23 November 2015

Postcard 42

I am working today with a pristine hangover. The clouds are gently scrubbing the grimy bay sky and the rain is around me like cool steam. I am gazing out at the world from behind my eyes, from the back of my head. I am behind and through myself. Last night, someone hanged themself from a tree on the low hill between the lagoon and the bay. Hopefully our local homeless man will not have the blame for that imposed upon him. He seems to catch the rest. He is a nice guy, singing and smiling, friendly until he gets enough spray paint cans to huff. then he is irrational and aggressive. Whoever proposed that human beings are rational actors was a victim of their own fallacy. 

My understanding of karma is the connections we refuse to let go of as we move through life. Like velcro hooks, or threads with the spools spinning and smoking till the line is spent, then -- ouch, Karma.
Hmm. Imagine a much more holistic experience: pain is intergenerational, transferred through our genes, so that we are born scarred and in pain. So that you imagine a child composed almost entirely of infinitesimal scars, fading as the violence fades. Among us, the most damaged would have the most concern with history. 
How did this happen? they ask.
We know, and we must remember, they reply. 
Where are the scars of the perpetrators, who's actions are a deadening cancer? 

I came upon a homeless man, unfamiliar in my park.
He had all his belongings, sensible and esoteric, spread out carefully on a table. 
How are you today? I asked. 
I'm just here for some peace. 

Why doesn't pleasure and joy leave scars?

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