ABOVE
ITHACA
Walking above a confluence of rivers, I hear
of time as my enemy again - how roaring are
the sounds, how fierce what seems the rapids
here. To such an extent they have put up nets
and barricades now for those who fall - or jump.
Either way, some mescaline-paradise is present :
the sophomoric idea of Death as escape or removal.
-
There is nothing to any of this : those children of
Delhi,
the girl from Ohio, or any one of the minions now gone.
They've all died in vain, or in the space - at least -
of
their own vanity's false pride. I want to see them jump,
and exclaim 'enjoy the ride!' Too cruel of me, you say?
-
I remember the Friday morning quite well. It was the day
past Thanksgiving, and those around were just mingling,
walking or strolling through the art-infested campus
looking
for time to burn. Everyone was taken up with activities
of
themselves - myself, the same as others, whittled away
the stick of time I'd chosen. The sky was low, and
lowering;
rain clouds and a darkness stood on the horizon. Far
above
Cayuga's waters I stood erect and stern - wishing things
to
understand, wishing things to learn. If I had another
hundred
years to live, what then would I do? Just give thanks for
living,
and stand by what I do. And stand by what I do. The jump
to this Death cannot be worth the jumping, but can
the living match the Life that's lived?
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