1/22/11

Handbook for Jurors


It is not to be thought that the life of darkness is sunk in misery and lost as if in sorrowing. There is no sorrowing. For sorrow is a thing that is swallowed up in death, and death and dying are the very life of the darkness.

"Everyone must leave something behind when he dies. A child or a book or a painting or a house or a wall built or a pair of shoes made. Or a garden planted. Something your hand touched some way so your soul has somewhere to go when you die, and when people look at that tree or that flower you planted, you're there. It doesn't matter what you do, so long as you change something from the way it was before you touched it into something that's like you after you take your hands away. The difference between the man who just cuts lawns and a real gardener is in the touching. The lawn-cutter might just as well not have been there at all; the gardener will be there a lifetime."

I’m trying to express a concept according to which you can translate one thing into another.

Hoping that someday our cities would open up and let the green and the land and the wilderness in more, to remind people that we're allotted a little space on earth and that we survive in that wilderness that can take back what it has given, as easily as blowing its breath on us or sending the sea to tell us we are not so big. When we forget how close the wilderness is in the night, my grandpa said, some day it will come in and get us, for we will have forgotten how terrible and real it can be.

You see?

I’m trying to express a concept according to which you can translate one thing into another.

'Stuff your eyes with wonder,' 'live as if you'd drop dead in ten seconds. See the world. It's more fantastic than any dream made or paid for in factories. Ask no guarantees, ask for no security, there never was such an animal. And if there were, it would be related to the great sloth which hangs upside down in a tree all day every day, sleeping its life away. To hell with that,' 'shake the tree and knock the great sloth down on his ass.'"

You see?

Working quietly behind the scenes you could pass by one of us on the street and not even notice. It is a silent revolution from inside out and ground up. We go undercover, not concerned who takes the credit, but simply that the work gets done. Many of us have normal jobs and seemingly normal lives, but behind the storefront is where the deeper work gets done. It is a silent revolution.

And the war began and ended in that instant.
Later, they could not say if they had really seen anything.

Perhaps the merest flourish of light and motion in the sky. Perhaps the bombs were there, and the jets, ten miles, five miles, one mile up, for the merest instant, like grain thrown over the heavens by a great sowing hand, and the bombs drifting with dreadful swiftness, yet sudden slowness, down upon the morning city they had left behind.

Silent.
Once the bomb-release was yanked it was over.
Revolution.

Now, a full three seconds, all of the time in history, before the bombs struck, the enemy themselves were gone half around the visible world, like bullets in which a savage islander might not believe because they were invisible; yet the heart is suddenly shattered, the body falls in separate motions and the blood is astonished to be freed on the air; the brain squanders its few precious memories and, puzzled, dies.

Silent revolution.

This was not to be believed. It was merely a gesture.

for

"your ideas are terrifying and your hearts are faint. Your acts of pity and cruelty are absurd, committed with no calm, as if they were irresistible. Finally, you fear blood more and more. Blood and time."

There is one other thing to know……when you have expressed yourself to the fullest, then and only then will it dawn upon you that everything has already been expressed, not in words alone but in deed, and that all you need really do is say Amen!

It is a silent revolution.

1 comment:

bennett said...

This is excellent. Makes me think. What more can I ask?