Category: impermanence

Gregory Wallace Black

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Speak to us of Houses

Then a mason came forth and said, Speak to us of Houses. And the Prophet answered and said:

Build of your imaginings a bower in the wilderness ere you build a house within the city walls. For even as you have home-comings in your twilight, so has the wanderer in you, the ever distant and alone.

Your house is your larger body.

It grows in the sun and sleeps in the stillness of the night; and it is not dreamless. Does not your house dream? and dreaming, leave the city for grove or hill-top? Would that I could gather your houses into my hand, and like a sower scatter them in forest and meadow. Would the valleys were your streets, and the green paths your alleys, that you might seek one another through vineyards, and come with the fragrance of the earth in your garments.

But these things are not yet to be.

In their fear your forefathers gathered you too near together. And that fear shall endure a little longer. A little longer shall your city walls separate your hearths from your fields. And tell me, people of Orphalese, what have you in these houses? And what is it you guard with fastened doors? Have you peace, the quiet urge that reveals your power? Have you remembrances, the glimmering arches that span the summits of the mind? Have you beauty, that leads the heart from things fashioned of wood and stone to the holy mountain? Tell me, have you these in your houses? Or have you only comfort, and the lust for comfort, that stealthy thing that enters the house as a guest, and then becomes a host, and then a master?

Ay, and it becomes a tamer, and with hook and scourge makes puppets of your larger desires. Though its hands are silken, its heart is of iron. It lulls you to sleep only to stand by your bed and jeer at the dignity of the flesh. It makes mock of your sound senses, and lays them in thistledown like fragile vessels. Verily the lust for comfort murders the passion of the soul, and then walks grinning in the funeral.

But you, children of space, you restless in rest, you shall not be trapped nor tamed. Your house shall not be an anchor but a mast. It shall not be a glistening film that covers a wound, but an eyelid that guards the eye. You shall not fold your wings that you may pass through doors, nor bend your heads that they strike not against a ceiling, nor fear to breathe lest walls should crack and fall down. You shall not dwell in tombs made by the dead for the living. And though of magnificence and splendour, your house shall not hold your secret nor shelter your longing. For that which is boundless in you abides in the mansion of the sky, whose door is the morning mist, and whose windows are the songs and the silences of night.

Gibran on eating & drinking (post #100!)

What better way to celebrate 100 published scribbles than to ramble about food and food choices? As I type this I’m sitting with my laptop (1:19:27am) in the main stairwell of my apartment building. In less than probably 2-3 minutes a few slices of pizza will arrive via deliveryperson. Yum!

Soon it’ll be the drones delivering pizzas. Odd. Today I was out playing with a toy drone and happened to walk by something pretty cool: a block or so from the Macalester campus a small falcon/hawk (?) dashed within about 3 feet of my face, sort of perpendicular to the sidewalk. It carried with it some sort of a rodent or small brown creature (squirrel?) that was neither squirming nor resisting. Pretty limp. Snack time! I had never been so close to a bird that moved in that way except in a dream last year. So it was nice to see those huge rippling feathers for real!

Here’s Gibran on SNAX

Would that you could live on the fragrance of the earth, and like an air plant be sustained by the light.
But since you must kill to eat, and rob the newly born of its mother’s milk to quench your thirst, let it then be an act of worship.
And let your board stand an altar on which the pure and the innocent of forest and plain are sacrificed for that which is purer and still more innocent in man.

When you kill a beast say to him in your heart,
“By the same power that slays you, I too am slain; and I too shall be consumed.
For the law that delivered you into my hand shall deliver me into a mightier hand.
Your blood and my blood is naught but the sap that feeds the tree of heaven.”

And when you crush an apple with your teeth, say to it in your heart,
“Your seeds shall live in my body,
And the buds of your tomorrow shall blossom in my heart,
And your fragrance shall be my breath,
And together we shall rejoice through all the seasons.”

And in the autumn, when you gather the grapes of your vineyards for the winepress, say in your heart,
“I too am a vineyard, and my fruit shall be gathered for the winepress,
And like new wine I shall be kept in eternal vessels.”
And in winter, when you draw the wine, let there be in your heart a song for each cup;
And let there be in the song a remembrance for the autumn days, and for the vineyard, and for the winepress.

Sometimes

you wonder who’s watching all these feelings

trillions of eyes glued and scrap-booked

sometimes you wonder if you’re the cup

or the spinning water, or the tea leaves.

you want to grab suffering by its weary shoulders, by its bus transfer, by its untied boots, by its exit wound, by its cinder-block cell. you want to grab the bloodied lovers, the shattered families, the eons of regret, and to tell them they are ok. sometimes you wonder if you could ever be that creative. you heard once that a dry-erase marker can erase a permanent marker. it should be impossible. but sharpie can be undone under one little condition: you have to draw over it first. sometimes you wonder if the world is the sharpie and if you’re supposed to be the dry erase marker and then you feel bad about yourself.

sometimes you wonder who’s spinning that dust in the air

floating freckling waiting to settle

sometimes you wonder if you’re the dust

or the air, or the nap.

 

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thoreau on this day (12/31)

12/31/1851:

There is a low mist in the woods. It is a good day to study lichens. The view so confined it compels your attention to near objects, and the white background reveals the disks of the lichens distinctly. They appear more loose, flowing, expanded, flattened out, the colors brighter for the damp. The round greenish-yellow lichens on the white pines loom through the mist (or are seen dimly) like shields whose devices you would fain read. The trees appear all at once covered with their crop of lichens and mosses of all kinds, -flat and tearful are some, distended by moisture. This is their solstice, and your eyes run swiftly through the mist to these things only. Nature has a day for each of her creatures, her creations. To-day it is an exhibition of lichens at Forest Hall, the livid green of some, the fruit of others. They eclipse the trees they cover. Ah, beautiful is decay! True, as Thales said, the world was made out of water. That is the principle of all things.