, severed at the wrist, and in its place, lying flat, was the page: “There I told you I wanted to remain in this desert of Peñuela — six leagues before Baeza — where I arrived nine days ago. I am well, and in very good health, because the enormous expanse of desert is beneficial for body and spirit.”
He leaned against the wall, retreating. In an instant, he crossed the place of Fontiveros, where the houses are a lime white that ; at the same instant, in the garden of Peñuela, he remained in prayer all night and, in the morning, they saw him rise up from the earth the top of the table was rectangular yellow, the predominant color of the air in Fontiveros and, when it was made into water, it became, in the second layer, mirror; a wind like that from the river passed by, a wave rose up, a candle was lit within it (the room’s lamp was extinguished, the daylight disappeared): in the candlelight, our faces and handwritings intertwine; they lay in shadow, our severed left hands of Ana de Peñalosa, and they replace the duplicate pages: the second layer broken, they both appeared in a fetal position, mouths dirty with the milk of words; raised in the air, the candle went out, the room’s lamp was extinguished, the daylight disappeared.
Place 4 —
when the weather began to darken, this river flowed vertically. As it fell in the courtyard, it provoked a shudder in the layer of water already there. Alongside the drain form bubbles. Driven by the remaining water, they cut across the corner in a rapid movement that, gradually, decreases and stops; the bubbles now moved in a circular pattern and the noise of the rain, isolated in one or another drop, can be discerned, above all, at the height of the roof. I let out a sigh and the time it takes the isolated drops to fall became, each time, less brief. It brightened without, however, the sun emerging or the candle going out. Afterward, in the courtyard, it seems that someone is drinking water and that the sound is amplified, writing
John’s overwhelming desire.
The midwife tells me she is going to sleep, that the wait has been greatly prolonged. I smile; and, having found it underneath the page, I held my severed hand to my chest; Saint John of the Cross, or my son, they write in vain on the blank page. Always blank there was no writing: he then lay down upon the paper, his body taking on the proportions of a newly born child. I looked, ignoring. Nothing happened, only a wail was heard, between the table and the ceiling. Eyes closed, or open, I did not sleep; he disappeared on the page, and: where is my mother?
The rumble of the storm comes from the south of Fontiveros. It has certainly already crossed Úbeda and, before Segovia, will not find rest. We will keep each other company; I feel no pain, and John cannot be born from any part of my body; I have seen the leaves of Fontiveros in autumn, they are red or yellow and resonate through the streets when the air is charged with electricity or when he passes by with his hand writing
leaving the streets,
he found himself in the middle of the countryside.
Around one o’clock in the afternoon, the community returned and recited an antiphon; all of them, affectionately, kissed his feet and hands. It rained
when I was, by chance, sitting on the bank of the river, all I had to do was look at him for things to change by force of circumstances. In the countryside, I have to walk to be able to describe this path. I turn back to be able to begin and notice the leaves decaying from the dampness, which still hide the ground covered in herbs; to my right is a dense line of pine trees and a few buds rise up in bare shrubbery.
Those present wanted to cut a lock of his hair, a piece of his habit, and I saw there were some who bit his ulcerous leg
when the path descends, precisely at the place where the sun is reflected, my leaves are drier; the brightness is tenuous, it disappeared when I raised my eyes and the leaves resonate for having aged and shriveled; most of the trees are bare, it is a winter landscape.
What had belonged to him was distributed as relics: habit, cingulum, cilice, breviary
but the ivy remains as it was and I sit down on a stone in front of the low sun, as if it were summer
There were some who pulled the nails from his toes, there were some who wanted to cut off a finger fier I have been here for a few moments, I begin to smell the variety of plants and herbs, the vegetal species are indescribable. This is the moment I’ve been waiting for
Born without agony, John’s face was full of peace and contentment, of a particular beauty which isn’t that of a cadaver, he who had a face ;
as in dreams, he must actually be eaten
and that was how he had been born, I put my hands on my temples and, in the mirror, saw that they had whitened
I spent a restless night, waiting for the moment when I will return to this path; I could leave, but now it is night and I want to walk it precisely at the same hour.
First homily:
it is the following day, but I believe the seasons are going to change. I picked up a small branch and held it against the sun: it is speckled with frost. The sun is still high in the pine trees, it casts a cold shadow on the soil’s tangled vegetation; my feet freeze and I see the nearly dry herbs framed by a gleamless white, absent