Earlier this year I was told about Brayton. He sounded like one of those chaps whose departures are more popular than their arrivals. He is, what? 8? 9 years old? He lives in Mowbray (I think) with his formidable and hardworking grandmother. His parents live on the street. In his school and at his church (this is what I heard) he finds it difficult to find friends, mainly because (I suspect) he’s not looking for friends. Anyway, he came to visit the Farm, and it was like he’d never been away. He saw horned hieroglyphs in the undergrowth and omens in the sky, while droningly narrating a running commentary of the movie in his head. Like a loud gnat. His sneakers were also a mite loud, and he lost most of his clothes that first weekend. He’s probably suffering from every single abbreviation fashionable these days. He’s a force of nature, without a trace of natural malice. No visible sign of suffering. Earlier tonight I tried to imagine him - in his early 20’s. What would he do for a living? How would he pay the rent? Would there be rent then? Any living? (I tried to put him behind a counter in a bank so I shot a circuit in my sinus. Sniff.) Brayton came to visit the Farm for some weekends, and he spent the first week of the June holidays here. His leaving was lamented, but he didn’t notice. After that he disappeared off the map for a while. Katya asked every week since whether B was coming, and I tried to phone Philda, his grandmother, to no avail. I got paranoid, and suspected she was avoiding me, and I thought: “Did something go wrong? Something said somewhere? Or, Horrors! Did something fiddle with the lad?!?” I stressed a bit. Turned out her phone pegged a while ago. Thanks to Margie Blake communications are restored and Brayton is back. Sleeping, as we speak. Point is, when I told Katya earlier this week that Brayton was coming, she shouted, and ran off to tell Naledi. Then they both shouted. I wondered about this. Why is he welcome here, and not elsewhere? I suppose elsewhere he is within walls. He is not easy to contain. Here, where the grasses grow, time stretches wider, and it is easier to weave him into the tapestry of our lives. Besides, he brings a delectable frisson of dire danger to the proceedings. He rides a completely out of control imagination. He is so incredibly, frighteningly, alive.
Posted on: Fri, 03 Oct 2014 23:24:28 +0000
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