Thursday, April 18, 2013
seeing how I sit apart . . .
Seeing how I tell a friendly acquaintance -- who has jumped up and thrown her arms around me upon seeing me, who is sitting now amidst the chatty others -- that I'm here to write. Seeing how I gesture down to the quiet end of the benches, claiming a space there . . .
You would think I had something I was dying to say.
(Do I have something I am dying to say?)
So much already has been said. So many words cascading down in a roar that drowns out every other word, every sound and meaning lost in that roar.
Lately I keep seeing behind my eyes one of the imponderable cataracts of this world. Niagra. Victoria. Roaring and pouring down in a kind of static destruction. And all of us clustered around with our tourist grins and blind cameras. A roaring that erases everything, where only the separate smells of things remain disparate and trackable. Everything else, sound and form and time lost in that everlasting fall.
I have no words to give a world like this. The best I can give is a patch of silence. An open circle somewhere. A quiet room, swept clean. Which is what the world needs more than more words poured out and roaring.
I have come to accept (haven't I?) that I can't change anything by saying again, again what I see. For example, the catttails this afternoon, ravishing as I rushed by. Seed heads fluffed out fully, each seed precarious and readying for flight. Readying to begin again. The engines of creation. The light (of course, always, the light) shining through that haze of seedy down. The future held there by habit just before the wind scatters everything.
Anyone driving down Highway 30 saw that, if they had their eyes open. Anyone. What good does it do to say I saw it, too? So I see cattails gone to seed. I see salmon berry petals. I see the prickles on a stem. I see the serried file of spores on a fern frond.
Anyone can see that much. Anyone can.