Thursday, January 29, 2009

Escape, Manufactured Calls, and Patience

Occasionally, (to quote Wendell Berry)

"When despair grows in me
and I wake in the middle of the night at the least sound
in fear of what my life and my children's lives may be,
I go and lie down where the wood drake
rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.
I come into the peace of wild things
who do not tax their lives with forethought
of grief. I come into the presence of still water.
And I feel above me the day-blind stars
waiting for their light. For a time
I rest in the grace of the world, and am free."

Except, for my part, the peace of wild things is a larger vision encompassing many things, a farm in the Pacific Northwest, a coffee shop near a university teeming with ideas, wool, and color, and dreams streaming around the tastes and flavors of the rich earth of the the tropics, mountains and dark, moist, hot climes, perhaps, climbing the stairs in the back of this mapleoakbirchchestnut paneled breathing space, one would come to a different beeswaxy kind of stretch, soaked in sweet smelling sweat, the sweat that streams from the heads of lofty mountains at the birthing of the world, flying bodies twined in search of peace, flow and primal waters, chanting ancient words of power at the lowering skies, opening to the world in ways forbidden of the animals, the animals, the animals of mythos, nay of science, or running through fantastic forests feeling the mould of life that is slowly reincarnating into stone, not stone but powerconqueringconcretedeath, run, run, run away through the vanishing dream, it isn't gone, it hasn't left yet, remember, remember, wait, don't confuse life with speed and rush, rush, rush of productivity 'CAUSE IT ISN'T don't live the lie.
What, what, what else can it be than escape when, when, when it is all so interconnected and demanding of time, mind, body, full of hate, hate, hate and spite spitting spat in the face of love in the name of love. Ah, love, maimed beyond (beyond?) repair in this which was once its realm, province, feeling, breath of hope, breathe... breathe... slow... where, why, when NOW see, watch listen it is behind all that is, just look, hope is in what you don't know, do you know? Now live now peace now love because it is not in the future it is a memory in the past now now now is all you have enriched with dreams of what could be and what was. Dance dance dance, trip the light fantastic for whatelse is there to keep you you you going in the wild wild wild world of beings immortal naked, spandex, hair saliva eyes flashing eyes tread, tread, tread the wandering earth and the drip of sweat. 

Never give up is the cry of the postsuicide the one who, when all else fails looks and death and laughs in his overbearing sense of wild, wooly fantastic freedom that can say no even to the grim (grim?) reaper, don't give up, don't ever give up this is only the beginning of the the the dancing, tripping, dirty, wishing, licked, sucked life you lead on the edge of the prophetic knife of this world and the next, don't you see them wear through all the time in red, in the dance of running hair, the translucence of the redorangefire of the irish skin, the eyes (have you seen eyes?) trees green green green light of the immortalimprobablespirits in the of the the trees, trip trip trip on a stone because it is real (right?)... save the people save the people (people? what the rutting hell?) woman man that one the one I can know talk about can universals even work work work NO! it is in love and skin sweat dreams that we try to reach reach reach to the "other" naming a human human human is impossible impossible only know know know that it is the other the powerlovetranscendentpersondaughtersonmotherfatherstorylifecoffeecryrattlegreenblueMoscowSeattle you can't know just be in reverence breathe breathe "Bless the Lord, Oh my soul" the wonderawemajestyachieve of the thing THING I TELL YOU

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