Coming Down (continued)
V.
The wildfires are attacking the Athenians, torching
olive vineyards, suburbs, and history. Nearby,
Marathon is next (run, citizens!). Little
boys with names like Stavros and Mikos will
be temporarily displaced and lose
faith in the universe. I
cannot blame them. Our world suffers. We suffer (and
our fathers still weep).
I read a book about a merchant who served
Tangier tea in crystal glasses, and I became enamored
and thirsty--not for tea, but for company, for
faith in the universe. In the sky, an unseen
aircraft cuts through your favorite constellations,
plowing through the nitrogen as a farmer does his soy fields,
carefully.
I read on, and I hear about the "universal language" in
the stars--they speak to me in glows; they speak to me in
supernovas; they speak to me. And they speak to you
(I still
love
you).
We'll take a Mediterranean cruise with the stars to bless the poor
Athenians if Poseidon doesn't mind. I'll tell you of my
weeping father, my beloved mother, my manly brother,
my Stoic grandmother. You'll tell me of yours, too!
Over dinner:
sample the wine, pick at balsamic salad, and right
before the main course, you can tell me yours. Our server
will wear a white, ruffled jacket and starched black
pants, and the shadow of starboard (we're sitting
at the edge of the dining hall) will intersect with
his crooked smile--pretentious, but thankful for
my generous tip, of course!
See, my fantasies are funny! I dream of this
not from the earth or not from outer space, but within myself.
REVELATION: I, we, are our own planets.
My cells are my moons: red and white, preserving and
destroying my body. My blood is my longest river, and it always
changes paths. My nucleus is my core. When two
people love each other, I believe it's nothing more
than two planets emerging in celestial confluence. Do you
want that for us, girl on the
concrete steps?
Somewhere flat, maybe Kansas, maybe Mongolia,
there is a lonely shepherd with
a hungry flock. He leads them through
monotonous landscape until the sky turns from
baby blue to burnt orange. The arid heat
breeds sweat droplets in his scraggly beard (the
beard of a prophet?), and he stops
to rest in an abandoned church. I saw this man
in a dream, and he told me something important:
"I have wanted nothing in life but to be
a shepherd and to travel. I have wanted
nothing in life but the dependence and reverence
of my flock. God, Yahweh, Allah, Buddah, Krishna,
Zeus--they want exactly the same thing."
I offered him a beer and asked him which deity to
follow, and he slapped it out of my
hands with the power and wisdom of his
ancient staff, shouting:
"Feed my lambs! Feed my LAMBS!"
Who am I, with shepherd-like dreams, talking of
Greece and stars and you? Who am I, mother,
brother, grandmother? And father, why
are you
still
weeping, just like the poor
Athenians?
(to be continued)
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