And he arrived. So mentioned he even hurried up.
Brought lived and dressed.
Criminal records pronosticated and promised paradises included.
No hand shaked when they took away his graces.
He was not given the option to be foretold or built,
they told him what he had to be by accumulation,
mounted him on stage with borrowed glow
and silenced his voice in case he thought of singing it all.
He seems intimated when the others parade through:
the 5772 from the Hebrews, the 1433 from the Islamics,
the 1390 from the Persians, the 5519 from the Aymaras.
He is terrified of Kali Iugá which un-draws him.
From a reformer family: the Gregorian,
which 1687 years ago superimposed to their Julian relatives,
erasing days from its counts for Eastern motives they said,
it’s known they could not decelarate the Earth on her orbit.
He smiles on his debut, hoping they are not around,
the tropical year demanding time,
and the sidereal shouting at him to adjust.
He does not stand this heritage well.
He is also chased by zodiacal signs
trapped on a calendar that subjected them to fix dates
and persecuted by many who are no longer sure which is their sign…
He plays the fool, those who made this commotion shoud assume it.
Midnight announces his arrival and 2012 comes out on stage
amidst fireworks, dressed as 1 and crazy January hat,
an uncertain 1, just as year 1 of the era,
full of suppositions, confusions, mistakes and bygones. Or was it 0?
Dress 1 is stained with shadows
with solstices and equinoxes subdued as simple guidelines,
hidden the 1 form the North and faded from the South,
stones marking them were condemned as idolaters.
This is 2012’s heritage
from which his predecessor brothers were not free,
but this fate of year lived without arriving they did not have,
they went to far and no spark hides his fears.
Just in case his long hair is tied up,
fearing ill-fated predictions set it on fire,
he brings boots in case water from loose mouths overflow
and a very big bag where he put what he could and what scaped.
Just in case he looked for the support of those who will live him
expecting less sinister and lighter dresses;
his naivety bumped into theirs, used to obey
and accept the prescribed manuals written forever and ever.
He tries to run away with those ascending although he does not know where to,
and misses the rhythmic step on his triumphant entry,
without a way out, he recovers the attitude, between fateful and resigned
to distribute a cake without ingredients for an end starting again.
When euphoria decreases and glances stop,
between the darks of the night he sits to go through his wardrobe,
made to measure, darned with prophecies poor on tomorrows,
and of course, for all occasions which are not few…
…if Venus visit to the Sun turns out into disaster, iridescently uncertain,
if solar storms devastate, he will wear green with lots of water,
if a planet x appears, he will not be the star, so pink dusks,
if we ascend to another dimension, very light with faded chiffons,
if volcanoes get excited, incandescent reds to dance with them,
if a new golden age starts, a dazzling gold mantle,
if waters invade, the flaky one like a siren,
if geographies change, the pale yellow with surprised pocket,
if the planet turns over, dark to be decorated with dust,
if some gods return descending, the patterned one as dreams,
if the solstice and the eclipse unleash waves, the all-proof rubber one,
if the solstice and the eclipse do not comply, another with purple justification,
if the ‘d’ date comes before, the one with elastic acrylic,
if energetic flows complicate us, the one with magnetic plugs,
if fireballs fall, the caution of cream with closed neck,
if aliens appear, the metallic one to reflect the other face,
if Pluto is displaced, the one with nets to sustain the rest,
if celestial, gaseous and invisible ones align, overshadowed so as to see them,
if plans change, informal brown with mounting boots.
For the remaining days, white laces for premieres,
and to be prepared, if after December 21
he still has to finish the 365 sentenced days,
a few pastel ones with sobriety in recovery.
Morning has arrived, just when he finds his sandals,
leather worn out, walked soles, ready to go on;
as most people have, with the sweat of daily survival,
sometimes walking, almost always running, many others sliding.
Wearing daily life, 2012 mixes among the people,
everyone busy to avoid intentional obstacles to survive,
many wishing the prophetic end to stop living under hunger,
others have no time to think about it, those do not know about it.
At noon, under the shadow of a tree, he sucks an orange,
savouring the juice which will not be reached by rancid heritages,
nor all the prophecies together, not even if they turn it into 2102,
or if they dye it with soya to make it modern. That juice is free.
2012 smiles. The wardrobe is not necessary. Him either.
No matter how he is dressed he will still add up to 5.
Life runs around him, spilling her juice and multiplying,
takes a somersault and changes into another life to keep on being always… and free.
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NOTA: All images belong to Jason deCaires Taylor, English sculptor specialising in the creation of contemporary underwater sculptures which over time develop into artificial coral reef. See more of his work on his site.
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