“I stopped in Peru and made a trip to the ruins of Macchu Picchu. There was no highway then and we rode up on horseback. At the top I saw the ancient stone structures hedged in by the tall peaks of the verdant Andes. Torrents hurtled down from the citadel eaten away and weathered by the passage of the centuries. White fog drifted up in masses from the Wilkamayu River. I felt infinitely small in the center of that navel of rocks, the navel of a deserted world, proud, towering high, to which I somehow belonged.” (from ‘Conjieso que he vivido: Memorias’, Pablo Neruda)
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I imagine her sinking into the deepest parts of my body. We are swimming, somewhere between Mexico and Hawaii. I watch her as the water turns from clear to blue to dark blue to black.
Early this year, Rebecca Broomhandel was moderating a panel at the Organic Algae Festival called “Wondering about the Water: Important Questions of Realization.” Ms. Broomhandel is not a marine biologist. She is a practicing Kahuna from Boise, Idaho. This is not to say that she can’t moderate panels on realization, but I point this out for no reason at all.
“Any art theory contains an element of truth that potentially may conceal its intrinsic character. The claim that nothing is art may become today’s modern appliance chasing an impossible fantasy.” (page 23)
I am listening to the sound of my breathing and hear the universe turning. I also hear the sound of a small car vanishing down the road. Icy snow scrapes against my window, and no one dares to say what they think.
I think my world view is very limited. Her aging body reminds me of what’s within and beyond much of what I know and don’t know I don’t know. Going slowly, I look up to see contemporary beliefs that hinder my orchard from bearing.
I recently was interrupted by the sound of drinking. But the sound quickly dissolved into an exclamation of pleasure as I slowly and anxiously listened to my muddled inner child. At nearly every opportunity he commented on my life with hauteur. I returned to the third floor with the wetness of ocean spray dripping from my hair.
One of her best friends was a powdery blue seabird. It seemed ridiculous to me, but was magical for her. Our lifelines were a tenuous distribution. For just a few weeks though, I too was talking to the seabird.
She was fun to walk with, always wearing odd velours and a whitewashed turban. I think she could see well beyond the curtain of silence. One time on our way home from the prison library we saw a man sitting submerged in deep thought. Approaching him very quietly from behind, she deduced at once his failures and successes.
She liked wearing red and green, and her personality always shined at a friendly scene. She pulled me in from off the sea when I was sinking. Her bag was filled with all my dreams come true. (after Pynchon)
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August 2018
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