They speak.

Posted by Erin on 3rd October 2009 in Erin's Thoughts

I woke feeling wild. Unrestrained in an environment I belong to.  So I roamed.

I wore a cone shaped hat and a mustard-yellow, velvet jacket and let the long ends of my hair stick out from under my scarf like straw.  A glance in the mirror told me I looked like the scarecrow from Wizard of Oz.  Though, not to be just silly, you see.  But to conjure.  To arouse mischief.  A glamor that had happened when I wasn’t intending – that cheeky element of magic that wants what it wants.  It’s a true power of Autumn, not only owned by Halloween, not being the simple child’s play it seems.  So, I would be the fool today and step out with my carelessness falling through the holes in my pockets.

“I must learn to love the fool in me the one who feels too much, talks too much, takes too many chances, wins sometimes and loses often, lacks self-control, loves and hates, hurts and gets hurt, promises and breaks promises, laughs and cries”
Theodore Isaac Rubin (found at 78 Notes to Self)

A fool can have a conversation with anything about anything.  The literal world is a useless place to a fool.  Ridiculous and wonderful things are profoundly true.  The misted, humid haze whispering secrets to the dip of grass around a tree is really a window to unreality – If you’re not afraid of a little madness… a fool is not.

And, for a fool, it is fully permissible to talk aloud to oneself: “Why is it that I can overflow with sensations when I am here in London, taking in more and more and more and just get bigger to handle it all.  Then I go to Toronto where I am suddenly overwhelmed and clogged up?  I don’t understand who I am in that world!”

It was the Trees who answered me.  “You are not overwhelmed.  It is because to you that place feels dead that you suffer.

So tinglingly true, once it came to me in that way.  Dead without the nourishment of decay, even.  Not transformatively dead, even.  Not even forbiddenly tantalizing and disgusting, undersides-of-life dead, even.

It could have sounded so final and hopeless but somehow a grin found it’s way to my lips.  Those words may be solid but so were the rocks on the river bottom, selfishly forcing the water to thrash and swirl around them.  And yet, the water made a good time of it just the same.  More than a good time, there were mad tinges of ecstasy.  And eventually, even a rock could be worn down or moved.  And it didn’t matter anyway, since water knows a secret or two about forging ahead, making rocks irrelevant or by manipulating a rock’s contrariness to the water’s own purpose.  A secret or two I could uncover myself.

So I come home as a bit more than a fool though not entirely wise.  Just smart enough to understand the message for me when I stumbled upon this glory of a poem found existing profoundly here (a place worth the visit).

(A Gathering Of Spirits)

by Paula Gunn Allen

Because we live in the browning season
the heavy air blocking our breath,

and in this time when living

is only survival, we doubt the voices

that come shadowed on the air,

that weave within our brains

certain thoughts, a motion that is soft,

imperceptible, a twilight rain,

soft feather’s fall, a small body

dropping into its nest, rustling, murmuring,

settling in for the night.

Because we live in the hard-edged season,
where plastic brittle and gleaming shines

and in this space that is cornered and angled,

we do not notice wet, moist, the significant

drops falling in perfect spheres

that are the certain measures of our minds;

almost invisible, those tears,

soft as dew, fragile, that cling to leaves,

petals, roots, gentle and sure,

every morning.

We are the women of daylight; of clocks and steel
foundries, of drugstores and streetlights,

of superhighways that slice our days in two.

Wrapped around in glass and steel we ride

our lives; behind dark glasses we hide our eyes,

our thoughts, shaded, seem obscure, smoke

fills our minds, whisky husks our songs,

polyester cuts our bodies from our breath,

our feet from the welcoming stones of earth.

Our dreams are pale memories of themselves,

and nagging doubt is the false measure of our days.

Even so, the spirit voices are singing,
their thoughts are dancing in the dirty air.

Their feet touch the cement, the asphalt

delighting, still they weave dreams upon our

shadowed skulls, if we could listen.

If we could hear.

Let’s go then. Let’s find them. Let’s
listen for the water, the careful gleaming drops

that glisten on the leaves, the flowers. Let’s

ride the midnight, the early dawn. Feel the wind

striding through our hair. Let’s dance

the dance of feathers, the dance of birds.

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