Or like threading a needle behind your back; or like speaking a whole life’s history into a drinking straw. Or like walking on both bare hands across hyper-inter-active ant-hills without “stepping” with your fingers on a single resident. Or like ogling the light through a pristine, playground marble for a glimpse of crystal oceans or translucent childhood visions; or like cluelessly conjuring from the dead-end of your tether a simple act of kindness for some perfect — utter — stranger just when you thought you were the first person on Earth in desperate need of help; or like crashing helter-skelter through the glass wall of your self not to break but to make your one unthinkable mind somehow suddenly-naturally WORLDWIDE.
It’s the answer to all our questions, to all our deep, dearest swerves. The annihilations we called duty, pleasure were — in the long run — only annihilations. All along, all along, we were locked from the best of our cells. We practised book-keeping when we should have been breath-taking; stock-taking when there was time to take stock; damming and dreaming when all we were asked to perform was a dance from that part of ourselves awake in uncancellable rhythms.
You never stay long in the same moment. Anything — remotely — you have ever once been finds a way back through memory, briefly re- joined. Time — seamless and without fixture — somehow sediments itself into graver-denser mixtures the richness of which becomes easily beyond bearing. You seafare to the Sun and the Moon’s GLOWMOTION towards the shifting heart of this exponentially widening ocean (trackless unharbour of a sum total absence of harbours) and what keeps you sane at the end of the day at the end of sanity’s bare edge is the simplest of prayers whispered all along the full length of your each and every out-breath, unpious and without demands: Thank you.
I buried the noun; I planted the verb. What on Earth could I harvest from the hard word? I wondered. Winter — the year’s chill hinterland — makes no promise to anyone, even to green thumbs. Spring — season of profuse adjectives unfurls everywhere its exuberant-convoluted foliage in contrast to my fr-agile, tender rhythms, to all my seedling grammar.
It burns the hands and fingers certainly; the slightly blistered skin soon after starts to heal; scars fade; but all conviction born of heat cannot go cold — in fact, against the grain of things — it grows. Where sensibility happens to have to brave random intensity’s flare, insight and hexafoils may spark up out of nowhere, utterly more powerful than power, prestige, peace or unanimous fortress comfort, till we can never turn back to that uninflammable kind of being we once thought we were — shallow second-hand desires like so much sheet thin asbestos — and oblivious to wild human nature’s gorgeous pyrotechnical flair.
I was in aftershock: the roof had boomed with galvanized thunder directly overhead. Do eagles at night sometimes, I thought, crash-land heavily? I saw no tell-tale outstretched feather silhouette by the satellite dish. My mind was tempted (the tug was forceful) to make believe in the same old nothing, but a something — a second thought — intervened: is this how a shift deep in the Earth’s crust throws its seismic voice out into space? Vis non terra sed deo est.
Four decades ago — tentatively — he summoned me with his nineteen years. Who was he to know? How vague the calibre of his yearning! Yet “vague” here is just the right verve in the beginning for the future fortune-telling of a whole other life to come . . . There are times, at fifty-nine when I would gladly swap back to his shapeless vagabond longing, vitaller than worldly wisdom’s common commonsense and without misadventure’s ramshackled failings. At the next death, as I wend my way out of this breathtaking Earth, perhaps his will be the image that comes bashfully towards me in greeting — some level of touching distance in his face — and, at the moment me meet, in turn — together — we will conjure between us an unequivocal third, the one that language can only gnash its syntactic teeth at grimly and that makes rude, raucous angels and devils alike hoot aloud out of heart- and head-felt GLEE.
A prayer of twin palms pressed up right against a window forms an impromptu cage. Next — moth-wings stutter inside tight cupped hands as the insect begins tap-dancing six feet over vulnerable stiff scared skin. In a moment of inattention, it escapes past the interlocked knuckles of my thumbs and flits forthwith to an adjacent white house-wall. There, moth-eyes in gloom blink instantly open cross a whole wide wingspan, their mackerel-blue irises pinpricked with star-sparkle gold. Now, they outstare me — the non-plussed observer — awed and outclassed by this fearless and unflinching stare.