Note: This piece I like a lot. It is meant to be read
slowly and
with a certain part of the brain turned off. It is a tasty piece and pretty, but we are not concerned with that. It carries an effect that is meant to be felt, intuitively. So, settle down and observe what happens inside. Settle down. Observe. Go slow.
It is a melancholy time of year. The festive colored shade umbrellas stand slumped over empty, wet tables and chairs. A lone black crow patrols the channel side deck, looking for scraps. A piece of bread dropped and left, half a soggy french fry. The water, gray as the sky, ripples gently and becomes a flag in the wind when boats pass by. For a while it undulates, then, as if tired, settles down to a frilly, ruffly quivering. Beads of moisture cling to everything. There is a subtle sheen on all. Even old, faded wood looks somehow fresh and rejuvenated. There is no distance in the distance. It is swallowed by the mist and clouds. They are pressing down, as if resentful of this space next to the ground, where humans and animals live, those not as tall as the trees that hold up the sky.
Sometimes even this gap does not exist. When there is nothing to see, vision must turn inward and we navigate by pure imagination and blind faith. If faith were not blind, it would not be the same, you see? You understand that there are spaces between things where common sense is extravagant foolishness? These are the tiny cracks in the world, that though tiny, can swallow whole, not just rivers and mountain ranges, but continents and galaxies. Do you think that is a path, the right path, you are walking on? It may be a long tongue and your comfy cave a maw.
What the crows don't get, the chickadees clean-up. The small is there in abundance. The small is Oh, so much greater than the grand. We make ourselves big and suffer from inflation. By being small, we can penetrate the All. Being big isn't worth a fig; being little is the answer to the age-old riddle.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
About Me
- roberto kiam borderlineartist@gmail.com
- I live in a quaint, little town, plagued with the specter of speculation and commerce. I am trailer trash,with wishes for good dishes. I shoulda died long ago, but like a rescue dog, didn't. I am indescribably scattered. I speak three languages. I walk a tenuously, true path. I am lucky. For myself, for others. God, it is said, protects orphans, widows and the innocent.
2 comments:
what if the
hokey pokey
IS
what it's all about?
all kidding aside. i love this piece too. and it reminds me of one of my favorites, written by another great writer Kenneth Patchen.
The Character Of Love Seen As A Search For The Lost
You, the woman; I, the man; this, the world:
And each is the work of all.
There is the muffled step in the snow; the stranger;
The crippled wren; the nun; the dancer; the Jesus-wing
Over the walkers in the village; and there are
Many beautiful arms around us and the things we know.
See how those stars tramp over the heavens on their sticks
Of ancient light: with what simplicity that blue
Takes eternity into the quiet cave of God, where Ceasar
And Socrates, like primitive paintings on a wall,
Look, with idiot eyes, on the world where we two are.
You, the sought for; I, the seeker; this, the search:
And each is the mission of all.
For greatness is only the drayhorse that coaxes
The built cart out; and where we go is reason.
But genius is an enormous littleness, a trickling
Of heart that covers alike the hare and the hunter.
How smoothly, like the sleep of a flower, love,
The grassy wind moves over night's tense meadow:
See how the great wooden eyes of the forrest
Stare upon the architecture of our innocence.
You, the village; I, the stranger; this, the road:
And each is the work of all.
Then, not that man do more, or stop pity; but that he be
Wider in living; that all his cities fly a clean flag...
We have been alone too long, love; it is terribly late
For the pierced feet on the water and we must not die now.
Have you ever wondered why all the windows in heaven were
broken?
Have you seen the homeless in the open grave of God's
hand?
Do you want to aquaint the larks with the fatuous music
of war?
There is the muffled step in the snow; the stranger;
The crippled wren; the nun; the dancer; the Jesus-wing
Over the walkers in the village; and there are
Many desperate arms about us and the things we know.
Post a Comment