Saturday, October 06, 2007

Don't put a lid on a volcano

This is about all things that should be left to the open air, all things that should be left to breathe, all things that should be left to wander, all things that should be left to show, all things that should be left to ooze, things that should be left to grieve, things that should be left to expand and grow, all things that should be left to run around naked, all things that should be left alone, things that should be left in peace, those that should be left to swell, and pour out freely.
Don't put a lid on them. You think you gonna kill them by doing so? How naive. How selfish. How unconsiderate. How suicidal.
I recently made a trip to Mt St Helens volcano, and watching this formidable force of nature, permanently letting out that plume of smoke, I thought of how wise and powerful nature is, and this was a reminder to anyone who wants to watch, and listen, not only with their eyes and ears, but also with their hearts and souls, a reminder that we cannot - and should not- try to control everything the way we do. That we should accept - and respect- what happens. Who was it that put in humans' minds this silly idea that they could control things and people, that they could control what happened? What a presomptuous idea. We'll be on our way out of trouble, the day we admit that we cannot control everything, and that what happens was meant to happen the way it happens.
So why are we trying to put a lid on ourselves, and on others? Why are we killing ourselves by inches? Why are we putting so much effort in killing what little humanity remains in us? Why are we harming ourselves so much? What are we so afraid of? Tell me!

Match boxes retirement at computer age

You got matches? Check out your kitchen drawers. I actually found two in mine, totally forgotten at the very bottom of the drawer, unused. They must have been there for at least a few years. They're stuck together by humidity. Neglected, forgotten even. Useless? This thought came to me tonight as I was lighting my cigarette with my favorite lighter. I went to check my drawer, and found them there, weird objects from another century. Pretty soon they're gonna be antiques. People may start collecting them. I kept thinking about this, oddly enough, about all these match boxes lying at the bottom of drawers in people's homes, if any. What are we to do with those? I kind of felt a hint of nostalgia at the memory of the cracking sound, followed by the acrid sulfurous smell, and then, the light!of a match. The particular light a match produces, different from the one of a lighter. Who still uses them? On the bright side, you might tell me they were made of wood, so soon we won't have to cut trees any more to make matches. Sure, yeah. But don't we make lighters out of plastic? At least matches burned. I don't think those cheap lighters are recyclable. They try to make them look fancy, with bright colors, or personify them, but they feel cold to the touch, unlike matches. Plus they're more costly. How come we've become so dumb as to pay more for unrecyclable plastic lighters?
So I was thinking of what is to become of all these match boxes, maybe, if we're not using them, we should gather them all and make a huge bonfire, to offer them a dignified cremation, in return for all the loyal services they have rendered us.

The old hunter and the broken wing

One day as he opened his door he found a wounded bird on his doorstep. There it lay, very quiet, its head buried under a broken wing, shivering with cold. The old man had quit hunting for years by then, as his eyesight had been going downhill, till his eyes got permanently covered by a cloud of grey mist. So that morning he got aware of something unusual as he stumbled on something on his steps, which almost caused him to fall down. He managed to grip to the post and slowly bent over, as much as his old bones would allow him to. He could still see nothing but a dark mass on the ground. He had to kneel down, and touch the lying object, to realize what it was. It was warm, and shaking. It had feathers. The creature was not moving, except for the shivering. He understood the bird must be wounded, so he delicately took it in his hands and brought it inside his abode. Now the old man couldn't see very well, but managed to find out the bird had a broken wing, and its feet were cold and stiff. The old man quietly prepared a nest for the creature, using an old blanket and some cotton. He lay the bird there and wrapped it carefully to keep it warm. From that day, the old man spent almost all his time taking care of the creature, praying to be able to save it. He would blow in the nest to keep it warm, talk to the bird, gently rubbing it with some herbal remedy, trying to coax it into drinking or eating. He went to fetch the best seeds he could find with his meagre budget, hoping this would awaken the bird's appetite. For days the creature didn't move, its eyes half shut. Then one day, as the old man was almost falling asleep talking to the creature, it opened its eyes. The old man wasn't sure at first, because of the cloud in his own eyes, which made him see everything as if through a dense fog, then when the creature's eyes got the sparkle of life back in them, he could see it. The old man felt his heart beating faster with excitement and joy, and he frenetically started again blowing warm air in the nest, and rubbing the creature. The next morning the creature craned its neck to get some water, then started moving. He started feeding it, a little at a time, while talking to it of how it needed to eat and gather some strength to be able to go out in the world again. He told the creature about how wonderful it would be when it could fly again... and got sad. The old man had no companion and had become attached to the creature. So he told the bird to please come back every now and then when it got better, to tell him of the wonders it could see from above. He could swear the bird understood. He could tell because as the bird got better it would come and rub its head on his neck. The creature would soon be ready to fly again. He thanked God for this miracle. One day he woke up uneasy, and when he called the bird, he heard it squeaking by the door. Oh, that's it, you need to go now, huh? The old man couldn't tell whether he was glad or sad. He finally resolved to open the door, and took the bird in his hand, and reminded the creature to come back and visit. The bird strangely squeaked, as if in agreement, and one last time rubbed its head against the old man's neck. Ok, time to go, birdie, I'm gonna help you. He raised his arm, and blew the bird away. The creature, after a couple of attempts, flew away, and he could already not see it anymore, though he could hear the flutter of its wings. When he couldn't hear it anymore, he came back inside, locked his door and sat down, feeling very lonely. Then for the first time in many years, the old man cried. He cried and fell asleep.
The next morning he was awakened by a squeaking sound outside and jumped out of bed. He went straight to the door, opened it, and then got aware of the strangest thing: The bird had come to visit him, as promised, and he could SEE it. He squinted, thinking he was hallucinating. But he could see the creature with all its details. Then for the first time in many years, the old man laughed, the laughter of a kid marvelling at the world.