The superstitions
of warrior-men. What they carry with them. Consider re-reading “What They “Carried”
by Tim O’Brien. Think of the ecstasy of Ryan O’Reilly, winning the sports medal
of sports medals, the Stanley Cup.
How men, poor
sodden souls, cannot help but be seduced by the idea of help that comes from
somewhere beyond now. So much asked of you, the universal man, the household
god, grow into the role, not just of provider but for the love of mother, the
need of wife, the respect of daughter.
When we stop we
die so we never stop. The sun begins to fall into the rectangular spaces of the
porch, the sun the top of the dog’s head. He wants something from me, this coonhound,
the feel of his paw on my leg like a soldier’s grasp. Pay attention, man. Yield
to what’s necessary. Now the sun is overhead. From here the front door is open and
I’m content to think that the cabin was never more than a three-room space with the
sitting, sleeping room built off the fireplace/stove on the other side of the
central fireplace, a place to hang a kettle (pot) to boil water, erect a grille
to fix meat and vegetables, a country sink for rinsing food, washing up. Your outhouse,
I like the idea of the half-moon cut in the window, wondering where it was
located, high ground, of course.
Imagine a love nest, the children arriving like animals secure in their owned
life in this special hollow, a valley, a sling of living and ghostly things,
you being just one with them, all you need do is sit and listen, and, thank God,
empathize, taste the tongue feels, touch at your fingertips. What is country
when ownership is the furthest thing from your mind? Sin of pride? Absent.
Empathy …. What’s
the distinguishing factor that defines man. Ergo, that we would defy the law of
nature, and risk our lives for others. Jumping in to save a drowning stranger;
the body chemicals that engage when a traveler comes to our door, seeking
advice, assistance. We give to the point of our own extinction …
Next: Running for Your Life: Routine 66
