EVEN THE POSSIBILITY OF NOT SEEING NEW STUFF HURTS ME. Even the possibility of not seeing new stuff hurts me. How the cat sneezes like a beer can that’s just been popped. Things I won’t be able to remember anymore, likenesses and differences in the way the light moves across the landscape, mindscape, moonscape, astral scape, godscape in the human heart. Who would paint the moon when they could look at a real one? Julala Din Rumi throwing false idols out of the wheelhouse. like T.S. Eliot and Ezra Pound fighting in the captain’s tower. I remember looking out one night across the Straits of Juan de Fuca. I almost went to Fuca U until they changed the name to the University of Victoria. Fuca U. It’s got a certain academic ring to it doesn’t it? Fuca U. Imagine that. Quadra and Fuca and Cook. And Vancouver giving his patronymic to the island. Fuca U Island. It doesn’t sing. And the lights of Port Angeles sprinkled along the horizon intermittently winking on and off as the distances permitted and the ships in between bobbed in and out of consciousness for the night. Lonely vessels in the saturant moonlight. Half seed in the eye of a ghost. Dream crumb of destination with no GPS to show them the way from the stars down. And the the nocturnal sundae of Mt. St. Bakers in the background. I just stared. I stared at it for a long time alone on the pebbled beach. Driftwood writhing around me in the charred remains of a campfire that wasn’t mine. Kelp slime and the handle bar ribbons of the seaweed I raked up once with the old Chinese women who used to frequent the beach to pickle it for iodine. That must have been a sight. Emily Carr and her monkey in a baby buggy would have trouble following that act. But there I was a young white man combing out the Medusa’s hair among all these Taoist widows dressed in black pyjamas. Believing in what I did was right. I’ve gone back there in my mind since I’ve aged. I just stand there and stare like an adage of wonder in the air. And the scene is transfixed by a glimpse of eternity and time working their magic over the flow of the sea within me. I’ll live forever here and there. Can there ever be any doubt? Unless Stephen Hawkings Conservation of Data Principle breaks down in a black hole for all that it leaves out. Ouch. Ouch. Ouch. The cat sprawls like an incoming tide across the couch.
Posted on: Sun, 24 Nov 2013 17:17:48 +0000
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