A letter to R.
Saturday Sermon
"Transparency.
To let the light not on but in or through. To look not at the text, but
through it; to see between the lines; to see language as lace, black on white;
or white and black, as in the sky at night, or in the space on which our dreams
are traced." Norman Brown, Love's
Body. 259.
The
man is a poet! And questions questions questions remain.
The
moment underground when we can no longer imagine the compost,
when
process ceases, is that death?
Or
is compost the soul?
It
is when and why we cannot, we are unable to integrate the teachings of the
underground on to our school curriculum.
Hibernation, burrowing, quiet,
multiple deaths of some species and on and on. Like monarch butterflies
that migrate to Mexico in one season, in two or three, or a hundred generations.
I
do not think butterflies have been tagged by scientists to count their multiple
generational deaths. Kind of hard to do.
Simply
because we do not wish to go there. To the place of soul.
Silly
of us because we are surrounded by this fluid death.
"When
I was born, a death wish so strong the certainty then I was already dead."
Or
can we imagine this intriguing in-between,
the
between the lines as something other than - a possibility? The blank page? Amniotic fluid as death and life in one.
I
have been writing about this place in dream, this City of Lights
It
is like a "real" dream I had once about a theatre play that had no
words - the entire play was made out of movement without a sound or a word. A
mimic, a mime.
I have started training a new bunch of interpreters at the arboretum and once
again, it is time for the wonderful talk about the "ecology of the
watershed".
When
this old biologist, a "deep ecologist" reminds us of the closed
nature of the cycle of life - from water to water.
He
looks at all facets of science and ties it all together –
the
flow of the creek downriver, the resistance to the flow downriver. To the large
body of water in the bay, to the eggs of fish spawning upstream, to the calcium in the
teeth of human and the egg shell of bird, to the methodical transformation of
nail and tooth to dots in the wings of a butterfly, seen under the lens and
back to full color, when seen by naked eye.
George, our resident neighbor peacock showed up today, after a long absence.
In
the end, they all willingly or not, come up with the moralizing tale that we
(humans) are more predatorial than,
And
I think - why? This anthropomorphic view does not yield great insights!
Anymore, anyway. We have written the classics already. It is time
for new thought!
Well,
it is Saturday and a day to write and to ponder. Another literary magazine
in New England picked up one of my poems - to appear in January. I am done
taping a CD, The case of dreams. Will read some on Friday,
October 8, at Ed Kling's gig with the open mike thing at the St. Michaels Community
Center at 8 pm. At least, I think I will, if the spirit of the soul
moves me.
Next
week it is Saint Michael’s 200th anniversary celebration. Gordon will
dress up as a true "colonial" baker at the Saturday farmers
market. I will come as his "poor relation". I thought
perhaps to dress up as a South American rarity of an Indian old woman, complete
with a bone on my nose - brought to the northern
territories
Of
course, Gordon is working on a boat that shall land at Muskrat Park precisely
at 10 am, when the bells ring for market start.
"Oh how pretty!" will exclaim the
ladies! And out of the boat all the slaves will disembark, fresh from Sa
Leone, covered in slime and in shit! And the good ladies of the market
shall hand them lemons as a good remedy to combat their scurvy!!
Cheers!
This is my sermon for the week.
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