An Invisible City (...for Mark/anahata.c...) by Chipka
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Description
An Invisible City
*
Kalimba is the most striking of the Eastern Cities: like a slice of some vast, crystalline onion bitten on one side by the deep Stork-Wallow Bay. Poets make their homes in the heart of the city and in the suburbs, and to enter the city’s squares and park-lands, and its hanging gardens is to enter the eternal Poet’s Debate: impassioned arguments as to whether the city resembles the crescent moon, or indeed an onion-slice, bitten by a demure set of teeth. Most of Kalimba’s inhabitants hold to their own quiet opinions, and avoid more poetic wrangles in rolling, melodic voices.
To the east, Stork-Wallow Bay breaks the circumference of the city: imposing itself upon the neat circumference of the city, like a small coin placed upon a larger one, but only near one edge. From the air, Kalimba does resemble a bitten coin, a bitten slice of onion. It is easy to see Kalimba from the air: the sky and the clouds swarm with sleek, cigar zeppelins and, and balloons like flagrant jellyfish in all of the colors of fever, madness, and reverie: reds streaked with chartreuse and silver, violet spotted with leopard-print in searing hues of vermilion, obsidian, blue, like a clown-harlot’s eye-shadow. The most famous of Kalimba’s flagrant balloons is a little more than a gossamer dream of flight, a wisp everyone recognizes as Margot’s Astonishing Cicada. It is said that if one spies this beautiful folly of mylar, wicker, and monocoque—at sunset on a Friday—one can be assured of long life and a peaceful death. On Fridays (at sunset) the citizens of Kalimba clot the streets and parks, the rooftops, and the docks, straining to spot, at least a glimmer of Margot’s Astonishing Cicada.
To the west, ostrich caravans arrive from as far away as Básoon, bearing expensive (highly-prized) wigs, sculpted from the beards of Básoon’s gentlemen, or loads of peppercorns from the ancient city of Terse.
Though the zeppelins and fever-bright balloons of Kalimba are the most famous of its spectacles, the streets of this city are its truest, most staggering marvel. There are broad, tree-lined boulevards arranged in concentric rings, each boulevard finds its name engraved on nickel plaques. Each name on nickel is an ornate equation in the language of Calculus.
Each of the concentric boulevards of Kalimba are bisected by razor-straight avenues, all emanating from the true-center of the city. The avenues are home to the business of Kalimba: the shops, the factories, the pharmacies, and the crematoria. Each of Kalimba’s avenues bears its name on engraved plaques of copper: each name is an ornate equation in the language of Algebra.
To read the name of every street and every boulevard in Kalimba is to read both the mathematical study of change and the mathematical study of function. Kalimba is the point at which these two studies meet. This, according to local folk-wisdom, is why the squares and parks and suburban expressionist gardens are so full of opinionated poets.
The air of Kalimba smells of wisteria and cantaloupe.
*
Italo Calvino and Jorge-Luis Borges are seated in a café that is a library; the floor is a complex pattern of Escher-jigsaw piano-keys hewn from porcelain and ebony: there is recursion and reiteration on the café/library floor, a mad jumble of calculus and algebra as if the streets of the city have birthed insane, spastic offspring. The tiles are anchored with grout impregnated with phlogiston, and at night the seams between the tiles glow in subtle shades of reddish amber, reddish gold, and gold in the colors of sunlight filtered through aged, mottled vellum. There are no walls: only book shelves, three stories high: three stories of books in every language, including the language of crickets. Chandeliers hang from the high-domed ceiling, each resembling a particular species of octopus. The cafes of Kalimba surpass the universities of venerable, far-away lands.
Jorge-Luis Borges has sipped tea and considered the patterns of walnut grain on the face of the table. He has considered the conversation thus far: something of a poet’s debate poured (gently) into the slow, rolling boil of nostalgia for some far away land. He raises his gaze to meet Calvino’s expression of perplexed inquiry. It seems, for an instant, as if he has told a joke, only to delay with the punch-line. He inhales, considers the walnut grain of the table, and then continues with what began before his sip of tea.
He says, at last: “What troubles me is that we have both written of cities and of worlds, and for all that we’ve committed to ink and paper, we’ve never imagined anything as common as a city like Kalimba, or a city like Terse, and yet these cities, other cities, and especially Kalimba exist in the things we’ve written. Just as I think I understand how this may be, I lose it like a strand of spider’s silk, snatched by the wind.”
Calvino nods. “I understand,” but perhaps it isn’t cities we’ve written about at all. In all of the worlds, in all of the universes, in all of the philosophies we’ve written, perhaps they’re nothing more than our own impressions of the streets surrounding us now, or the floor of this very café. How—after all—does one write Kalimba: what happens if in your text, you must relay something as simple as the name of a single street? For as common a city as Kalimba may be, it is the very commonality of it that renders it impossible to synthesize in the text of any one language. This is what I think, though when the winds are soft, and when the streets are crowded on Friday afternoons, with people looking for a balloon, I often wonder if my own thoughts on this topic are nothing more than—”
He doesn’t continue: there is no need to voice that admission.
And for a while the two authors sit in silence.
There is a particular quality to the quiet—now—that speaks of something vital contained in the pages of an unwritten book and the first hints of night-fall coax feeble promises of light from the seams between floor tiles.
*
*
A while ago, Mark (anahata.c) brought a book to my attention: Invisible Cities by Italo Calvino. Since that time, I’ve actually read the book (twice) as well as Calvino’s short story collection: “Difficult Loves” which exists on my bookshelf next to Milan Kundera’s novel, Laughable Loves. The dialogue between those two books is amazing! I’ve acquired other titles by Calvino, and will read them in due course.
In attempting to catch up on viewing and commenting here on Renderosity, I stumbled across images in Mark’s gallery: images of an alley. The alley itself stands in the weird space between the familiar and unfamiliar. I’m sure I’ve seen that alley, right here in Chicago, but I cannot locate it in any of my memories: not even my memories of next week. I’ll find it, eventually: by accident, as such discoveries must, necessarily, happen.
Anyway, the images Mark captures and creates are little glories that seem to capture (in shape and color, light and shadow) the things that Calvino intimates in the little snapshots the comprise half of the text that is Invisible Cities. The other half of the text—is made up of little vignettes: beautifully improbable conversations held between Marco Polo and Kublai Khan; one such conversation involves airports. I thought of that book and those snapshots in looking through Mark’s gallery. And then…less than two hours ago: an idea hit me like a ton of nouns. In honor of the book (and the inspiration) Mark gave, I decided to pretend to be Italo Calvino and write about the invisible city he neglected to write about…and…well…Calvino himself (drawn from his conversation with Kundera) stepped forward, and for some reason, Jorge-Luis Borges ambled over…and…well…you’ve probably just finished reading the end result. I hope you’ve enjoyed it as much as I enjoyed writing it.
Since Mark helped enliven my bookshelf, I figured the least I could do is write an invisible city…and thus…the cities of Kalimba and Terse are born. As Kalimba has just had its narrative, I suspect that Terse will get its own extended vignette at some time in the near/distant future.
As always, thank you for viewing, reading, and commenting, and I hope you’re all having a great week.
Comments (9)
Wolfenshire Online Now!
Beautiful image and well written story. An onion-bite... I like that visual.
kgb224
Wonderful writing my friend. God bless.
jendellas
I as always love the image. The writing is great & there is another book I will be looking up :o))) x
helanker
Chip, you are a master in book covers. I love this one. !!
anahata.c
Another wonderful slice-of-life vision from you, chock full of rich details that point to whole worlds outside the tale. I've thought about how you differ from Calvino and Borges, and part of it is in your lush and love-filled passages. The human elements that Calvino and Borges certainly have---Calvino, more, I think---but which they don't delve into the way you do. And, re their language, I can't read Italian or Spanish, so I don't know if they have the intense richness-of-language that you do---they may, though it's not been pointed out by critics and translators very often. So I wonder if they compare...so, in a way, they're honored by you embracing their imaginations, and making them your own. (Here comes the detail part, which I hope isn't dead-boring): First, being a musician, I can't help but think of the African thumb instrument, the kalimba. It's subtle, delicate and exotic sounding, so it fits your tale, and your writing in general. Details like a city looking like an onion bitten-into, or a coin eclipsed by a larger coin, etc, is tantalizing to begin with. Or the "Poet's Debate"---which you give enough detail on to make it a wonderful appetizer, for a meal that exists beyond the tale (and which we want to eat). The whole air show, described in luscious detail (incl colors like vermillion, obsidian, and "mylar, wicker and monocoque" which is a great collective of words, including one I've not heard for 30 years! (Monocoque.)) The whole pageant of these flying things, with a name like "Margot's Astonishing Cicada" is pure Chip. And ostrich caravans, and wigs made from the beards of gentlemen, etc. And of course the concentric rings with names that encase formulas from calculus and algebra. Those are true bows to Calvino and Borges, but the way you weave them into a tale, and the way you pile them on, they're pure you. In your tales, you have carnivals of words, themselves: "Clown-harlot's eye-shadow". The actual concept is terrific, but the sheer SOUND of it, the music of it, is genuine poetry. English is particularly powerful at compound expressions (clown-harlot, or eye-shadow), and you use them beautifully. (Beowulf---which is one of the strangest, roughest and most magical pieces of gut-harsh writing in our language---has great compounds like "whale-road" (for sea-ways) or "whale-beasts" (for sea monsters); a great "word-horde," to use an Old English sounding phrase.) The predilection for thick compounds goes back a long ways in our odd, pile-up language...Then, names like Básoon or Terse, for cities. (Can't help but think of the bassoon, and "terse" is a great city name too. Like everything's to the point there, though probably each point is pregnant with hidden meanings, in your writing.) And your images are like your words---ie, if one spies Margot's Astonishing Cicada, they're assured of a long life and peaceful death...Even the name "Margot's Astonishing Cicada" is an example: Something from 19th C. snake-oil salesmen and their wagons. A big carnival of a name---and, again, you give it, but don't fully explain it. It tantalizes and lets us imagine the worlds behind it... And you end the tale with "the air of Kalimba smells of wisteria and cantaloupe". The image speaks all by itself. Beautiful writing, Chip. How you do this so often, and with such constant high quality is beyond me. And in your spare time, to boot... Then, your dialogue between Calvino and Borges (I have no idea if they ever met) is a great idea. I love what they say, as well as the description of the floor, the chandelier, etc. ("Escher-jigsaw piano-keys hewn from porcelain and ebony"---these are just terrific phrases, because there are floors like that, but real porcelain and ebony brings them to a new full birth.) I love how Calvino decides that these cities are embedded in the places we actually live in, and also how these visions are nothing more than......it's almost answered in "contained in the pages of an unwritten book and the first hints of night-fall coax feeble promises of light from the seams between the floor". In addition to completing Calvino's thought, it flows like lines of poetry. Your language again. I don't know if Calvino and Borges do that. But if they do (in the original languages), I doubt that they do it any better. Thank you for what you wrote about my work---and that alley is, I think, off of Burton Street, a block from my home. It's one of them, in that area. It's just too clean for an alley, so I postworked it for mystery and too-powerful light (at the end). I'm flattered it would make its way into one of your visions. (You even wrote, "less than two hours ago: an idea hit me like a ton of nouns"---that's great description! A ton of nouns. (The Beowulf poet would approve, though in his/her language it would probably be something like "nounne-tonnes" where you'd pronounce all the vowels, and throw in some gutturals for good measure.) And finally, I always felt Calvino's Invisible Cities was purposefully incomplete, and left a whole world to our imagination. You're the pre-ordained person to pick up where they left off...And I do remember the dialogues between Marco Polo and Kublai Khan, and they always felt like a miniature meta-dialogue and commentary on the book; but, more importantly, it felt like two people in a 'heaven' of sorts, looking down while the writing unfolded below...A beautiful tale, filled with multiple tales waiting to be written---the idea of doing more on Terse and Básoon is perfect---and another terrific collection of multiple fruits from you, written as always with a garden of language. Terrific. Thank you for associating me with this.
KatesFriend
It's been a long, long time since I've read of the word 'phlogiston'. The non-existent (and invisible) material released during combustion which must be absorbed by the air for combustion to continue. When the air is saturated with phlogiston - mostly because of an enclosed environment - no more of it can be released and combustion halts. I saw the movie. I do like the idea of phlogiston infused grout that shimmers like fire in the evenings. Kalimba seems very appealing to the mathematician in my soul. An orderly structure of spokes and circles. Businesses and industry reside on the rays and, presumably, residences are found on the ever greater circles. All of these lines and curves named after various foundational structures of the universe. I suppose hotels would be found at the many intersections of calculus and algebra. But how I'd love to visit that cafe. Borges' observation reminds me of how I struggled with Plato's concept that 'only the form is real'. I seem to remember that this came from Plato anyways. Like people, no two cities are alike so the term city does not apply to any directly. It is always the City of Kalimba or the City of Terse. Cities are a concept and the named variety are a translation from that concept. And in moving from concept to translation, something is always lost., Calvino seems to touch upon this in his thoughts about personal impressions of streets et al. Perhaps it is like trying to visualize higher dimensions.
MrsRatbag
Speechless in the face of all these verbal pyrotechnics; you are a master of words, Chip, and I bow to your talent!
nikolais
as always, exciting reading. reminds me of Peter While's travelogues in "Genius of Place" (Петр Вайль "Гений места") and his other works.
auntietk
it really is your poetic and visceral use of the language that makes your writing so compelling. I would read anything you wrote, just for the style! Whatever you have to say is always interesting, but HOW you say it is the draw. I have never read Calvino, but it doesn't make any difference at all to my enjoyment of the story. being a person who almost flunked algebra though, I could never visit Kalimba. just thinking about any given intersection, where algebra and calculus meet, would make my head explode. I wouldn't last five minutes there! LOL!