Dropping scraps of paper, one by one.
She talked about eating dinner like a bird, a bird at St. Johns.
Hungry.
Meat in the belly,
A girl, rescued from the cave sheets. Incredible.
At the circus, with all the sights and smells, a white eagle and a black panther are mating. This could be unrelated.
Nursing in the cave, hunger. Sucking the breast for food. Being carried.
Then the panther is killed. More blood.
The papers are still thrown in scraps.
A cat in the tree, biology. Study. Articulate words.
Country, the jungle is organized. Everything is organized. More very Articulate words.
Dad as a boy eating butter, being beaten, and caring but not caring. Do what is necessary.
Scars. Protein. Perfect feet. Lots to do with the perfect feet, and the sharp grass of the jungle now cultivated as a farm. More blood.
Then at the end, she throws everything at the audience.
I would write more of a responce, but really there's not much to say. It's like looking at a giant red object. It's giant. It's red. It's not really doing a whole lot for me, to be quite honest.... but there it is.
Saturday, December 12, 2009
Saturday, December 5, 2009
Jungle
I remember a jungle.
It was a long time ago. The grass was sharper on my feet, probably because I had a whole lot less weight bearing down on that sea of green reeds- or maybe it was because our backyard was filled with crab grass. At any rate, it wasn’t real pleasant, but then again it’s not the quest itself that means anything. It’s the stories coming back after the expeditions that are the draw. The pictures you make up in the moment.
I would enjoy cutting the jungle in those days, putting it back in its place week in and week out, like taming my own small plot of the world. It was my jungle.
Now it’s interesting. I don’t cut the grass anymore, I pay rent to a corporation and they come by to do the cutting and raking as needed. But I still live in my jungle, only here, it’s better.
The old priest that I live with is terribly British, and the ideas of the empire still sail in and out of his sharp but forgetful mind. He is the commander of his vessel, and orders it against the forces of creation that in their chaos and given half a chance would tear him to pieces. But he has no fear.
Our house is surrounded by forests. The trees tower overhead, sixty, seventy and eighty feet in the air, around the perimeter of the lawn and deep into the dark and trackless jungle. The vines of poison ivy, wild grapes and Virginia creepers wrap them like they are the Ladies and Lords of their domain, choking and killing certain trees as the vulgar crowds grow restless. But the fury and politics of the jungle hold their ground at the edge of the lawn, for fear of the swinging machetes and tiger lilies that stand guard on the line.
You shall come thus far and no farther.
Inside the delightful little patch of freedom the warm sunlight comes in, and gives life to the most spectacular little garden. Here, amid all the chaos, is an ordered plot of land. Nothing grows without permission, and each flower and shrub courts the favor of Father with rich blooms and color. The uncooperative will be given a chance on appeal (of and to clemency) by being moved to the fronts, where if they prove their valor in the face of the jungle they may regain entry to the coveted soils. But their society is ordered by a trained hand and gives delight to the eyes.
As I patrol the edges of my domain, I take note of their keeping.
It was a long time ago. The grass was sharper on my feet, probably because I had a whole lot less weight bearing down on that sea of green reeds- or maybe it was because our backyard was filled with crab grass. At any rate, it wasn’t real pleasant, but then again it’s not the quest itself that means anything. It’s the stories coming back after the expeditions that are the draw. The pictures you make up in the moment.
I would enjoy cutting the jungle in those days, putting it back in its place week in and week out, like taming my own small plot of the world. It was my jungle.
Now it’s interesting. I don’t cut the grass anymore, I pay rent to a corporation and they come by to do the cutting and raking as needed. But I still live in my jungle, only here, it’s better.
The old priest that I live with is terribly British, and the ideas of the empire still sail in and out of his sharp but forgetful mind. He is the commander of his vessel, and orders it against the forces of creation that in their chaos and given half a chance would tear him to pieces. But he has no fear.
Our house is surrounded by forests. The trees tower overhead, sixty, seventy and eighty feet in the air, around the perimeter of the lawn and deep into the dark and trackless jungle. The vines of poison ivy, wild grapes and Virginia creepers wrap them like they are the Ladies and Lords of their domain, choking and killing certain trees as the vulgar crowds grow restless. But the fury and politics of the jungle hold their ground at the edge of the lawn, for fear of the swinging machetes and tiger lilies that stand guard on the line.
You shall come thus far and no farther.
Inside the delightful little patch of freedom the warm sunlight comes in, and gives life to the most spectacular little garden. Here, amid all the chaos, is an ordered plot of land. Nothing grows without permission, and each flower and shrub courts the favor of Father with rich blooms and color. The uncooperative will be given a chance on appeal (of and to clemency) by being moved to the fronts, where if they prove their valor in the face of the jungle they may regain entry to the coveted soils. But their society is ordered by a trained hand and gives delight to the eyes.
As I patrol the edges of my domain, I take note of their keeping.
Jungled
Gracious,
green, garden.
Growing oh so sweetly.
The flowers bring joy in moonlight or sunlight.
Freedom!
Beauty!
Do you not see? Peace is yours at last. All you have longed for, all you have sought.
It’s interesting, the wild and the tame,
Which does your heart most long for?
The wild is sweet,
The tame is rich,
Their manager will speak to them both on the matter.
Life!
Delights!
Light for the eyes and hope for the soul!
What more can we hope for- living in this world of jungles?
We can hope. Emotions are not colorless intangibles, but the feelings that well up inside of us at the sight of what is good. We don’t have to see red to know blood, the color in the eye is an emotion to the brain the same as any mental picture.
green, garden.
Growing oh so sweetly.
The flowers bring joy in moonlight or sunlight.
Freedom!
Beauty!
Do you not see? Peace is yours at last. All you have longed for, all you have sought.
It’s interesting, the wild and the tame,
Which does your heart most long for?
The wild is sweet,
The tame is rich,
Their manager will speak to them both on the matter.
Life!
Delights!
Light for the eyes and hope for the soul!
What more can we hope for- living in this world of jungles?
We can hope. Emotions are not colorless intangibles, but the feelings that well up inside of us at the sight of what is good. We don’t have to see red to know blood, the color in the eye is an emotion to the brain the same as any mental picture.
Jungling
The stealthy hunter was jungling. His eyes twitching like a cat’s, and the machete in his hand like a tiger’s claw. Jungling was a new sport, he invented it himself. It’s what you call going roaming in the woods and chopping till the blisters bleed your hands dry and the insects are biting and stinging and you almost wish you could throw yourself into the fifth stream you’ve crossed this afternoon.
But he was not swimming, oh no, he was jungling. He was jungling in a delta, through the thorns and trees and bushes and webs. His garden was at the top of the hill, base camp, along a trail he had jungled himself earlier that year. The paving stones and patio made a nicer floor than the mud of a dammed creek-bed, but resting and swinging gently in the hammocks could wait.
He was jungling. Part of the hunt is the stalking of prey, part of the kill is the swipe and the slash, but often times the quarry is dead before the hunter even sets foot on the trail. This is because an idea in the head is worth more than a fat herd of deer surprised by a crazy man dropping out of a tree on them with an ax. Preparing the ground, knowing the terrain, and studying the tracks weeks and months in advance give the hunter what he needs to bring down his prey.
He wasn’t hunting though, our friend with the blade, and such thoughts were not of such relevance. His quarry were small trees, cut down in a single swipe, and paths, hidden among all the brush. Onward he chopped, and none could stay him in his burning quest.
But he was not swimming, oh no, he was jungling. He was jungling in a delta, through the thorns and trees and bushes and webs. His garden was at the top of the hill, base camp, along a trail he had jungled himself earlier that year. The paving stones and patio made a nicer floor than the mud of a dammed creek-bed, but resting and swinging gently in the hammocks could wait.
He was jungling. Part of the hunt is the stalking of prey, part of the kill is the swipe and the slash, but often times the quarry is dead before the hunter even sets foot on the trail. This is because an idea in the head is worth more than a fat herd of deer surprised by a crazy man dropping out of a tree on them with an ax. Preparing the ground, knowing the terrain, and studying the tracks weeks and months in advance give the hunter what he needs to bring down his prey.
He wasn’t hunting though, our friend with the blade, and such thoughts were not of such relevance. His quarry were small trees, cut down in a single swipe, and paths, hidden among all the brush. Onward he chopped, and none could stay him in his burning quest.
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