Archive for the ‘Nature’ Category

A Season or Three

Thursday, March 11th, 2021

Time and trouble pass like water over the parts of life that matter still, that which cannot move, or, going towards the oblivion of the sea so slowly, never move too far or fast to leave a given moment untouched by their familiar presence. What's taken through the dells and valleys of the days and weeks and hence away from me, the flotsam of experience, traces with its margins the negative space in which all that really matters, is.

That which itself is not matter, but feeling.

seasoning

seasoning

Not things that are broken, but toil of mending.

seasoning

seasoning

I am a unit of a legion, a cog in a machine, and yet, alone.

seasoning

seasoning

The possibility of life, undeniably beautiful, carves into the living the closing doors of chances lost.

seasoning

seasoning

And so my landscape flourishes. The water flows as it should. The joy and longing thrive, so that I lack for nothing.

The cup runs over; the table's laid so plentifully it can hardly stand.

seasoning

seasoning

The carnage's daily made into another form, that I might keep the soul but shed the sinews.

seasoning

seasoning

I wander day and night finding something of my riverbed in unexpected, sidelong glances, in the sudden opening of eyes.

seasoning

seasoning

And, always, I know where I am ultimately going: to the sea. To the sea.

seasoning

seasoning

Where I will ever drown in those I love.

seasoning

And float back, bidden by memory.

* * *

It's been a tumultuous stretch of time since I last posted, but something in that tumult's taught me how to love the chaos better. People sometimes ask me what a normal day of mine is like, and I never seem to be able to answer. Perhaps it's because I don't have normal days; perhaps because I don't spend much time looking at the shape of what goes by on a minutious basis. Or I could be full of shit.

Besides, speech is a rolling-mill that always thins out the sentiment. Sometimes it's better to just do spoons.

seasoning

Vert-ical

Wednesday, October 14th, 2020

A gaze outside the window: eighty thousand shades of green. I haven't, cannot, count them; the number neatly suggests itself for the sake of its roundness, the ouroboros of an eight, the open conduit of zero, the way the mouth mimics the shape in the speaking of the thousand. Whole, unyielding, immense. It's a rampage out there, an annihilation by green. Tinges teeter now together, now at odds at every angle vying for the light to lend them further recourse to greenness. What seems at first a single organism is in fact a twist, helices long since untraceable divulging tree, vine, moss, bromeliad --and as leaf-cutter ants march down these chimeras bearing banners emerald, peridot, and tourmaline, still other species shuttle up, or out, or circle round, inching verdant abdomens and fluttering seafoam wings.

The sunlight fades and sets the sky a soup of grayness against which all the green seems only louder, sharper, more assertive of its space. Come the night, however long, or through whatever storms dare churn the land to opaque ruin, the green offers its patience. From nearly nothing, it will fill all crevices, arch over those not yet overwhelmed, it will cover your shame; it will reclaim the fruits of your failure. Green is the substrate. The inhale, the exhale, the respiration, the expiration. It will fuel your desire, deepen your gall. It will spread over your grave.

On ye naegl

Monday, October 12th, 2020

I scour the polish off my nails and see what's underneath for the first time in a couple of weeks, though it feels like ages. In fact, I'm shocked, somehow, at what they look like under the even, opaque paint in which they've been so regularly covered. They're normal yet alien; their obvious anatomy and the form belying function are jarring somehow, like a persian cat seen just-washed, a fifth of its former glorious girth, or an actress staged always in the myriad trappings of Elizabethan costume suddenly naked. The pink nailplates are as shiftingly unhomogenous as August sunset, morphing with time and movement. Once escaped from the finger, the nails are white as chalk, infinitesimally banded, telling some story about the state of my health, or the woes of my mind. The instinct imposes itself: repaint them. But I decide to let them be, to take a break, to sit with the reality of their plain unornamented humanness awhile. And I drift to an examination of their tireless protection, and the shelter similar biological structures serve to other forms of life.

The keratin responsible for most of the nail's composition is by no means a resource exclusive to humanity. Along with chitin, which evolved earlier and so finds itself more readily employed among the insects and arthropods, keratin is one of the toughest biological materials in existence, and other genii of life have made ample use of its potential for resistance and defense. Most vertebrates, in fact, make use of some sort of keratinous compound, expressed variously as hair or fur, hooves, and the outermost layer of the skin. Then come the claws, the horns, the feathers, the stuff of which fight or flight is literally made. From turtle shells to fish scales, eagles' beaks to sheep's wool, what keeps the tips of my fingers and toes safe from the thousands of things I touch every day so serves the rest of the animal kingdom tirelessly, silently. Even spiders' silk, if somewhat further from the amalgamation of keratin in my nails, carries with it some measure of this precious stuff. Indisputably useful; capable of countless manifestations of shape, color, size; easily replaced --one can't help but suspect that keratin is a sort of plastic put together by the fates of the earth, which I suppose is fairly ironic when considering nylon wigs and acrylic nails.

The nail may be natural, but like the majority of things that may ever live, it's dead. At least, the nail plate itself. When keratin fills a cell, hardening it, readying it for utility, it swallows up all else: organelles, nucleus, all. The nail matrix, the source of cells, lives on, but what it produces is a sort of ghastly conveyor belt, wherein life uses death to shield itself from the same. As with any keratinized object, the human nail can tell a tale of the bearer's recent battle performance. Obvious problems --poor hygiene, blunt damage, are borne easily on those parts put forth in a fight. But the nails will tattle further. Vitamin deficiencies, genetic defects, lack of sleep, dehydration, overexercise, neurosis, even the innocent fact of age are laid out in the manuscripts of toe- and finger-tips, ready for the reading by anyone who can.

Honest and strong, ancient, morbid, my nails look a little less strange in their examined state. Still, I think I'll paint them purple.

Hummer

Sunday, September 27th, 2020

Rain, drops bigger than his head, made on all sides to beat the wings that beat themselves against the wind, and his domain as every day, but briefly, was not his. A warlike warble followed the colibri to his shelter, some secret emerald cove where in his stillness he could not be seen. Rain rolled off leaves --more massive than his life, but smaller still than his daily will to flight, to fight against the largeness of the world in which he was a brilliant jewel, and almost imperceptible. Who knows how long a quarter-hour's shower stretches on inside the minute cogs of a colibri's mind?