Saturday, April 7, 2012

I Need You

Ices (Isis)
I need you wild 
(Is this what we're living for, 
to be known and a little more?)

- Lia Ices, "Grown Unknown"

* * *

There are questions we never ask, desires untold, and they, and they, and they more than the things we say and do are our true selves. This was our pulse. Our desire. Our own force through the green fuse that lights the flower, that we extinguish, that we exchange for a place in line, a place at the table, a place we promise is where we'll make the stand we've refused to take to date.

Is this what we're living for?

Here's some unshakeable news: the universe is 13.72 billion years old. Human-ish beings have been scraping their knuckles on the ground since about 200,000 years ago and then 50,000 years ago they started thinking, creating, believing. Team Man.

Our puniness is breathtaking.

Into an ancient void we spring up like a weed: self-important, certain, fearing, never looking at how unlikely we are. To stem the tide of collective nausea that comes with such distances, such vistas of time, we have used our creative capacities to organize systems of belief that answer or refute 13.72 billion years of a history we cannot imagine.

And yet we are here. Puny, no doubt, but here anyway.

Into this unlikely circumstance we have poured our energies into what? commerce? war? fear? conformity? a circling of the wagons against the depth of space? vacuity? sleep?


I need you wild.

* * *

I cannot tell you if God exists in the canyons of time.
I can only tell you what I know: we are here anyway and we fill our days with utterly useless, constricted, fearborn doings. We refuse our own impulse in exchange for such paltry rewards that it embarrasses the soul to be bought so cheap.

Is this what we're living for?

Tell me no. I need to know that the answer is no.

14 billion years, give or take a few hundred million, is a long time. We get around 80 if all goes well. Tell me again why you want to spend a single breath with anything less than what makes you wild, makes you the unique, ridiculously small, unlikely and the only you there will ever be. Tell me about those questions you never asked, those desires you rejected for something else, for someone else's desires. Is your life fucked? Tell me no. I need to know the answer is no, not ever again, not now, not while there's a breath left on your lips. Tell me you know yourself, no part left out. Then, then, then only then is there any hope for you to know me.

This is what religion and slow dancing and songs and the invention of love and Sunday mornings sleeping in and the hour before dawn and sacrifice and desire and tenderness and forgiveness and the sweetsweet words "Run into my arms" and handmade gifts and dinners cooked late at night and poetry and fireplaces and pillow talk and children and talismans and healing wells and transformation is for: to be known and a little more in the canyons of time.

It's our only defense.

I need you wild. I need to be wild. The rules we've been handed are there to trade one fear for another: the void of time for the void of more immediate hatreds and fears. These we know how to handle: barbarians, others, tribes unlike our own.

But I need you wild.
You need to be wild.
14 billions years won't die, but you will.
Tell me again what you're living for?

There is nothing higher for us than to be known and a little more.

Be wild.

* * *

Boom.
__________

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