The sea lay beneath us like leather,
the tanned and crennellated hide
of some dead thing.
The carcass was long gone --
think how impressive
that corpus must have been!
All that was left to see was skin,
thrown down upon the floor,
saltwater surface shining in the sun.
Yes, and there it lay
the day we sacrificed our skins
to save our children, who were small enough.
I remember you wept for the ocean,
in turns glad,
then sad that we turned out
so deeply empathetic.
Everything wanting,
nothing wasting --
no one can live that way for long.
So we left our cave
for better lands
where all was dreaming and clouds
above a leather floor.
Before, we had only darkness,
pain was our rock,
limestone definitions for our world.
Hardness and a little water
left no room for dreams,
for children, nor for clouds.
In the beginning was not-knowing, grasping.
Then grasping and blindness turned
to turning itself.
Within the turning, germination:
seed from some sunlit height falling
deep to deeper, deepest.
And still turning, suddenly,
we held our seedling proof
of passage to greener heights.
So trusting, we began to climb
and turning turned to squeezing.
Remember the sanding of our skin,
then shaving, grating, peeling?
We were too large to follow,
in reverse,
the seed's bright path and keep our skin.
So we emerged and stood blinking in the sun
sans cuticles, earlobes,
soles of foot or lids of eye.
Then came the day we taught
ourselves to fly,
and crossed the sea,
and then you cried.
I was reminded today that there are far worse things than being tired. I mean, so many good conversations and schemes and plans fit into my waking hours that I find it a shame to cut them off for something as trivial as sleep. My psychology-minded friends dispair at the fact that I place sleep in the "trivial" category. I tell them to pray for me.
Tonight I got to spend some time with some people who were smoking a nargile. (Let's go ahead and assume I'm not spelling that correctly.) It's a Turkish word for "water pipe." The heat from the coal travels down through wet, flavored tobacco through a long pipe that ends in a jar of water. Via the hose, you suck the smoky air through the water (natural filter) into your lungs.
Well, these people just laid a blanket down in the park, brought out this elaborate jar-pipe-hose-bowl-coal contraption, and sat down for three hours to smoke and chat and think. This sort of thing, in terms of broad categories of experience, does not often occur. Not in my life, anyway.
Ok, so you're thinking sleep and water pipes don't really go together. Well, I could have been sleeping. I could be sleeping now. Somehow, the adventure was important and the sleeping is trivial. But I also want to say that all the things I do tomorrow will be important, so maybe I should sleep now? I'll think about it. Coming soon: putting people in jars.
“But God was more displeased with Cain for despairing of his mercy, than for murdering his brother; and with Judas for hanging himself, than for betraying his master: in that they would make the sins of mortal men greater than the infinite mercy of the eternal God; or as if they could be more sinful, than God was merciful: whereas the least drop of Christ’s blood is of more merit to procure God’s mercy for thy salvation, than all the sins that thou has committed can be of force to provoke his wrath to thy damnation (The Practice of Piety, pp. 294-295).”
Ironic that the bright flame is so safe,
So warm, so shaded by such thick safe walls:
You cannot hoard your light! No close-
Pursed, tight-lipped crone can burn a candle only
For herself or shade that light so cleverly
As to keep soft extra lumps of light
In drawers and mattress holes for time vouchsafed.
But soft! What good is generosity?
Without a little tailoring and hems,
Quick cuts, light stitch, your good gift will not fit.
Spilling the rays of some small, weaker sun
Over the rim of some dark fearful world
Will make the worldlings run, not cheer.
Your conversation patters back and forth
Between miserly strife and donations
Not sensitively given. Where shall you go
From here, this place of sudden light and dark,
Where speakers think of shadows as themselves?
I love you for your readiness to try.
oooh, isn't THAT a fun title?
realization of the day: i do not respond well to manipulation. it clouds my vision to the point that i cannot see the important landmarks around me and i consequently make poor decisions. i end up in omaha (from whence linnea recently returned), when i should be in guadalupe. guadalupe is a place of excitement and activity, while omaha, as we all know, is a place of corn.
so, yeah, whether they mean to do it or not, i'm being manipulated by friends and colleagues and random pedestrians. add to that the fact that i'm tired of being in touch with the most important people in my life only through long-distance means. add to that the fact that i'm physically and emotionally tired.
it equals a high propensity to be annoyed by the fine folks around me. EASILY annoyed. (if you're one of those people, i probably owe you an apology.) grr. i suppose i'm just afraid of ending up back in the omaha, which is where i began just a few months ago. guadelupe or bust!
by the way, i've never really been to these places. they just have fun names. like bangalore, where my friend hope lives right now. or like zaventem, where i live. or gein, where i spent last weekend and the first part of this week.
on to less figurative matters: today i was walking to the train station with ag, jg, and jl. we stopped to look at some scarves for sale, and then i was arrested by an entire shop full or art books. the place was slam full of volumes on neo-impressionism, the federal art projet in america, belgium and congolese art, the oriental myth in european art, moorish architecture, and the like. then there were books of art, just for looking or for coffee table decoration, and books that qualified as art all by themselves, without opening the cover.
i looked up to find that the two girls had slipped into a little catholic church. i followed with jg and a little man opened the door for us. his hair and moustache were dark like his eyes, and he peered intently at us as we entered. we spent a few moments sitting quietly in the sanctuary, praying and thinking about the modern-style stained glass windows. you could just make out human forms beneath and around and through the red and blue and green triangles. they looked broken and blurry.
on our way out, the same dark man opened the door for us again, eyes lowered and hand raised for a tip. i wish i didn't see people in terms of their clothes. his were well-used and mismatched - the first thing i thought of when i saw his hand. ashamed, i offered him a little money and touched his arm.
living in europe is getting old. i love it, but it is difficult to live away from the poverty. i am so privileged that sometimes it feels impossible to connect with anyone who isn't. sigh. we all face poverty at deep levels of our being. some people are blessed with the material means to cover up that poverty with physical comfort and beauty. some aren't. c'est la vie, pour la plupart.
Have you seen the rockets blaring
Into silent stratosphere
Each night straight prison-bars of light
Ascend from earth