At War

When someone wants to fuck you, but you are in the middle of writing, it is like walking straight down the middle of two armies facing each other in war. I hear the tone of the world, a dissonant gong, moving as sound waves into all my pores saying, “be generous. Give and take. That means your body, too. Are not others' needs as important as yours?” In almost all areas of my life, this carillon of noise rings true. However, not writing.

How many times will the inquisitor start flying with no where to land? How long will the war of this magnitude go on without full peace and resolution? J and I talked about swimming 100 turtles deep as opposed to sunning in the shallows. What's cool about diving that far down is, although it can get dark, cold and almost bottomless, you cannot hear the cannons or bombs of war at the surface.

I haven't been fishing or turtle catching or water snake egg hunting for decades.

I haven't walked on a frozen lake or driven a boat in years.

I haven't slept or smoked week or made love by a campfire ever in my entire life.

However, I have hiked the dunes along the glacial lake and stood as tall as the pines looking down over it all.

I have seen the war unfolding and I have imagined how tiny it might seem to an eagle or to God Herself. She sees us not as offended bodies or impoverished poets. She sees we are not really at war. We are telling stories and making music, all to the glory of that which is not bodies fucking or writing or fishing.

Still – I am guessing the body dies at the surface and not way down where the truth lives or up high where flyers fly.