Monday, July 17, 2017

Castaway


The being of being out here is swimming. There is nothing else. I am present enough that I can barely recognize that I am swimming. I just am and that is alive for the moment, left here by the greedy, the impatient: those vindicated by the wealth of killing.

Like other forms of being, this one is not so easily done. One must learn to do it although we have skills innate and yet forgotten—gifts from those first watery globes in whom we swam before the Sun burned our eyes with something that resembled Truth. The gifts of infantile ontology are ones we grow away from and forget.

There is resistance in the water and this, my scientific mind remembers buoyancy—the water pushing back against the gravity of my muscles and my bones. And in this irony of strokes against the water, I live.

There is distance. It is so far to swim across the water—the universe is vast and there is no better teacher than the middle of the ocean. I understand him now, the boy who gibbered with the Gods. Remember that their touch is not embrace and abandonment their course.

Where else is there upon the vast azure—at the bottom of an ocean made of air, and on the out edge of a watery sky, each swell will carry me to insights hitherto uncharted: of what the pure horizon really means: to see the concentration of myself from all my time, and I, unmoving move upon the sea, where no erosion beats high mountains down. And for an epoch, mutability is lost—I am floating on undying change and wondering what all my thens and ifs could be.

The enormity of this revealed world, unfolding like a lily made of lobster shell, searches deep within my soul, until a wooden angel comes to me on reaching wings and a hundred mouths of ivory.

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