Dear Inner Man
Of course I see the flourishing buttercups
And the beauty of the wild lilies; I see how they carry on seemingly
unperturbed about where the wind chooses to go. They are not bothered
about the colour of tie you choose to wear in a bid to impress
the panelists.
Neither do they wonder why the teeth-whitening toothpaste you
got does every other thing but whiten your teeth.
These beauties...they carry on, like the most amazing rock formations
sitting in truth; for they are who they are and not who or what
you think they are.
I see them ...I see them
I also see the left leg of a fairly new sneaker.
It belonged to the little boy whose poster we all stood and mused
over.
“What will anyone do with a three-year-old?”
“Oh, how cute...look at that charming smile”
We were swathed in goose bumps and empathy,
deeply not ever wanting to own the name signed at the bottom of
the poster.
Beneath the wild beauties which behold a magnetic charm are the
decomposing body (nourishing the bloom) and his non-biodegradable
left foot sneaker.
So from this beauty, I am inevitably demagnetised, not alienated.
For I too, should love to immerse my being in the paradisiacal
dreamland of beauties ... In the same manner a well-fed cat finds
her Valhalla in a ball of wool.
So I see, I see the putrescence in the soil upon which these adorable
flowers bloom; Same flowers that shall sit in yours and my clay
vases...to bring charm to this half-lit room...but more than anything
else I am drawn to the questionable soil.
These mountains, they are breathtaking....look harder, that is
a volcano brewing and not a strawberry flavoured topping.
So I live, for both the beauty and unbeauty.
As I listen to Leonard Cohen’s that’s no way to
say good bye, It also is a line from the quivering lips of
the soldier's wife....same soldier blown into thirty-something
pieces in the market place that very hot day in Baghdad. It is
also a line from the soldier’s son...same soldier who took
two shots in the head from the Janjaweed rebels two nights to
the end of his peacekeeping mission.
As I read Neruda’s love poems, I am on the phone with Lisa,
whose fiancé has driven 25 kilometres to tell her he will
call sometime in the future.
I see the blind leader walking his followers to the edge of the
cliff....I also see another, having a picnic with his own brood
on the greenest patch.
Like the lens of my worn out Sony camera I should like to see
the picture as an unselective story...just as it is.
But this body and soul which produces the fated goose bumps
selects her bits of the picture and highlights them right in your
face.
Then maybe you won’t look the other way and pretend not
to be aware.