Dear Man In The Skies,
Give us some Fog.
You know, this winter, has been not good enough. This winter has just about frozen over from 2005 to 2006. The chill’s gone dead cold and swung on the other side of zero. But, it’s chosen not to be generous. It hasn’t brought us the Fog. And all those messages from the Mist.
Just a few nights of the Fog, please? So that, after the muddle of a commonplace routine that pours heaps of knotted fungi all over and inside of us, let the Fog bullet a trial into our face. Just when we think it’s time to go Home, and we push the ‘Start’ buttons of all the technology that will deliver us, the Fog comes and mountains itself bang in front of us. Blocking all sight, like the film we can see but cannot see beyond. But since Home, we think, is the destination, we’re left with no choice, but to cut through. So we, riding the blare of technology, all the wheels and all the horns, with no safe options, make way into the thick of nothingness. Have you ever driven through thick blankets of Fog, God? Then, nothing else matters. Everything leaves. The past – the most distant, the most recent. Because we, in all absoluteness, are too bloody ‘taken over’ by sightlessness, just about sniffing our way down the road & not fall out of line, into some abyss. The next minute, day, month… the-next-anything stops mattering. Making way through No Sight, only vision works - that the End could be a second away. But since we’ve nothing to do but move, so we do. When the End lurks ‘that’ close, it stops frightening. It becomes one hell or heaven of a game and well, we love to play. Despite ourselves. Despite anything. Despite everything. Despite nothing. Driving through the fog, the streetlights hang like many suns from the heaven and the trees become a network of another world. Driving through like that, we can smell you, God, that musk and cloud and sun and stars. We can hear your words better - you sound so quiet in the rustle of leaves breaking away from their umbilical cords and in the rise and fall of dew. Something in your quietness tells us, God, that we will come through if we have to. And if we don’t have to, then Cheers to the last game.
Listen God, give us some Fog, at least once in a while. So that we learn to take a plunge, without looking. So that we learn to journey, and to hell with Home. So that we play the game for ‘now’, to hell with all ‘that was’ and ‘will be'. Give us some Fog, so that we learn to live in the possibility of death. Give us some Fog, so that we learn to play dangerously.
Your child, who could be much more.
***
The love, my friend, is blowin’ in the wind…
Oh well, blood does bind. And shared history, too. The last few days, many cells have been ringing to ‘private numbers’. From the across the barbed wire, hands & hearts have been reaching out. Many new friends and some strangers too, have been inviting “just anyone” to be their guests. A story that we recently carried – on cricket being just incidental for those visits to Pakistan - is just a small fragment of the fragrance. Do you feel the unrest, the desperation to bind again? We do. Many others too... It’s amazing how extreme hatred wombs extreme love!
***
Give us some Fog.
You know, this winter, has been not good enough. This winter has just about frozen over from 2005 to 2006. The chill’s gone dead cold and swung on the other side of zero. But, it’s chosen not to be generous. It hasn’t brought us the Fog. And all those messages from the Mist.
Just a few nights of the Fog, please? So that, after the muddle of a commonplace routine that pours heaps of knotted fungi all over and inside of us, let the Fog bullet a trial into our face. Just when we think it’s time to go Home, and we push the ‘Start’ buttons of all the technology that will deliver us, the Fog comes and mountains itself bang in front of us. Blocking all sight, like the film we can see but cannot see beyond. But since Home, we think, is the destination, we’re left with no choice, but to cut through. So we, riding the blare of technology, all the wheels and all the horns, with no safe options, make way into the thick of nothingness. Have you ever driven through thick blankets of Fog, God? Then, nothing else matters. Everything leaves. The past – the most distant, the most recent. Because we, in all absoluteness, are too bloody ‘taken over’ by sightlessness, just about sniffing our way down the road & not fall out of line, into some abyss. The next minute, day, month… the-next-anything stops mattering. Making way through No Sight, only vision works - that the End could be a second away. But since we’ve nothing to do but move, so we do. When the End lurks ‘that’ close, it stops frightening. It becomes one hell or heaven of a game and well, we love to play. Despite ourselves. Despite anything. Despite everything. Despite nothing. Driving through the fog, the streetlights hang like many suns from the heaven and the trees become a network of another world. Driving through like that, we can smell you, God, that musk and cloud and sun and stars. We can hear your words better - you sound so quiet in the rustle of leaves breaking away from their umbilical cords and in the rise and fall of dew. Something in your quietness tells us, God, that we will come through if we have to. And if we don’t have to, then Cheers to the last game.
Listen God, give us some Fog, at least once in a while. So that we learn to take a plunge, without looking. So that we learn to journey, and to hell with Home. So that we play the game for ‘now’, to hell with all ‘that was’ and ‘will be'. Give us some Fog, so that we learn to live in the possibility of death. Give us some Fog, so that we learn to play dangerously.
Your child, who could be much more.
***
The love, my friend, is blowin’ in the wind…
Oh well, blood does bind. And shared history, too. The last few days, many cells have been ringing to ‘private numbers’. From the across the barbed wire, hands & hearts have been reaching out. Many new friends and some strangers too, have been inviting “just anyone” to be their guests. A story that we recently carried – on cricket being just incidental for those visits to Pakistan - is just a small fragment of the fragrance. Do you feel the unrest, the desperation to bind again? We do. Many others too... It’s amazing how extreme hatred wombs extreme love!
***
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