Wednesday, 22 November 2017

Bella Coola


A man thinks. Does he think like other men? Or does he have his own thoughts?

He does not know.

One thing is certain. Whatever shall be made comprehensible to him will be made precisely that incomprehensible to others. He had become a gardener many years ago and had not known it.

Watering his mind, he watered other minds. He found imperfections and weaknesses in them and to precisely that degree an incredible genius that would not be assailed without a fight, much as there was of it.

The world was too much for us.

And we are the result.

We are the response, in flesh and blood words even our Sages strain to understand.

They can do nothing.

Life had its pains, it seemed so unnecessarily and even irreverently maudlin to say.

This man had learned to grieve before he had learned to read.

And so all he learned need make answer to his grief.

Or perhaps it was that his grief was so demanding that nothing could prevail upon it.

Not until this day.

This day is a different day.

Today a continuity surfaces from the shallow waters of the past, where ghosts of memories live and we ourselves our ghosts.

A man takes a sip of water and steadies his hands.

He is listless, a man of many miles and so many miles will understand the man where none could not.

Did Mother Nature comprehend all of Her causes and effects?

Man must know his place in her life if he is to know his life in hers.

She is by turns bountiful and merciless, even if her coldest hands of doom flowed with the blood of new knowledge, of new growth and of the impossibly trying sleep of death or of the language in whose life death were set and never really understood any other way; death without life were like life without death.

The mind cannot rest upon it, but it shall.

And it shall be no less unwelcome than the sun when we first saw our family within it and took impressions upon the vellum of our celestial mind of the great continuity of our flesh and blood, of our celestial biology, one gulp of which paid great dividends if we should have need or want.

It was simple, really, the advice the man was given:

If you cannot necessarily breathe under water, simply add infinite water to your breath and in your own mind, nothing but ethereal water as far as the mind could think and farther still seeping through the walls, through his skin, the mind had less charming things to rest upon and easily shrugged off the advantage of quiet reverie, so unobtrusive were its charms, so inordinate its finality, the mind had nothing like - or need not have - so pleasant a form of contemplation when it were just forming in the belly of a mother in so much as we know whence we came back to life by returning to every heartache, by burning with every humiliation and giving voice to inarticulate fear and rage whose anatomical accuracy belied a merely esoteric estimation of its scale of injury nor restorative powers not unlike those of a storm by night or of a mighty war just to keep life going anywhere, even by lights unworthy of honourable men.

We were as hungry for Mother Nature as She was for us.

For She always brings us back to Her, does she not?

The man is not certain.

Words do not avail him. They are of little use if you cannot explain their meaning, their power, their elemental nature and finally their relationship to all things in body or in outer space, in hell or hereafter.

So much with us.

Man had once learned to speak the language.

So would the man.

That he need learn from his fear in order to master it was a comforting fact, a great first step in so much as he had any control at all, or feared as much as he had, especially should their be any question, a good deal of which had whet his soul with the all-consuming fires of doubt.

His will and a million million things contended for supremacy.

Nature would have its final say.

And then it would begin again.

Not for love.

Not for power.

Not even for its own existence.

But only because its nature and ours were mixed and we knew it not.

So our fortune was undeveloped, our minds inattentive to the truth, which demanded a fairly relaxed way of life, something that even the wealthiest people were deprived of, though they knew it not; all the military priests ever need do was con the idea of civilian life.

Man lived in denial - of himself, of his brother, of his sister, of where he was. And this was as nature intended. Nature itself lived in utter denial of itself; Nature denied Man the luxuries of his youth or he himself had become, by some foolish choice, an orphan of Nature, he an organ of nature in his every feeling and impulse, his liberty checked by all that checked the advance of the stars with the breaking of the dawn from the ranks of the angelic waters and doctors of good medicine, even in their bloody hands, hands that delivered people into and out of life with such stoic confidence, saving little thought for a smile, in death, so much like it was from first we drew breath upon our mother's or father's breast, caring little for a language that might have been as inconsequential as rattle of a branch against one window at night, the language of the world.

For where we are speaks with a million voices of the past and yet we hear them not, not unless we hear our own breath in a forest or beneath a mountain peak, a breath feeding a breath, a kiss of breath and the leaves of the roots of man glistening in the brilliance of his own flesh and blood, a holy rood a passing across rivers life and death with a language whose sorrows were our sorrows, whose growth were our growth and whose pleasure was our pleasure, measure for measure of all that lent itself to the spirit of creation, strength and the voices of creation and of strength, voices like the volcano and the sperm whale, voices like the wind and the creaking of trees as the firmament of celestial waters pass through them like a stream through stems of emerald green grasses.

For any single of one of our voices was priceless, a brilliance that would put us to shame, so well hath we stopped our ears with the cunning of our enemies, enemies to whom we hath trusted our children too long.

Their cries are heard by the Great Spirit.

Their cries carry that Voice of the Drum and of the Thunder Beings, and that Voice touched their mind from first it awoke in the world like the petals of a new flower and a whole new world that would test that mind beyond all reason and find it wanting, wanting nothing more from such a mind as seeded our children from the beginning, leaving them not.

Bella Coola 





We are rooted in the fabric of this land, the earth
And sky and all that draweth forth the mind of birth and steel
Converting every voice and force and story to the flesh that burns
With such a flesh and blood as crossed our song and knowledge, god and goddess with a wheel
Of seasons, yes, but shades and limbs and nerves of growth upon
The supple surface all the earth as cradled as the mind
This axis all the planets given names that rape and rob
The organs all our being born the roots of human kind
The nerve of every word made flesh out of the breath and pulse
Our learning only how to speak as well as life can hear
The growing ignorance and wisdom yawning every gulp
Of generations of the substance of the Earth and of the atmosphere
The thunder of our family tree in star and leaf and cloud
A Story Once upon a time alive with every bound.




From Psalms of Love, Epic Poem Paradise Was
 














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