I set out in search of the Now,
Not the Where
or the Why
nor even the How.
I set out in search of the Now…
Let every man aspire to a Silent Citadel in the sky,
and there live free from the crowd.
Eventually, if he wants to learn about himself,
he will have to climb back down into the throng.
Once here, what can he hope to glean from the squeals and grunts,
the coughs and splutters,
And all the dark muttering?
He will need a well tuned ear,
and a steady eye,
to pierce the irony of these cynics.
Cynicism is that form of expression by which the ‘common man’
finally approaches truth.
If we are allowed to be honest for a moment.
Truth does not need us to defend her!
Why, even her shyest glance is wont to play havoc with our most cherished concepts…
Words, symbols, scratches on wood and stone.
Far preferable, then, to stand aside, and let her get on with it… while we flee, in relief, back to our overblown conceits.
Misunderstanding and fear, you see, suit us much better.
And as the day turns to memory, as all days must…
We can, perhaps, savour together, in our garden of earthly delight,
the tragic Satyr Play of our attempts to woo her veracity.
Blissful in ignorance rather than poised,
tight-rope like, upon the very lip of uncertainty…
We have no words for it,
this ‘traffic jam’ of artifice
which we seem content to pursue.
Our infinite regress of virtuosity
is no more than a virtual virus.
Yet another blind-bumper away from the real.
“No one in their right mind believes that stones can walk.”
“Despite the fact that the Folk-Record is unequivocable on this point.”
“It is also unequivocable about stones dancing, and drinking from streams.”
“I may be able to clarify the streams. They may be underground.”
“They may even be telluric currents, but you promised.”
“That, unfortunately, is deductive reasoning for you. It was the only bit of wall we had not checked.”
“We had so checked it… last time.”
“Only from a distance and that does not count.”
As it turned out there proved to be another bit of wall we had not checked.
Also distant and too far away to consider once the snow started.
I mean, really started.
There were compensations though, like the trees and the wildlife.
“Are you sure it isn’t the Throne-Stone?”
“Not near enough to the wall and the gate.”
“But the wall is a mnenomic. Your mind could easily have contracted the distance.”
“Not the right size, or colour.”
“Like that’s not easily accounted for.”
“Maybe you’re right and I’ve discovered a new species of stone, which can walk!”
“But that would be a New-Old species of stone.”
“So perhaps it just went for a stroll, again.”
“What, in the snow?”
A nameless shadow flits across the face of Science.
The Theory of Evolution has not been proven.
The ‘missing links’ for each species have not come forth from the fossil record.
The constituent parts of our DNA have proven far older than the Earth itself.
They can only have come from deep, deep-space.
Yet, in one sense, we have always been here.
Each catastrophic cataclysm endured has been but a pruning.
A clarion call to new growth.
The ushering in of the previously overlooked.
Those ekers out of existence.
The unassuming, unsung, survivors.
But if our very make-up forestalls the evolutionary leap, then who, or what, makes it?
We must turn to Memory for our answer.
We all know how she works.
She, too, is a gardener.
She cuts, and she prunes, and she grafts.
She contracts, or shrinks, both time and space.
And has a mind only for the outstanding.
The memorable is, precisely, in this sense, a cut above.
And where there are gaps in the narrative of her mind?
She fills them in…
She creates… new species.
This is how ‘our’ planet…