Memories sink back into the soft ground. Sweet must of hay mingles with the sea air. The cold morning fog washes in and out clusters of leafy hemispheres on spines of bark. The smelling salts of horse droppings snap yesterday’s dried twigs. I awaken here to a past I older than I experienced but feel it reach into me and claim me as its own. When the sun breaks through, it shines ancient as I drive away.
The space consumes the form and the form the space. The terrain absorbs itself. Color sops up difference. Separations pinch. Holes twist open. Pathways stretch from crevices. This strange material is caught in a stagnant churn. Reforming the form without any original form to begin with and no final form to reach. Tossing and tumbling into itself, it ingests what it discharges and discharges what it ingests. Its gestures are traces; its cracks experiences. A static vortex suspended by its own force hovers through the emptiness.
If vision itself were visible, it would gush out like a current of foamy water from a facade of bone. If language were visible, it would be seen swirling in and out of the cranium like the sea flowing through a cave. If tranquility were visible, it would be a skull suspended by the flow of what it contains.
Look at the way she tumbles into forms in the sky. How she shrivels as if in a sweet agony for all she provides. Her nourishment to the cochineal. Her milk flowing for the wrens. Her surreal limbs an absurd perch for lizards. Her crooked windows perfect for spiderwebs to catch flying morsels.
This wild canopy cages the hill like gnarled hands rising out of their giant burials. These mad sculptors of fruit radiant with needles that mimic sunrays! What strange journey left these bent up propellers behind to worship the sun?
as soon as the sloshy pool is framed neat the bottom falls out its contents gush over the sentient terrain
Once there was a wise old woman who found a bell in the woods and it was hanging from a tree. She knew such a bell had to be important and so she respected it enough to take a seat and wait for someone else to come by and ring it. And when it was rung by someone else, the man who rang it stood still as it rang inside and out. The sound filled every space with the brilliance of the sun shining on every part of the sea. And he fell to the ground with a smile on his face.
She returned to the bell many years later when she knew her time had come. She rang it so gracefully that the forest wept a gentle rain. And in an instant so powerful, it felt as if the universe had exploded and collapsed at the same time as she saw the entire life of this husk completed and was reunited with the light shed by the sound of the bell.
I wrote this fairy tale and 49 others in the course of two weeks last year. And I put together a schedule based on three categories that made sense to me after I had written them: order, chaos, and cosmic (a truer unity than order). Each week, I look at the list and post one. By now, I’ve forgotten the list’s order and so every week holds a bit of a self-induced surprise. This week, before consulting the list, I was walking in my neighborhood and heard the bell ring on the campus nearby. Due to the stay at home order in response to the COVID-19 pandemic, the poem (within a passage included below) For Whom the Bell Tolls came instantly to mind. Two days later, I looked up my story list and it was none other than this one! In the last week, I’ve had nothing but tears for all the stories I’ve heard in the news especially the diabetic ones because I share that affliction (and have suffered through near-fatal pneumonia once). And I hope the suffering only brings to light the strength of our compassion for others and ourselves.
Here is John Donne’s larger section of the meditation (XVII) from which the well known poem is derived (in the public domain from www.gutenberg.org):
Who casts not up his eye to the sun when it rises? but who takes off his eye from a comet when that breaks out? Who bends not his ear to any bell which upon any occasion rings? but who can remove it from that bell which is passing a piece of himself out of this world? No man is an island, entire of itself; every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main. If a clod be washed away by the sea, Europe is the less, as well as if a promontory were, as well as if a manor of thy friend’s or of thine own were: any man’s death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind, and therefore never send to know for whom the bells tolls; it tolls for thee. Neither can we call this a begging of misery, or a borrowing of misery, as though we were not miserable enough of ourselves, but must fetch in more from the next house, in taking upon us the misery of our neighbours. Truly it were an excusable covetousness if we did, for affliction is a treasure, and scarce any man hath enough of it. No man hath affliction enough that is not matured and ripened by it, and made fit for God by that affliction. If a man carry treasure in bullion, or in a wedge of gold, and have none coined into current money, his treasure will not defray him as he travels. Tribulation is treasure in the nature of it, but it is not current money in the use of it, except we get nearer and nearer our home, heaven, by it. Another man may be sick too, and sick to death, and this affliction may lie in his bowels, as gold in a mine, and be of no use to him; but this bell, that tells me of his affliction, digs out and applies that gold to me: if by this consideration of another’s danger I take mine own into contemplation, and so secure myself, by making my recourse to my God, who is our only security.