when considering the creation of humankind, the makers stumbled over one vital question, was it right to give them things they could not keep of their own volition? life as well as love?
it haunts some of them to this day.
he left her. she might have righted him, but they were behind her now, now leaves, flowers, petals, swirling in fluttering spirals away from her, spinning from the back of the moving train, scattering behind them for miles, floating now gently to the ground.
end of the line, empty and satisfied.
he looks out the window, clutches the rail with hands gnarled and tired. their wide-splayed strength, now spent, had coaxed life out of poor soil, had smoothed a child’s hair, trembled once with rage, grappling mortally in the blindness of it.
the train pushes him forward despite his grip.
Self-reflexive awareness exists due to an amalgam of effects of the flesh, a story which became an apple in a garden at some point in time in a space far removed from here.
Is it absurd to ask if multidimensional thinking/awareness can happen in a space whose physical structure is limited to three?
What they failed to understand were beginnings, the beginnings, first principles of all things flesh. They became lost within the abstractions of things, within the glamour and mirror-mazed stronghold that was the mind.
They forgot about the apple and a truth that story bore, forgot to understand that they studied these truths through the veil of flesh, that these words came through the veil of flesh, and that, as they hardened from the imaginative substance from which they sprang, they hid a part of their light and could only after ever be reached through deep contemplation.
The buddhists understood this but their very passivity meant that the Word would not spread through their gifted hands. They had patience to outlast eternity but unfortunately, the species had not eternity to wait.
you see, these are the tales of the going and the return, of light past darkness, darkness past light, and things you must remember to tell those that come along. these are the tales of our fingers and our toes, our hearts, dear gentle souls, and our minds which go past time and keep these stories alive.
these are tales we tell of that place so far away our eyes have lost the tell of it in the sky. but we remember, our hearts remember, as does our minds’sight, a small blue world, hung at the rim of a galaxy bright, far, far, and deep in our night, this story began and begins, over and over again.
the story began as it always begins, in a kernel of what we could call love, some opening some space some kindly welcomed home for wonder.
all it took, some tiny shredded flag of hope pinned fast to a little girl’s heart.
time has no meaning when all the details begin to stop, slow their recklesss dance and wander, still drops caught swirling out into some unknown, some space with room for contact.
we shone at the end of the last millennium as some form of light, lucent, glazed, transformed. one night, ten-thousand days, of darkness, of bright heat light, of form.
some places leave their hearts and go out wandering, out past storms, out past midnights of thronging pasts, wandering in some midnight grove, starlit.
and i felt for the first time some essential peace, beyond anything words might press from me, words cannot storm, this place, where peace exists, and the world stops turning.
it was the ocean which gave the trees to the land, sent them coursing through her mineral and ore-rich veins, bursting into the light in orgasm after orgasm of color and sound; wind met leaves and language was born in a world of air and stone (though there are places by the sea where the wind gives hollow voice
to its solitary travels).
he saw her there, upon a newly birthed-shore, the sensuous curve of her form drawing him closer, mystery of sight, taste, sound, the miracle of touch; light, heat, form.
embrace.
this was the word she had on her lips at any given time, unbeknownst, innocent, unknown. had she known, what might the story be then?
scissors, motion, time, embrace, tucked sweetly behind, between each small word. each tiny scowl.
what words capture each morning on the subway, the motion, the line, hangers-on jogging with each skew of wheel on track, sliding through the underground in alternating patches of dark and light.
he left her. she might have righted him, but all effort, most effort, was behind her now, floating gently to the ground, scattered leaves, flowers, petals whorling in unpredictable form from the back of her, from the back of the moving train, scattering behind them for miles.
at the end of the line, she felt empty and satisfied. pictures in her mind, flattened into their proper proportion, storable, closed, divine. “these are the pieces we take with us when we go, all that we’ve got underneath our skin and knotted to our bones,” she keeps what is good to keep and leaves the rest behind.
Emily knew the way better than most. She had spent many days poring over all the old books she could find in her grandmother’s attic. Old, dusty books with crinkling pages and deeply colorful illuminations, full of old stories, secrets, lore.
We are to be careful of witches who live under rocks and wait by the side of the highway to enchant wayward children
Keep to the right side of the path, avoid moss-covered stones and mushroom rings. Keep the jasper tight in your left hand.
She kept a careful catalog of all these things in her awareness, floating just within reach of her conscious mind.
She was ready.
***
Sampson squirmed mightily as she hoisted the pack into which he had been crammed.
“For something made of fur and fluff, you are so picky about things!” Emily breathes in a huff, she is anxious to go.
Sampson heaves a deep sigh and gives a small squirm as if to settle.
She gently slings the bag from her shoulder, enfolds her small body around it, giving it a gentle squeeze. “You know I need my hands for the wall,” she whispers and places a kiss on his forehead through the canvas.
i’ve been working on a children’s story for more than several years now. it’s something i pick up now and again , when i have some luxury of time and feeling . emily and sampson, a little girl and her faithful stuffed lion. i have most of the initial characters sketched and set in their various tableaux. the actual adventure is a bit tricky , some small sprouts and seeds here and there, some showing hints of promise. the bit above, written right here, a story in progress to share. : )
happy sunday
