Writing to stave off the tears, or to bring them closer. Each word is like a platelet, each paragraph a drop of blood. The book is the body that I must shed in order to continue living. Deadly serious this task of diving. There is but one dictum: that which is hidden, be revealed.
(So let it be. So let it be. So let it be )
Do not let Them tell you what is serious. There is a way They have of speaking, that suggests a kind of imperturbable confidence, reflected for Them in the pop-cultural milieu of Bondean Figures. This confidence—which must be adhered to at all times— hides an nagging, opaque feeling that Their life is without the dimension of depth. They prefer a kind of depth that they can see out there in the horizontal dimension; a kind of game that keeps them going checkpoint to checkpoint — gold star to gold star. There are entire industries built up around the mythologization of Their existence. A series of rewards in the forms of papers, medals, and services rendered unto Cesar.
Their God, is the shining light of History; inculcated personally in various battles and dramas; celebrated in songs. He is the might that makes right their inevitability. This word—INEVITABLE—-clings to them ( and their God) like a parasitic organism. Their God is a God of facts. Facts or Words designed with the percussive power of a high caliber rifle, hurled from the mouths of high priests. Their God is above all; right, correct: factual.
PAUSE. Is this your God? Is this your truth?
Lets digress: no easy answers; no straight lines; no cliches.
Circumambulate.
X: What is this talk of god?
Y: It is an attempt to wrestle with those forces that ever-obscure themselves
X: And what forces are those?
Y: By definition they are protean; tho some would like them to be otherwise.
X: You strike me as someone who is afraid to be sure
Y: I think there’s something to that.
X: So you are afraid
Y: I am afraid at times, yes. But your twisting words.
X: How so?
Y: My fear of being sure, is a kind of stance. Not just a blind impulse.
X: So whats wrong with being sure?
Y: Surety is a kind of immobility
X: Isn’t unsureity just the same?
Y: Yes it can be; I believe your right. Therefore I suppose that I wish to be both
X: How is that going to be accomplished?
Y: Through writing
X: You think that writing will get you to God?
Y: There are many different types of God, some accessible here in this state of writing. Others are dwelling elsewhere.
X: Do you believe that there is a difference between the God of this world, and the God of another world?
Y: Shut up.
X: By telling me to shut up, your just avoiding the question
Y: Your being too simple.
X: Well what do we do about this?
Y: We wait.
X: Wait for what?
Y: For something like this
X: Like what?
Y: like this very dialogue that is happening between you and I; It came in a time of need.
X: So we are waiting for another dialogue?
Y: We might be waiting for a Yellow Hippopotamus
X: Thats impossible!
Y: Your impossible…
***
I do not know what is happening when it happens, I just allow myself to go with the happening, and let the happening become my world. This is the dance. The music is the song of the trees on a bright fall day; it is early in the Season, and it is still warm. The leaves are leaking chlorophyll, and the Kingdom of August haunts the air. The Tomatoes are drooping in their unpicked corpulence, and the garden whirs with the activity of insects that give themselves up to the Energy like a band of minstrels merrymaking before the long voyage across the crag.
Nearby, and yet not so near, down by the water of the Colorado river, there go many paths filled with hikers, and families enjoying this upwelling of sun and warmth; they gather by the water, and inflate large tubes with zebra stripes and polka dots.
Off the trail, down a macadam road, an abandoned lot, just below a decrepit motel.
A square of concrete, large enough to hold 10-12 cars. Old, deeply cracked, and in the process of being reclaimed by the surrounding green. A throw away scene, not worthy of a more then a sentence in the pages of an Epic. And yet, here is the rhythm. Among these weeds, flowering still, attracting the last of the bees, a song opens to Hellas, a song particular to this time, and place, which you choose to enter.
Somewhere, across the globe—simultaneously —a hand reaches for a knife, and pulls it across the exposed skin of a child’s neck.
What is the truth of the matter?
Coming Down To Earth 