A Wallflower in the Amazon, Paula Tatarunis

A Wallflower In The Amazon

Paula Tatarunis

1952-2015

What struck me first was thickness. 

I deplaned into the aromatic raptures of volume,

onto a third axis of gravity, density, proliferation.

Mere perimeter, somersaulting around the x,

pirouetting on the y,  englobed --

it was not just the vertigo of a rough descent,

persisting across the length of the humid aeroporto, 

or for the duration of the trip from Manaus to Manacapuru,

and it was more than the times your cross-eyed stare 

pulled me into mezzo-relievo from the wall. 

It was a profusion of π  beyond my wildest dreams.

Oh, I recognized voracities, invaginations, efflorescences, 

even lianas, beaks, and pharynxes. 

But everything was star crossed, oestral and vaguely encrypted,

and I had no words for the particular way

the hot brown water purled between roots and banks,

nor for the tattered, green fornix quivering overhead.

Even the shadows were sphinctered, shuttered, irised,

and it was amazing to me how the text lifted from the runway 

and cleared the treetops every time.

Evenings, when the expatriate river guide 

made small talk by the campfire,

I explained about distributing 2-D glasses

with a quasi-evangelical fervor,

citing the MOMA, Louvre, Jeu de Paume, Prado, 

repositories of the seemingly infinite capacities

of surfaces,  citing the often life-saving utility

of being able to turn 90˚ and disappear at will,

citing how much the recti and versi of one slim volume can contain, 

and yet remain so slim that “volume” seems 

inexcusable hyperbole.

   

The flight home was long. 

I had more than enough time 

to read through Das Wohltemperierte Klavier twice,

both books, cover to cover  (Ed. Bischoff, Berlin, 1884)

then to flatten myself out again like a mercator projection,

all north, all head,

and resume my love affair

with the vanishing point.