I am a blind fool crippled with stage fright before an empty theatre.
I have just read somethingorother by soandso that has me thinking suchandsuch, and I wonder if it is worth writing about.
That which was read deals with the value of writing on topics of the prickly sort, while indicating way(s) of exit through gaps in the thorns – clearer yet: how one can cheat human obligation,
Life in Bolivia, no, better life in with poor Bolivia’s poor, has a tendency to slice at the conscience of the welltodo, like a double of té de sen before bed. The only way to avoid this uncomfort is to hide – in the non-reality-box, in like-unminded peerdum, in out.
So, to write here about this, or even that, I cannot help but painting a door on a wall offering up some illusion of exit, for me for us, just in case things get too hot. But this doorofpaint dop is, as noted, just illusive elusion, elusive illusion, a run at which would leave us with a bend nose and certainly confused reason.
So this is my inquiry:
1. Prickly Place with Escape
2. Prettily Place with Prick
3. Reality Unto Madness
She is a flower that nobody wanted,
receiving more in her days of death
than the ten thousand in which she lived
hidden beneath the world’s most beautiful weeds.
We try, we do, to see the sun rise, the azaleas yawning against the new day, the waters gathering like cocaleros hovering over the valley’s rim, but eventually and always our eyes turn to the dry, cracked ground, and the deep pink succulents crawling from underneath the devouring centipedegrass.
Why did it take this woman’s death to give her a moment’s fleeting voice, already more dissipated than last nights dreams?
Where we find ourselves, this place, this land, this people, this suffering, this happiness, this revelry, this dying.
It makes us love and hate, whereas before, though leaning close to such an emotional precipice, we remained safe, untouched, untouchable.
We have tried throughout our brief history to act without being acted upon, yet this has kept us away.
Away from the violence, the painful words, the rape, the isolation, the disease, the emptiness, the hopelessness.
Even standing here, we are tempted to set around us walls of glass.
We want to see, but not feel.
We will feel enraged, feel violated, yet in truth we have felt nothing at all.
The most difficult part of living in the midst of such manifest suffering, is knowledge.
Knowing that there exists enough food, enough water, enough resources of all kinds, to offer freedom, but there does not exists enough Compassion; this knowledge tortures our mind, the only escape being the rest of ignorance, of selfish distraction, of turning away.
Each time we sit to write, we ponder first the beauty around us, that is so present is the constant song of the birds by day, the opening expanse of stars by night, yet we tend to turn away from this to the pain set in this ring of joy.
It is pain that draws our attention, that makes us such as we are.
Soon, we will all go to visit her, that silent screaming one that broke our hearts a year past. If I miss her, it will be because she marked the beginning of tragedy upon tragedy; if not, it is for the same. From her, we learn that Death testifies to the cruel frigidity of Life, which is chaotic in its mercy, inconsistent in its gifts, and of the darkest humour. No matter how one frames Carol’s passing on, no matter what words of comfort be found, in the end, all that is certain is that these attempts of balm are but well-meaning hands to cover our eyes from seeing the deep, profound cruelty that is this cancer-stricken world in which we live. Our only option is to fight as she did into the creeping shade.
Things have been off of late.
Doors cracking open, the black man that explodes over his heels is full of blue light, everything is bathed/muddied into the crystal of a madman’s eyes. Jesus shakes hands with Ahriman and Someone falls downs with a frown, pulling h[is/er] eyes out with the petals of a thousand petaled lotus.
What is this light? Someone asks, and only the blind saint in the suit who reads the Qur’an has an answer. Yesterday, he says, I walked with this cane in darkness, today, I hit with it and never miss. A crash follows, and Someone bursts, water flowing, blue, lost in Light, horizon gone, firmament fuddled.
An undoing, an unravelling, a righting of a crookedlygoingworld is passing through, effacing the edges like an army of spittingup camels.