Scar

I had hoped to have much more worked out at this point, as far as writing things down, creating stories, notes, and the history of me or you and me. Alas, I have not. There are a handful of excuses for why I have been remiss in doing this, none of them honorable.

This passage is going to ramble; it is going to wind.

We had a rather remarkable discussion yester eve. We went whirling about the merry-go-round at a horrendous rate. It was something to see. Apparently we have very contrary views of feminism, or I am very misinformed, or you are mislead, or it is a combination of all things. Regardless, it was what it was.

You said it was heated, you said, “I was heated”. There was not a time when I was heated, there were times when I was scratching my head, both mentally and physically, as to how we could be missing each other. I wondered, are we near, are we far? If it is night, I can imagine that boats could slip past one another, very closely at some points, particularly if there is a low fog hanging above the water. I wondered, is she in that boat, the one just over there beyond my power to see, the one that I can’t even hear in this deafening silence of deep, black night?

There are other thoughts, lurking…creeping along in my mind, very afraid to show themselves for fear of lambastement. (new word) These thoughts keep themselves hiding in the deep layers of my mind…(heart?). When I look at you there is intrigue, there is wonder, there is awe (in a way) and it captures my mind, if only for moments in time.

We chat, we slowly, sometimes quickly, pick at each others scabs. By the time one is 27, unless wonderful miracles have happened, he will be a walking road-rash. If, per chance, you find one that actually has some flesh not covered in scab, take a picture, it is rare as a yeti. Broken hearts are difficult to mend. Twisted minds are hard to straight. In this arduous process of picking and healing we often run across those little sacs of puss and watery blood that so often prowls beneath the particularly ugly and unclean film of temporary skin. At first you just see a little pin prick of it, then it bubbles up as you apply pressure and squeeze out the filth. Next, the process of separating the scab from the being… At the end there is a pile of grotesque gauze, a scab and a clean wound that will move toward closure…yet the patient will wear the scar of the procedure for the rest of their days.

Sometimes there is an infected scab on the knee, this is very easy to self medicate…what of the one on your back though? This one is directly between your shoulder blades, as if some imp had reached out of hell and poked one with an undying coal. It has been ground into the skin, into the muscle, it is smutty and indecent; certainly it will birth the desired infectious result so graphically aforementioned.

When this scab is present, this festering back ailment, while this contamination exists is it not required that others help us medicate? Is it possible that when we have a weeping wound, dripping of blood and soot deep in out back that it is not a suggestion, it is a requirement that it is attended to by someone that can see it? Could it be a human condition to require this, or to not require this…? Could it be that One is not really One, that One is actually one? This question needs to be answered.

If one is to help, if one is to be helped…a novel set of issues immerges. Between all mortals, all cognitive mortals, relationships undulate. There are some that never exist, people who never meet, a simple rift in the fabric of space. There are others that always exist. When a relationship exists, it will flow like wind over a mountain, it will rise up, then it will fall into a valley, further still through a gorge…unending…till death do them part. (Idealistically) The manifestation of these mountains and valleys is as diverse as the elevation of the relationship. Furthermore, the existence of the wind and its movement is very much defined by the form of the earth over which it flows. Note, earth, is very much a different thing from mountain, valley, gorge, plain, plateau; these are mere manifestations of earth, languages that our intellect can decipher, or vistas that our minds can take in. For millennia the World was believed to be flat, an eyeball on a tall tower could not see the blue, white, and green Ball, hung is Space, that Mister Armstrong could see.

Millions of these earths float in our space. Each little coop marching along in time. It is widely accepted that some terra is harder than other, chemistry will show us that a given sample may show more stone, or more clay, or more sand…different terra, different earth, different. An earth covered in sand can and very well may develop a sea of dunes, as well as wide waste lands littered with small ripples and nothing else.

Another earth may have rich varied soil, it may even have water… The sun shines on it and heats the water, then the atmosphere cools as it sun pales. The water condenses into rich clouds, the prevailing wind sweeps it off into the landscape. Perhaps an earthquake or internal turmoil erupts; regal mountains spew out of the fragile crust of globe. Great rains, carried from the sea, fall on this range and the water runs off, there is erosion on the surface, there is biting and tearing, the crust is torn open. All of this tragedy, all of this destruction, the earth bears the scars of it.

It is a wonder how gorgeous our Earth is…when one stands in the forest, in the trees, in the Sierra Nevadas, listening to a brook next to them, looking at the soaring peaks over their head, feeling ever so small, but buried in the absolute bliss of the beauty.

Maybe when you stand in a scar it does not look so much like a scar. Maybe the bigger the scars in the earth, the more beautiful it is? Maybe not.

djmase

12.18.07