24 October 2011

catching up

by the time i was finally pulling my hair up into the black elastic hair-tie i wear around my left wrist, i felt like every string in my body was tuned up to a pitch that would shatter glass. standing at the edge of the water, all i could think of was that this was absolutely worth the tank of gas i used. i didn't run, like i thought i would. i never stopped walking, either. honestly, i felt like i could have walked to europe, and never had to break stride. soon, i was junior-high shrieking at the chilly water temperature, even as i was thirty-year old woman observing the clarity of the water that was creeping slowly slowly slowly up my legs. by the time i was up to my neck, that awful taste of tears had been washed out of the back of my throat, and i found myself laughing out loud, staring up at the late afternoon sun, as the latest edition of sunset water colors began to wash over all that unbelievably soft-enough-to-touch robin's egg blue.

i drove home with salt and sand in my hair, my lips chapped, and my eyes dry.

i have always known how to do this. and i have never been afraid to do it. taking life by the horns, and turning it around right sometimes takes years, or weeks, or months. sometimes it takes a bath of fire or ice to jar loose what is stuck....conversely, what is sometimes stuck will not be moved. and what cannot be moved must either be enshrined or left behind. the difference between an altar and a stumbling block is greater than or equal to the difference between a raven and a writing desk. sometimes, the salt wears away the blemishes, and the magnifying effect of the constantly moving water makes the rest of everything else look tame and rather ordinary, by comparison. baptism looks like about a million different things, and i have been baptized into a thousand different iterations, all along the way, and they all remind me of the one big time i was baptized...in a little white robe over my fancy purple little kid bathing suit, in a concrete baptistry that was painted as blue as the sky i swam under saturday afternoon.


the raindrops, the rivers, the swimming pools, the ponds, the gulfs, the oceans...all the water in the world has one memory. and that memory is about birth and being clean. the wisdom of the water, the sanctity of the sacrament, the banality of broken hearts and lazy afternoons--who would be foolish enough to stay in her room and weep over ANYTHING AT ALL, when such riches lay literally at her feet?

there were waves and laughter. that is worth at least a tank of gas.

waste is the cardinal sin.

mil besos,
rmg

PS...TANGENT...POST-MODERN RANT TO FOLLOW: ts eliot maintains that everything tends toward reconciliation. there is no good friday without easter sunday. crazy horse screams down from his wounded mountain, from a thousand-odd miles away, that silence is a message. G-d does not play at dice... how will you live your one wild and precious life...be a bride married to amazement? did you proclaim that it would not always be night, knowing you are right? how many bumpersticker slogans can dance on the head of a pin? and doesn't integrity do a fabulous job of keeping it's side of the bed warm, at night? wrecking balls come in all shapes and sizes, and you'd better be ready to watch them do their job...and those sacred cows you've tended so sweetly...hope you like hamburgers. do you want fries with that? buy the ticket and ride the ride. or buy the ticket, and chicken out at the last minute, and watch people step around and over you to take the ride. thought you were the only one in line? oh...sorry...this is a pretty popular ride...and it's awesome. you go on This One, and things will never look the same, again. not your idea of a good time? that's fine...just...you know...be on your way, stand not amazed, etc.

we have work to do. and we don't have time to deal with amateurs, because after twelve years in the minors, i don't try out.

20 October 2011

an odd turn of events

all the major meteor showers conspired to occur all at once. rather than streaming down like normal, in the correct order, they simply agreed to go, as though they were all of a piece. of course, they seemed like a rather ancient and spectacular species of leonid, springing from the mouth of the lion. they fell so hard and so fast, this reporter was unable to keep track of the wishes, much to her consternation. it was possible, even for a moment, to believe that at the very least, a few that landed in her pocket might yet come true. but as with most things, we must all agree with tom petty...the waiting IS the hardest part.

strange astronomical weather notwithstanding, change seems to be abroad in the land. colors are rising, rain may indeed fall, ebenezers seem to spring up everywhere, and it would seem that the headlines ought to be eight feet tall and proclaiming that bidden or not, G-d is present. and that ought to mean something, ought to occupy us...on all the streets we travel. in the end, the things that bring us together are more powerful and transcendent that the things that separate us. this reporter is not the first person to say that, and is by far not the most eloquent. but the fact remains...some things, some people, some experiences must be. just be.

this reporter must add that while einstein's figure for the speed of light is just as true now as when light was switched on, to begin with, the old man left out the figure for the speed of thought. science currently operates under the premise that nothing may exceed the speed of light, as to do so would likely (...) result in the total annihilation of any substance, were it achieve said speed. would that such were the case with circular thoughts that have no real chance at reasonable or satisfying answers. would that the thoughts would speed up to such a pitch that they would burst into...stillness.

eye witness accounts report of a strange event, happening in what may best be described as "the long ago", and concerns a rag-tag bunch of exiles on their way to a home that none of them had ever, ever seen before. the rag-tag bunch was led by a run-away with a stutter. they found themselves wondering, and wandering, and being pursued by fearsome foes. they wondered if it would just be better to bag the whole shooting match, and go back to making bricks out of dirt and sweat, and pieces of their fingers and souls. they wondered why they were fingered to die in the desert, why they didn't just stay where they were. there were already plenty of graves to be had back the other way. they were panicked. up against the wall. freaking the deuce out. wondering what, if anything, they could do to at least make an effort to defend themselves, demoralized as they were. from somewhere down the line, word was passed, or rather A Word was passed. the only thing to be done, the most best right correct and absolute thing to be done, was to be still. the fight was on, but it was not their fight, although the fight was most definitely about them. and at the end of the day, there were no graves dug in the desert, only the sound of the wind on the water, and the counter-harmony of the mystic music inside the pillar of fire.

this reporter must own up to the fact that her account of this story is second hand, at best. she must also concede a rather large bias toward the rag-tags, and the stuttering run-away. there are other accounts of further escapades in the desert, however, this reporter finds this particular item rather notable.

one is not often presented with easy answers, surface or otherwise. to this reporter, the staggering and audacious simplicity of the order to simply be still, is humbling. we feel this requires further study, as this reporter is quite sure that understanding this very simple idea is Quite Important, on a wide variety of levels. she thanks you for your consideration of this matter. additional reports to follow as information allows.

all is well.

mil besos,
rmg