In India, when buildings were built or repaired scaffolding consisted of bamboo poles tied together with twine, jute, probably, similar to baling twine. The buildings under construction were surrounded by imperfect squares, climbed by people wearing shorts with bare feet. It was quite remarkable, really, that these scaffoldings didn't slip, or collapse altogether. But then again, perhaps they did, for all the notice I made of them. After all, such accidents were, in a sense de rigueur. "Sister," the servant says to me while I am eating my morning mango, "Sister, today, one bus accident. All dead." "What happened?" I ask. "One bus hit the wall. Everybody dead," he replies, his hand turning, fingers spiraling as if to say "and so it goes." And indeed it did. Indeed. Everybody dead. So, perhaps those scaffoldings did fall taking people with them.
How strange that seems, because scaffolding looks like such a fundamental structure, a structure that trusts that within in its temporary boundaries an enduring structure will be built. And yet, scaffolding will, when the building is completed, disappear. So, how interesting it is that as I watch a mind and a person dissolve, I envision the return to the beginning, that temporary structure--the scaffolding.
As Tom disappears, tearing down the past brick by brick, snatching the future and ripping the present to shreds, he becomes once again, the scaffolding with which he began. All so different from the man he was.
The difficult part is that his scaffolding was faulty, not only faulty, but so essentially flawed so rotten and diseased, chewed by termites, that while it looks intact, it is, in fact, dust. Step on those beams at your peril; they collapse, crisp and dry, leaving you waving your arms in free fall.
Ahhhh yes, but that is the family he grew up with, I begin to see, as I fall into unknown regions, feeling like each day is an archeological expedition of the mind. His is a family where a question about dinner turns into quicksand, the trap of a spider whose only goal is to suck the life out of her victims leaving a web bound shell as she moves onto the next source of nourishment. And that spider was, oh, yes, and is, his mother. A spider. An empty creature, existing only to prey and suck the life out of everyone around her so that she can realize some measure of existence. But she doesn't really exist, and can't, so there is always a void to be filled, and another victim needed to fill it. And thus is the scaffolding of his life. He has become his mother.
Last week I watched a spider in my window. A fly was caught in her web, buzzing and struggling, becoming more and more entangled with each wing beat. The spider danced down toward the fly, darting at it, moving away as it kicked its legs and became more entwined. Again and again the spider danced down, and again and again the fly fought its restraints, only to find that they became more secure with struggle and complaint. But still she taunted, that spider, pushing for total entrapment so she could fill herself. I imagined her laughing, her smile wide with the prospect of the fly's demise. And so it is with Tom's mother, and so it is with him. He stalks me, as he was taught, oh so well, and dances, and cajoles, and entraps with innocent sounding comments and then, grinning like a creepy ventriloquist's dummy, heads in for the kill, for the lonely pleasure of destruction. What they want, these empty creatures, is to fill themselves, leaving trophy shells entrapped in their webs, testimony to only their hollowness and perceived triumph.
But the thing is, I won't go. I watch carefully for those rotten beams that look so sturdy and trust none of it. He is left to his scaffolding, but I am not climbing. Bricks are coming down one by one, the once-building a pile of rubble now, and his scaffolding teeters above and around it. But I am not taking a step; that scaffolding may fall, but I won't be on it. And certainly, most certainly, scaffolding does fall, but I am not going down with that mess, and I wonder if I will even notice when it goes, or who is taken with it. Deaths are easy, and scaffolding temporary. "All dead, sister, everyone dead."
Not me, though, not me. He's not going to take me down with him, even if I have to learn to stop beating my wings for a while.
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