My Present / Your Future
Still in this World
A Life Away
You would find it perverse to be wished a “Happy” birthday, but your response would be gracious. Such is the reality you understand, and how you deal with it. I have found that your reality is actually real.
Although it will give you no pleasure – well, ‘little’ pleasure – you are correct in all your observations.
Governments become the tools of the bureaucracies which run them. It doesn’t matter what type of Government, from the monarchy under which you lived, to the right wing horror of fascists that called themselves socialists, to the inept socialism pretending to be ‘for the people’. All three governments held their sway over the city where you spent your life. All three oppressed the people they ruled. All three looked after themselves first.
Writers are either writers or they aren’t. The urge to write encircles one like a snake around its prey. Feed it and it won’t quite squeeze you to death. You can not ignore it – even at your peril. It is with you every hour of every day, ever inquisitive and (sadly) always looking for something better.
Love is a see-saw of extremes. Every high guarantees a low. Every low reaches for a high. Every high reaches for a high. When these hills and valleys are eventually levelled, they are still desired.
Sex is highly over rated. The thing of it is, even rated fairly ’tis a consummation devoutly to be had. Yes – I know – you appreciate Shakespeare. On a par with Goethe, even if you can’t bring yourself to say the words.
People are just one damned thing after another. Of course, so many people have brought you blessings, you throw up you hands to ward off the snake. And sometimes – some few times – it loosens its grip.
There is no castle with walls thick enough to hide against the perils of being human. Which is why you never tried.
Except the grave, of course.
Except the grave.
And, in my novel about him, Kafka In The Castle, I gave him this diary entry.
I saw a sight that I believe I have actually never seen, though it is fabled the world over.
Standing on the front stoop to test the air I saw a robin on the grass. Robins are rather skittish and usually, when a human presence is so close, it will make them hop (and they truly do *hop*) away. But this one stayed put.
My understanding is that birds ‘hear’ the worms under the earth – that is how they detect them. I assume that is why they so often have their head in a cocked position. However, for this robin, the listening part of the chase was over.
As I watched the robin made a strike into the earth with its beak. It was then that an almost cartoon-like image occurred. The bird had a portion of the worm in its beak and began to pull. It pulled and pulled and the worm stretched and stretched. It made me think of someone pulling a threaded needle from the fabric they were sewing. The length of the worm became even longer than the robin’s body. With this constant and slow tug, the worm finally popped out of the earth.
Then the robin had a go at it.
The bird took at the long, brown earthworm and began to snip off pieces with its beak. It could not have been more effective if it had a pair of scissors. Substantial, beak-sized pieces which it swallowed quickly. The long earthworm became shorter and shorter, giving the robin less to hold on to. In under two minutes the worm became one remaining morsel hanging from the robin’s beak. It was only then that the robin began to hop across the grass. The last piece of worm disappeared inside the robin and the robin quickly took off.
One satisfied predator.
One less worm.
What sights indeed are these, that cause the racing clocks to pant their minutes in counterpoint to a life still learning the difference between wretchedness and love?
The swing goes up and the swing goes down, and then goes up again. If you are on that race, with childish yells, and up-down-mess-it-around feelings in the pit of your stomach, they haven’t lowered that coffin lid yet.
No, not yet.
What sights indeed are these, that make a heart argue the worth of dying, and ring the bells across the hill when there is no hand upon the rope?
There are happy tunes on the breeze and, yes, even the unicorn lifts its head with twitching ears and mouth agape.
And even (so it has been recorded, in long-ago books) our Lord Jesus God would pause in His ministrations at the wonder of it all.
What sights indeed are these, that ease the night’s passage and sow the fields full of restful dawn?
A race against the end is run by all of us; when the kitten kicks and purrs through her ball of string, or when the ancient’s cane tap-taps across the room. Eyes, whether young; or dim; or blind; can still open in amazement, and still marvel at the ever-changing newness.
Marvel and rejoice.
What sights indeed are these, that turn all tunes into rhapsodies of joy, and make the moon do gypsy dances through the night sky?
A sky of stars that shower and shake and stream across the galaxies to cram unto the ends of the distant universe. Grains of sand upon the shore would take sensitive fingers, and a lifetime of counting, yet still could never fill this distant space where even numbers stand in awe.
Zeros with mouths agape.
My mind confronts so many intangible truths that you sometimes seem – or is it just hope on my part – to be my only peg of reality.
Have you noticed whenever we finally believe we know the reason for something which happens, it often occurs that the real reasons are exactly the opposite.
Everything walks a line – as narrow as those upon this page – between profound revelation and mindless absurdity.
As I look through my window, the shadows cast through the trees on the next building, take the shape of a French poodle carrying a parasol.
Is even Nature absurd?
Nature is nothing but reality, only the intangible can be absurd.
As I’ve said too many times (and why do I repeat myself yet again)
you spend too much effort – and a wasted effort, for how can it be other –
on futile quest and query.
The only truth to be found is in sour milk, or pleasant fornication.
These things are real, these things exist.
Absurdity is kittens playing, or the Prime Minister’s latest speech.
These are the things we look at with amusement or contempt – we know not to expect much from either.
Quit you silly endeavours and join the world which surrounds you.
Don’t enter the world that your head surrounds.
All important answers can be found between someones legs.
(image) https: //content.etilize.com/Original/1011505126.jpg
There was an Abyssinian (I made her),
a Brataslzvian (he was worst),
a Brazilian (home sweet home),
a cannibal (uh-oh),
a Colombian (smoking),
a cynic (she didn’t believe the Canadian),
a Druid (he prayed for the Dominican),
a fool (ha ha),
a Gazaian (she stripped),
a graduate (he smoked),
a Helgolandian (he was gone),
(they three went into a bar),
a lush (one in every crowd),
a monster (them’s the odds),
an Olympian (he was game),
an opportunist (coulda been me),
a Pole (he vaulted over the rest – *joke*),
a Quebecois (I’ll never forget her),
a Russian (great dancer – he had the steps),
a Southerner (I melt when she says ‘Y’all)
a Transylvanian (out for blood),
a Vulcan (he was eerie),
a Xanaduian (she played on her dulcimer),
a Xaverian (he shot daggers at the Dominican),
a Zarahthustain (he spoke a lot).
The Canadian won the first game.
This is almost like a found poem, or, at least, it is what it puts me in mind of.
Out of the blue, with no rhyme nor reason I can find, this is a snapshot of the places of the world that so far found their way to my site today. And the blogs they read. An odd combination, it seems to me, but what do I compare it to?
Since I do want to make some sort of imprint on the world – and get the exposure to my comments and ideas – I’d say this is a broad example.
- Views by Country
- 1Palestinian Territories
- 1United States
THE REALITY: (from REALITY)
A few years ago I had cause to walk the grounds of a Catholic college. I did this often, as it was a large and peaceful place to wander. There were some paths, some gardens, some benches, wide playing fields and even a stroll beside a river. A peaceful retreat from the city.
I did meet one ancient priest telling his beads (there was a ‘retirement’ residence also present) who gave me a jovial ‘good day’. He was walking the paths through the trees (as was I) and eventually settled on a bench (as I did not). I kept through the trees, which were really planted in individual copses. enjoying refuge from the sun. The trees seemed to be all pines, with full and tightly packed branches. As I went through one such group of firs, I looked between the trees. There was a statue on the other side. I circled and went up to it. As I approached I was overcome with the oddest feeling of familiarity, though I knew I could never had been there before.
And then I realized what it was.
It was a scene I had created for my two ‘Satan’ novels. A central character has the statue of an angel within a copse of firs in his back yard. My novel has an angel statue ,and reality had the Virgin Mary. But, still . . .
I’ve written of many real places which I have visited, but none took me so aback as this.
THE ART: (from THERE HAS BEEN A SIGHTING)
Mr. S. unexpectedly takes her arm, and begins to lead her along a winding, flagstone path. She has never seen such large pieces of the stone, and they glisten as if polished.
The path skirts a small stand of black spruce before it continues to the river. He stops her at the mouth of a gravel walkway leading through the trees.
“Let’s pop in here.”
“Your little acre of the Black Forest?”
“Hardly an acre.”
“Precision.” Breeze laughs. “Whatever would my father think of you?”
“Does any father think well of any man when his daughter is concerned?”
“No,” agrees Mr. S. “So not to worry.”
“He would think even less of someone leading his daughter down the garden path,” observes Breeze.
“That would be before he saw what I am about to show you.”
Mr. S. holds her arm tightly, and guides her onto the gravel walk. It leads directly to the base of a tree, then makes an abrupt curve between the largest of the spruce.
One of the boughs is so low Breeze ducks her head. She has the sensation of being in the midst of a forest, for the heavy branches obscure the surroundings.
“If I may be permitted a moment of drama.”
Mr. S. covers her eyes and speaks softly.
“Will you turn to your right, and take a few steps?”
Even though he had asked, Breeze is startled as he gently eases her forward, and she feels a slight urge to resist him. Her steps are more cautious than the gravel walkway demands, and the press of his body is noticeable. She counts her footsteps under her breath. She is surprised when they stop at half a dozen, and he quickly removes his hand.
“She’s beautiful.” Breeze stares, open-mouthed.
“Yes.” Mr. S. is pleased. “I think so, too.”
“An angel in the woods.”
“The angel of peace.” Mr. S. walks her around the statue. “Not at all bad for a knockoff.” He pauses behind the wings.
“A reproduction.” He puts his foot on the pedestal, and leans forward. “I don’t really know how old it is. Certainly last century – possibly before.” He points to the blue folds. “I’ve had the paint cleaned and touched up. Is it too garish?”
“It … it stands out.” Breeze hunts for a word. “Let’s call it vibrant.”