TO HAVE BEEN DUMPED
BY CASSANDRA
To have been dumped by Cassandra would have
been a happy moment. We would have flown to
the farthest cogs of the western hills, seeking
something like a solace brought by a burro, or
a rapacious, unruly mount unwilling to settle for
instruction. There could have been a holiday of
emotion, right then, as we basked together in
finding a means to parlay one hunch into two
heads - opinions disgorged to the hilltops,
pebbles in the mouth, screaming as we ran.
'This is how we practice oration,' they said on
the coast of Greece, or deep in the tropical
woods. Now, for ourselves, we are once again
producing the nineteenth century - without
knowing why or how. We pass the rounded
hillside, with its errant road around the trees
and river, and see before us the old and
whitewashed barn set out, still with its
fences and turrets, windvane and gates.
The silo almost leans; it is of such an
extraction as to groan now with age. Bales
of hay, silage, manure, all these things are
spread around the yard; amongst the cows
and cattle the heaving heap of muck and
slop produces throngs of flies and bugs. The
very air is abuzz with the activity of Life and
Liberty, seen from a very small perspective.
Alas, we should not worry. We are here for
the duration, keeping a cobble-book of notes
by which to refer to the daily urge of mark
and number, strain and desire. It is not for
nothing that seven thousand years of living
have brought Mankind to this very edge of
agriculture - bigger than ever before, yet
seemingly small on the face of this Earth.
Life becomes a quandary thereby, the paradox
by which we breath. The very same dead we
bury in these earths become the source for
soils and fuels. How is that, that it cannot be
understood? A relative scale so obscure that
only others would see it? We allege to love
the Earth. We allege to revere this very world.
-
To have been dumped by Cassandra would
have been a most happy joy instead.
BY CASSANDRA
To have been dumped by Cassandra would have
been a happy moment. We would have flown to
the farthest cogs of the western hills, seeking
something like a solace brought by a burro, or
a rapacious, unruly mount unwilling to settle for
instruction. There could have been a holiday of
emotion, right then, as we basked together in
finding a means to parlay one hunch into two
heads - opinions disgorged to the hilltops,
pebbles in the mouth, screaming as we ran.
'This is how we practice oration,' they said on
the coast of Greece, or deep in the tropical
woods. Now, for ourselves, we are once again
producing the nineteenth century - without
knowing why or how. We pass the rounded
hillside, with its errant road around the trees
and river, and see before us the old and
whitewashed barn set out, still with its
fences and turrets, windvane and gates.
The silo almost leans; it is of such an
extraction as to groan now with age. Bales
of hay, silage, manure, all these things are
spread around the yard; amongst the cows
and cattle the heaving heap of muck and
slop produces throngs of flies and bugs. The
very air is abuzz with the activity of Life and
Liberty, seen from a very small perspective.
Alas, we should not worry. We are here for
the duration, keeping a cobble-book of notes
by which to refer to the daily urge of mark
and number, strain and desire. It is not for
nothing that seven thousand years of living
have brought Mankind to this very edge of
agriculture - bigger than ever before, yet
seemingly small on the face of this Earth.
Life becomes a quandary thereby, the paradox
by which we breath. The very same dead we
bury in these earths become the source for
soils and fuels. How is that, that it cannot be
understood? A relative scale so obscure that
only others would see it? We allege to love
the Earth. We allege to revere this very world.
-
To have been dumped by Cassandra would
have been a most happy joy instead.
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