A Reflection and An Excerpt

A Reflection and An Excerpt...

“Humanity had built an Ark once, and it worked, but aren’t we just as evil as we once were? It is the tradition of man to tend to the things important only to him and then burn the rest.”

It is said that man is evil. This, we know to be true in many instances. The history of our world and the people who inhabit this pale blue dot is well documented. War, hunger, defeat. It’s all there on pages, in documentaries, in minds that will soon fade, and it will find a place in one's just now born.

The history used to be well known. A Creator and a Rebel. Man’s evil spirit. The decimation and regret. The new life that came in the afterglow. For so long it was all so real, and with mere centuries skepticism and rationalism took its toll on the fantastic and ephemeral.

And sometimes we find ourselves reeling in the absence.

So we tell stories.

Before, there was the Ark then a man on a cross, and finally there was the book that told of the end.  All is remembered. It is, and will be, just in smaller and smaller circles that grow more distant from each other day after day.

Once, there was an Ark built by an old man with a long gray beard who convinced two of every animal to meander its way onto his giant boat. Onlookers scoffed and pitied the crazy one and his family, soon to be shuttered up in an old boat with thousands of animals and not a drop of water in sight.

Later there was a man, pure, and hung on a cross by one who did not believe him guilty, appeasing thousands who believed him so. There were prophets and end times and words of encouragement and comfort.

But faith, I guess that’s what it is, is a funny thing to some. Because first the rains came and they bore a ferocity that man had never known and will never know again. Minute by minute, day by day, the waters rose. The cleansing of a world ravaged by something called sin.

And you might say that we live by myths and parables to make sense of a world gone horribly wrong, and you might say that the truth is more fantastic than we could ever understand. So it is.

And after the rain all was made well.

Then after centuries the fear came, and a man was placed upon a cross, bitter wine forced upon his lips, and dignity stripped away and his final call, “why have you forsaken me?” We do these things with prior knowledge. We come to the edge and we stare into the darkness. And it is and was all wrong but it had to be so. So it is, and so it will be until the end of time.

And we left God to die at sunset.

Then the end came. The final chapters spoke in allegory and metaphor, and so the book boiled over into myth, legend, or history. And now, left with some vague notion of truth, we walk home. But, what it really comes down to, when the heart of the matter is dug up and exposed to the open air, is faith. And faith, in this case, was a saving grace and a welcome reprieve.

And the world ended and began again in 40 nights.

Then in three.

It will once more, in an instant.

Then, never again.

The Last Human Stranger

The last human stranger walked down the street
on the left side, because it was safer there.

That is, after all, where the darkness lies heavy;
like so many breathless souls being carried away by
one whose job is sometimes mistaken for a lifestyle.

She could have spoken about the sound of footfalls
between street-lamps, and the echoed names that
seemed to steer her right and then back again.

She could have been sure of her words, but they
were fishhooks set deep int her lip, always pulling
left.

Always.

All ways lead home: shipwrecked ships and unwed
sailors can confirm.

The last human stranger had everything in her hands
when all ceased to be and what might have been hung low
in the sky: ghostlike air and sightless credence.

The last human stranger had everything in her hands
and their souls lay heavy like some granitic monument
shorn from its edifice.

With Regards to Oscar Wilde...

The following is an email that I sent to one of my students today.  This particular student tends to ask me tough questions.  I appreciate it, and as I was writing this email I found myself inspired like I have not been in quite some time.  That being said I thought I should share the email.  I believe that it has some very important things in it.

"Regarding Oscar Wilde, among other things"

Let's begin with The Importance of Being Earnest.  Yes, it is a small amount of space for you to be using quotes so I would offer two pieces of advice.  Choose wisely, and use sparingly.  In other words make sure that you find pieces of evidence that do not need to develop over 5-6 lines.  Rather, find pieces of evidence that are immediate and clear cut.  You can even reference longer passages for the reader to refer to outside of your text.

Quick random paragraph.  The video we watched in class was Apricot.  You can find it on Vimeo and Youtube.

Concerning, the play, its intent, and its topic.  Well that is complicated.  You are right.  On the surface level it does not deal with love.  Rather it deals with 4 idiots that think they love each other, but probably could not have a mature relationship if they tried.  But, let's look beyond that surface.  Which I know you probably have.  At it's heart this play is absurd.  It runs the gamut from funny, to painful, to searingly true, yet absurd, and the absurdity is the most important point.  Love is absurd, is it not?  From a natural, evolutionary standpoint, it is not at all necessary to the survival of the human race.  From an emotional standpoint it is painful, confusing, ridiculous, absurd, sad, happy, complicated, drawn out, fulfilling, and so many other things.  Wilde intends to make that point and he does so without ever being serious.  But wait, let me take that back.  He is serious, very serious.  He is serious about the idea of love, and the attempt, in Victorian society to formalize, and structurize (i know its not a real word) love into something that is planned out, organized, and easy.  He is serious in his belief that this is wrong.  It does not work and it cannot work.  Even if it works in appearances.  That being said.  There may not be much to gain overall.  That, is up to the reader. (in retrospect I could have referred also to the elements of anarchism and individualism here)

Regarding formatting.  It is something that I sometimes forget to touch on.  My fault.  Still, when you get to college you will find that certain teacher will ask you to write using APA, MLA, Chicago, etc.  To be locked into one style in high school and told that it is the only correct way is dangerous.  It makes the collegiate adjustment a bit harder. 

Now, on to this idea of the internet as an idea space.  While I agree.  Which I really do, i still have reservations and some other thoughts.  First of all, this idea space was not created with the internet.  Rather it was exposed, enhanced, and in some ways degraded by the very thing that could have enhanced it.  In fact, this idea space has existed for many centuries.  It has existed in cafes in Paris, pubs in Ireland, and coffee shops like Alley Cat in America.  It has existed in High school Classrooms and University Lecture halls, churches and synagogues, mosques and think-tanks, and it has been lying in wait.  The question that I would like to express is this:  the internet has given this idea space a new way to spread and grow and evolve, but have we truly taken advantage of it?  My answer would be no, and here is why:

Considering the amount of information we have access to we should be way more adept at solving problems, thinking outside the box, and inventing new ways of doing just about everything.  Yet, progress has slowed in many ways.  I need only point to the fact that the human race has not been back to the moon.  Why not?  I believe a major factor is the fact that this info-sphere that we live in has dulled our sense of adventure and our longing for understanding.  Why go to the moon when I can look at wikipedia and learn everything about it? (that was rhetorical, but I am going to answer it anyway)  We go to the moon because the substance of life is not made up of pixels forming words on a computer screen.  We go to the moon because we are human and we want to feel.  We want to experience things first hand and we want to touch that void.  We go to the moon because, at our heart, we are explorers.  We go to Wikipedia, because, it has taught us that convenience is King.  We live in the information age, and that is well and good, even beautiful at times, but we must remember that information can only tell us so much.  We have to go out and do at some point.

In essence, I believe the conversation has always been taking place.  This information sphere has existed throughout the ages and among all religions, creeds, races, and cultures, and it has extended to the internet, where it has both flourished and decayed.  That brings us to the next point: literature.

Literature is the great conversation.  It reminds us that others in distant times and places were not so different from ourselves.  In that same instant it allows us to add to a conversation that has been going on for thousands of years, and may continue for thousands of years after our deaths.  Literature, poetry, both are the substance of life.  They build, destroy, explain, befuddle, and curse us, just as we curse them. And we continue to live.  In the end, it does not matter if anything we have written was ever seen.  We added to the conversation simply by reading, maybe understanding, and even questioning the perspective of the people that came before us, and the people that have lived with us.

In closing, Ubuntu: I am; because of you.  Is this not the very definition of literature, of poetry?  When you find a text that resonates with your soul do you not say, "I am, because of you."  Is it not the definition of the human race?  We exist.  We exist in concert, hardly as individuals.  Literature is the necessary history of that quest for an understanding of the abstract.  It is the necessary history of the messiness of human emotion, understanding, fear, love, and passion. That may be the most important thing to remember.  There are two histories at work in this world (that we know of).  One is that of facts and date, numbers and statistics, events on timelines and photographs of life.  The other is rich in all of its complexities and daringness.  It provides insights, that although painful, save us, worry us, enlighten us, make us smile, make us weep, and force us to reconsider just who we are and why we are.

Both histories are important, but one can change more than the other ever will.

Last, this:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aS1esgRV4Rc

-Mr. Rein

Where have I been?

I count ambulances now.

They are like proud beasts
with siren songs, silhouettes
of hope, whispers of
immortality, and empty bellies;
they throw their lights across
bare walls and empty rooms.

     As if to ask:

           Will love save you?

And in angry reply I speak
for myself, through the curtains
and single window panes.

     I say:

           Love is all we have.

           If not,

                       death.

And, as if in reply, one

returns; a wounded dog, chains
trailing at its feet and I
see inside.

      Priests or Paramedics?

Love is safe this time.

But other times in less
dream-like lives, which
is to say with eyes wide

open:

      They return in vicious form
      with death lit up, put
      on display:

            This Chariot Confessional.

            This ring of red and blue.

            This unfortunate consequence.

                  Priests or Paramedics?

I count ambulances now.

They are like wounded dogs

in quiet retreat.

I count ambulances now.

I do, I swear I do.

A Return to The Old Form...

Life Is A Dying Dream

Life is a dying dream

Filled with empty promise,

Dragged along by a waning hope

And thrown away by chance.

Taken away by death,

Leaving nothing but memory

I watched as his memory

Faded.  I watched as his dream

Suffered a wretched and complicated death.

It was, after all, a single promise.

I took a chance.

On a corner, something beckoned, hope.

And with so many good intentions, hope

Began to collect my memory.

It rid me of anything he called chance,

And made fate, a longing. A dream

Worth the wildest promise

And bringing about a cold death.

This is when we explode, and death

Couldn't be happier. Hope

Has made itself less than a promise;

A simple one, a single memory

That slowly fades to a dream

That never had a chance.

And, when you think about the word chance

You begin to consider the possibility of death.

It is after all like a warm dream

That reeks of some sort of desperate hope;

Like a lighthouse long abandoned, memory

Of it flickers out, and we are left with a promise.

So now let me speak, and I will make you a promise.

Listen, because words have power, take a chance

Because, though it is fickle and strange, memory,

Though we would like to think it, has no death.

There are things that will fade: hope.

But only if we let go of the dream.

I promise, in the end, this will be no real death,

And you will not confuse chance with that faint hope.

I swear, the memory is stronger than the dream.

A Continuation of sorts...

Maybe it was the cold quiet of the morning.  You know how it was in the past.  Coffee, sunrise, talk radio, and an interstate dipping and weaving through the corn fields and strange animals in their desperate search for oil, dipping their necks towards the earth in some faithful search for life.  You could walk to your car in the midst of leaves gasping under your feet before they were carried off to some tomorrow.  They carried whispers of a different world that was soon to come.  Their veins forming vermiculate patterns that could only be described as forgotten.  They were the lucky ones.  At least now it seems that way.

If they could, they would have written poems.  Dark and lonely poems that spoke out vehemently against the wind, and the lacerations of the cold.  Bitter poems that forewarned of the season to come.  They would have gathered to read them to each other and spit on the ground in disgust.  Wait for it to freeze.  They would have said this season will never end. And you will be cold.

Even if they could speak.  Would you have listened?  Would you have taken a step back and put your ear to the ground?  Just to hear the Earth tremble and shift one last time before going silent.

           

You do it now, now in the strange landscape stretched before your eyes. Those animals, now strange statues, long given up to the earth run dry.  Right ear pressed to the dirt, watching the sun in its interminable wasteland eclipse. Round the earth. Round the Earth, and it is only a dim shadow. All is only a dim shadow.

Silence.

Autumn

Autumn

It is all because your eyes are like sunflowers; they light up, vanish, and return to haunt me day after day. And so it goes.  I've got a death grip on yesterday and a permanent fear of what will come tomorrow.

It is like autumn around here now.  The season that comes before you know it is there. You. You are like autumn.  You come in to this room with an air of quiet mystery and possibility.  A fallen leaf.  Twirling through the sky and grazing past beanie covered heads and scarf enclosed necks.  You are the fall.  You are beautiful.  The irony is the past year.  You can’t regret a season because it comes again, but I’m not so sure about you. 

This is the season that comes too fast and is pushed away by bare, broken limbs when the temperature dips.

This is when the days begin to whisper in monochromes of gray.