It’s not complicated. It’s philosophy. It’s storytelling. We’re telling and teaching a bad story under the apologetic guise of clunky, who-really-knows truth. If you don’t just say no to an idea that unsettles a few other stones in the foundation, I can tell you the real story. But if you say no, you can go to the garden, seed for yourself. You’ll find the universe there. And it will show you the way it wants to be treated.
To make a long story short, you’ll see your true nature like looking at your face in a clear mirror. We are not aliens. We are not demi-gods. If there were a bee, looking for ideas, collecting memories instead of honey, little globs of sticky pollen thoughts clinging the folded ridges of the pink fatty hive in our minds, the honeycombed shape of our brains, that is who we are.
We figured out cities from eating termites. Carpentry from them and even maggots, family from the wolves. We’re not warriors. We’re peace-finders, benefactors, between creatures who never ever shared anything before us. I’ve seen the lamb lie down beside the wolf. Literally. I’m not saying it was easy. But that’s our superpower. Our gravity. We call it learning, or thinking, or imagination maybe.
But really we’ve just spent the last fifteen thousand years filling up the hive.
If feelings were meant to be taken at face value and blindly obeyed, you’d smash your alarm clock every morning. Our brains believe they know better than us. They stack a lot of negative feelings for emphasis that we call flaws and distractions. Feelings are just feelings and are in no way indicators of a very real, very invisible early warning indicator system that made our ancestors make us dream they had to have been superheroes or demi-Gods to have lived the way they did.
How they manipulated and bridled the human spirit. Once belonging to scattered bands of warring children, well, they basically got people to live like ants. Cities, anthills, we were eating lots of termites at the time, I’m guessing we became inspired. From that point there are a series of emergent outcomes no one planned, came about completely naturally organically as an offshoot, or a side-effect, of an organism changing natures, habitats, choosing how we want to live even as nature tells us no in a hundred different forms. The worst of which are fast approaching.
The answer is simple. What temperature melts the metal? How hot and what shape was the furnace that first made Mankind? And as we build and re-imagine and reinvent modern ways of life, we must keep an element of that heat, some basic fundamental aspect of our education has to preserve the environments that shaped these instincts into intellect. We can go so far, as far as our dreams, but not like a transplant, not like a microscopic seed, an explorer in the wind, our very particular survival mechanism is shaped like a vine. That vine is community, and there is no frontier steep enough to separate us from every person who ever loved or maybe even only tolerated us. There are no such things as humans without relationships.
Time isn’t on a clock.
It’s in our veins.
When we look at ourselves, we are looking at about fifteen thousand years.
When we discuss life, we’re talking at least a billion.
You’ll argue as long as you can. We’ll put it to bed. Maybe in a year you’ll say, I was thinking about that thing you said way back again, you’ll ask me what I meant. And I’ll be a year ahead, no longer questioning, practicing philosophy all of my own, which advises me heavily against teaching people who they are. No. I can work with why. How. I can work with not today, tomorrow maybe. But no. You confessed every reaction to a new situation or life change you’ve ever had before was no. Rather take it slow. Prefer to accommodate this stiff lactic acid choked emotion that hardens the stomach into cartilage and makes perfectly mobile situations sit stagnate and static and cold to the touch but hot like acid. I can’t help. To you, I can’t be shepherd or farmer or friend. To you, child of doubt, progeny of woe, I am no more than a sign post. I can point you to where I found God spying on me, I can tell you what it took to finally see what it is my eyes and ears and mind and fears feed. I found the fractal that gave me the shape of the birthmother of this place. I have seen what we were before. The ghost white pearl in a swirling cape of blackness, gravity radiating like energy, a pull that outreaches, a proactive desire, a cosmic pairing of opposites like the very first lovers weren’t necessarily more complex than dark and bright. But from their union all forms grew possible. I’m a piece of wood nailed to a stake that only says to you, ‘The Garden is This Way’.
Even when our institutions fail to, our brains prioritize feelings over truth. Your least trusting organ lies to you. All the time. About time. Impossible to find. But I could tell you something demonstrable, something that scarred my hands and blurred my vision and changed my entire way of thinking, and you’ll argue against it, tell me no, refuse to tell me why, because of a feeling in your mind. I’ve seen it too. I’ve witnessed the boulder I built my house on wiggle. When it wasn’t supposed to. I’ve reintroduced you to a problem you not only passed by or denied but went ahead and stacked hundreds of other answers on top of.
You’re like a bird sitting on a clothesline drying out an anvil.
Cracks like a bullet hitting air but tumbles
like a football kicked too hard in the head
ripples like a river of glass
crashes like a sunset
into angry ocean.
Fifteen birds sing their songs before roosters
ever crow, yet he owns morning. Prematurely.
Announcing dawn. How you can almost glimpse his tail
in his morning call. His arrow head and jiggly crown
and dripping blood beard. What once cut wind
now beats chests like mad children, wings folded, tucked
voice framed in feather soft quiet of early dying night.
He tries, fails, routes his troop of torn up vocal chords
and evens the score again
until his final crashing crescendo
settles like a boot in gravel.
The sound is stickier than a tree.
Hornier than wild goats.
Ten hens are up already
four eggs in the nest
at four in the morning
so he isn’t anyone’s wake up call.
Roosters don’t sleep eight hour nights.
He knows every shade of filtered light.
Watching the horizon hours already.
Blinking steady, multiple takes, like in a movie
set where the sun is about to be peeled
open like an orange.