A long time ago,
I listened to the audiobook of
Kerouac's "On the Road."
In that format,
I became aware of how often
Kerouac used the word
"rickety."
Almost as aware as I became
of how often Twain uses
the N-word in Huck Finn
when I unwisely listened to
that audiobook while driving
through downtown Atlanta
with my windows rolled down.
I'm now reading Hunter Thompson's
"Kingdom of Fear," and I've become
aware that Thompson had a love
of the word "gibberish" almost on par
with Kerouac's love of "rickety."
And I think about how much beautiful
rickety gibberish I've read from those
authors, and what a fine
thing it is if one can write
rickety gibberish that stands up
under its own weight.
Stationed in East Anglia,
I remember layered fog,
fog so thick one couldn't
see past the hood's end,
but, given a slight rise,
one could see all the way
down the runway -- as if
it was a cloudless full moon eve.
As one might expect of an airbase,
(having been built around a flat runway)
there wasn't much topography.
But sometimes life is like that:
a tiny rise in perspective
allows one to see the world clearly,
but a minor dip puts one in a
soup of unfathomability.
Walking the ruins
of some old Buddhist
university,
I entered a chamber,
and found myself
confronting a Buddha,
its head obscured by
a bolt of sunlight.
I thought it might be like
one of those Angkor Wat
crop tops from when Pol Pot
had the heads chopped off
all the Buddhas to make
some quick cash.
But the head was intact,
just blotted out by blinding light,
and I blinked my way into sight
of that serene face.
Sun, Rain, Wind,
& other agents of wear
that tear down ancient stones
one grain at a time,
eroding symbolic rocks
carved with symbols
that meant something
to people in days of yore.
And they mean something
to people today,
but whether those meanings
match is another question...
Because our understanding
of past perspectives
is ever eroding:
just like those rocks,
but - unlike rock -
thoughts and beliefs
were wisps writ in a
malleable art: language.
We cling to traditions & lineages,
but everything is erased.
The forest is parted
by a line of asphalt.
Speeding cars send
leaves fluttering.
Everything that crosses
that road is imperiled
by someone's need
to get nowhere quickly.
brain numb.
voice dumb.
a wicked harmonic
builds in the core -
tuned to volcanically
vibrant skies.
flash fires of feeling
riffle through the body.
the tone dials
into a whine
that bursts into
a scream.
sole to cold earth:
it's the only way i know
the limits of this world.
feet pressing into this globe
are my tether to reality.
any other way, and the world
could stretch forever.
the feel of my weight,
popping to heel or ball:
pronating & supinating,
rolling & reaching,
in dance or destruction --
feet leaving the cold earth
always reorient to the planet.
Nietzsche said:
“And if thou gaze long
into an abyss,
the abyss will also
gaze into thee.”
I must admit
the first several times
that I read this quote,
I couldn’t tell if it was wise,
or just had the patina of
wisdom that comes from
parallel sentence structure.
Crisscrossing subject and object
lends a ring of sagacity.
“If you can’t take
Mohammad to the mountain,
the mountain must come to
Mohammad.”“Ask not what your country
can do for you,
but what you can do
for your country.”“If you can’t get the carrots
out of the refrigerator,
get the refrigerator
out of the carrots.”
Yes, that last one is nonsense,
but it’s not nonsense like:
“The banana pirouetted fuchsia
all over the underside of
an A-sharp chord.”
The carrot quote probably took
your mind some time —
if only milliseconds —
to relegate to the
trash heap.
That’s why this sentence structure
is beloved by godmen &
politicians: because you can
sound wise even if you’re
kind of an idiot.
So, I was ready to classify Nietzsche’s
quote pseudo-wisdom when I realized
that my smartphone was the Abyss,
and it was certainly staring back at me.
It stared through all the data collection &
neuroscientific and psychological
research designed to keep
a person scrolling.
Maybe Nietzsche was on to something
that even he didn't fully understand.
From a hilltop,
farmland stretches
to the horizon:
parceled into rectangles
of brown, beige, and oh
so many shades of green.
It must be the tropics,
for ripe grain to
coexist with verdant
& fallow patches.
So different from the farmland
of my youth
where all the rectangles
were one of two colors -
because everyone had to
pack into the same tight
growing season.
Tiger Riding for Beginners 