These are calamitous times we’re living through you can’t speak without committing a contradiction or keep quiet without complicity with the Pentagon. Everyone knows there’s no alternative possible all roads lead to Cuba but the air is dirty breathing is a futile act. The enemy says the country is to blame as if countries were men. Accursed clouds circle accursed volcanos accursed embarkations launch accursed expeditions accursed trees crumble on accursed birds: it was all polluted to begin with.
Nature’s first green is gold, Her hardest hue to hold. Her early leaf’s a flower; But only so an hour. Then leaf subsides to leaf. So Eden sank to grief, So dawn goes down to day. Nothing gold can stay.
I love the dark hours of my being in which my senses drop into the deep. I have found in them, as in old letters, My private life, that is already lived through, And become wide and powerful now, like legends. Then I know that there is room in me For a second huge and timeless life.
— Rainer Maria Rilke, Selected Poems, Robert Bly translation
If I believed in a god, he would be a sea god, like the sea in its predictability—now approach, now recede—beneath such a god I would not mind, I think, being the shore, say of the sea what you will, it’s the shore that endures the routine loss without which what strategies would there be for softening the hollowness that any victory, give it time, comes with, how curb the risk of arrogance, with its doomed but not undangerous hound, complacency? … I made this for you— put it on. I know it’s not going to matter whether the decisions I made were the ones eventually I even meant to make, or should have, or should have thought maybe more than twice about. What’s history anyway, except—according to the latest mouth saying so—just what happened: I flourished undramatically, to no apparent purpose, like pretty much everyone. The sea dragged the shore; the shore suffered the sea.
As it happened, I was twirling a cauliflower floret, lost in Lewis’s wardrobe of pallid trees, considering my country’s longing for homogenized milk & bags of tube socks from Walmart, which felt cancerous. What came to me like a surprise snowfall in the soft evening of a snow globe, one has to pinch salt and sprinkle in the palm, repeatedly, especially when the temperature in mother’s trailer has begun to drop. In this way, after your Constitution fades you’ve your own hourglass and no one else to blame.