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From: Alfred Lehmberg <Lehmberg@snowhill.com>
Date: Sat, 07 Feb 1998 05:58:01 -0600
Fwd Date: Sat, 07 Feb 1998 16:17:51 -0500
Subject: Alfred's Odd Ode #221

Apology to MW #221 (For February 7, 1998)

You look out on the blackness of a starry, starry night to washed out
points of light polluted, symbols of your fright=85Seeing but a fraction of
what is really there, you hope its strange ambivalence won't put you to
its dare. Move on out to darkened space, and the fraction's even smaller;
despite the fact you're seeing more -- enigma just gets taller! That
space is huge, immense, unknown -- its size is _ever_ larger. The length
and breadth accelerates, its hugeness fans its ardor. In it's found
potential of a billion trillion ids, if you've thought it, it has
happened =85 and has happened as it did. And much, much more has happened
than is thought of in these minds that inhabits our shared multi-verse in
slow rivers of old time.

There is blackness that transcends Pol Pot, or Hitler -- even Stalin!
There are miseries undreamed of in their pits to snare the fallen.
Despair so thick it runs in veins like toxic waste in dreams -- that
mirror all the passion of its shrieks, and cries and screams.

But balance is the order so the inverse also happens. There is truth and
light and sun washed sight to complement its lesson. There's the smell of
leaves of grass on a million peaceful worlds, a touch of silk that's
cobweb sheer on healthy frames un-shamed, unfurled. Unclouded and austere
and never screwing for percentage, they are living, laughing, loving, and
they know the sweet advantage.

Like a fiction, or a star trek, or a star wars, love abides. It's the
feeling good with honor that is felt with _humble_ pride. It's the
looking out to see their works as lasting, fitting in. It's achieving all
their dreams AND satisfactions found therein! There's a breathing free
with honor in a world they help build, there's completeness for that
*spot* in them -- _you_ love it when it's filled.  They respect the
individual, the key to their success, they live in lucent Edens they
construct, but I digress.

Garibaldi, someone like him, lives his life on edge of failure; a captain
takes a sacrifice to task. Anything can happen on a million billion
worlds. Dr. Drake can only tell you when you ask. He's more than just a
WAG, and he's conservative as hell; he is science un-myopic and he's got
a tale to tell. It's a statement on veracity that watchers _do_ exist,
could watch us span potential -- watch some of us resist =85 Could be
looking from the shadows some avoid in dangerous fear -- go beyond the
envelope that you contain and label queer. =85Deliver from the darkness, or
give up on the light. Living on (?) -- in all your selfishness, and
disrespecting spite.

Earth is but a point in space, and cursed with infestation. A cancer
rages in her flesh; it's humankind, and its gestation. Barely self aware,
it's wondered, "will it meet its test (?)"; will it wallow in its toxic
filth, or will it rise, amidst the best? Will it screw for best
percentage like Ms. Ripley once observed, and grind itself beneath its
heel -- unrepentant, undeterred? Or will it work to _meet_ the watchers,
read a history handed down, though it crumble proud foundations of old
systems un-profound.


Lehmberg@snowhill.com

It does little good to maintain that these are not precipitous times. On
the one hand we look into untroubled skies with a good clearing breath in
our collective chest -- remarking that it's a grand time to be alive =85 on
the other hand -- well, the other hand is empty=85empty and cold.

We feel this on levels underlying the brave fronts we put up during the
day, holding this tenuous *thing we call reality* together in gnashing
teeth, and scratching nails. Some of us are able to hear the screams of
those that fall to the wayside, or under foot, in this mad dash to covet
imagined satisfaction; smell those ground up for grease to lubricate the
lifestyles of a dwindling few; see the disrespected stagger in induced
retardation; feel the hopelessness, despair, and anguish of a MAJORITY
of  INDIVIDUAL people who inhabit an insignificant and brown tinged, but
blue and white point in space.

I think it explains the popularity of "Titanic", a theme of increasing
frequency nearing century's end; the ship a metaphor for the *impossible*
occurring; a complete and absolute destruction, even disappearance, of
the very ground you stand on; a plunging out of sight into the black,
high pressure, and terrifying unknown. Maybe we go out with some blustery
passion, or not -- the slide to crushing dissolution is complete for
both.

I stand as round shouldered and vulnerable as any, but I square my
shoulders to hoist a one fingered salute to any fate that sweeps down on
all of us, or just on me. I'll face what's true, and make it work, if I'm
able! Or not.

The salute remains.

~~~
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"I cleave the heavens, and soar to the infinite. What others see from
afar, I leave far behind me." - Giordano Bruno, while burning at the
fundamentalist's stake, and tied to preclude a similar salute.