the seeds, the trees

"But once in a while there's a great dynamite-burst of flying glass and brick and splinters through the front wall and somebody stalks over the rubble, seizes me by the throat and gently says, 'I will not let you go until you set me, in words, on paper.'" – Richard Bach

Month: March, 2021

The Fly and The Rock

“I’ll be great one day,” the fly said. “I will do extraordinary things, and everyone will remember me.”

“Actually,” the rock said, “you will die in a couple of weeks, and no one will remember you.”

“What about that boy today who swatted at me? He saw me and he tried to whack me with his hand. I did that. I am part of his life now. Of course he’ll remember me,” the fly said. He spat onto his legs and rubbed them together.

“You stupid fly,” the rock said. “You are one sunrise among thousands. Millions. I am older than the ground. I have existed for longer than the sun; for longer than these trees, than this air.”

The fly paused rubbing his legs. “Tell me then, wise, ancient rock, of all the extraordinary things you have done.” He spat on his legs and rubbed them together again.

The air hung softly around them.

“What was that?” asked the fly. He felt smug now. He felt like he was winning. “You have done nothing?”

“Nothing?” the rock countered. “I am here. I am in this world. I have seen and stayed. Everything you cannot see – and never will – I have seen.”

Now the fly was quiet. His legs pressed still to the rock.

 “There used to be a flower right here,” the rock said.

“It died in the cold. Afterwards, I liked to think I only had weeks to live.”

“I’ve heard of it,” the fly said. He wanted to sound wise and knew he never would be. “Love,” he said, steadily and cautiously.

“That’s what you don’t forget,” the rock said.

The (Incomplete & Relative) Almanac to Life

Insanity: To do the same thing over again, expecting different results.

Shame: To be insane.

Therapy: To displace blame onto people, things and events out of your control.

Alcohol: To be present without present responsibility.

Cocaine: To summon enthusiasm for life.

Mothers: To slip through fingers and fall apart in hands.

Fathers: To say, “I’m proud,” too late.

Brothers: To teach you everything they didn’t.  

Sisters: To love and hate equally.

Friends: To feel less alone.

Teachers: To see hidden thoughts.

Cousins: Life doesn’t end at 30.

First love: To show we are built like them, to love and love back.

Affairs: Answers we fear.

Marriage: To settle.

Divorce: To settle.

Love: To break and put back together.

Pets: To repel the ghosts at home.

Plants: To give little but give often.

The Sky: To feel small and lucky.

The Ocean: To feel afraid and lucky.

Music: Voices of our insides.

Words: Brains and hearts and hands.  

Taste: Danger and Likes.   

Smell: To remember.

Sight: To get everything wrong.

Touch: Exist.

Death: To make this worthwhile.

Life: To be questioned.

Old: Functionally extinct.

Wrong: To get stuck on the other side.  

Right: To be wrong

Contents

Do contents always need containers? Are our skins containers for our souls? An empty body means no more than a severed finger on a bed of ice.

Is that empty house a home?

Things inside of things. Things outside of things. Things holding things. Things being held. Things in the right places, inside or outside. (Things inside that are meant to be inside. Things outside that are meant to be outside; and so on.)

Am I outside of where I’m meant to be? Or am I inside of where I need to get out of?

Time will reveal all, but I think I’ve waited long enough. Then again, if I cross the line too many times, will there still be a line? If we jump back and forth – back and forth and back and forth and back and forth – over a boundary, is it a boundary anymore? Don’t those two sides become one place? One place with no sides; a place with half the choices?

But

If I am here, where are you?

Is peace always lonely?