December 27, 2003

• my magdalene

  I want medals
  Commemorating those
  Nights we spoke
  As if
  The same citizens
  Of an understanding love
  Were present.

  We circled wagons
  Holding ground
  Like soldiers
  Hell-bent
  On gripping fear and
  Thinking yesterday.

  You held the line
  Like a cutting wire
  Repeating across
  A landscape barren,
  Used and unhoped for.
  
  And soon,
  Breaking through -
  Shameful words
  Brush, tease
  And loosen
  Bonds that keep us
  Wholehearted. 

  ———

  
  Paulo Garreto on the Cover of Vanity Fair

  ——–

  winter

  Antarctica marks a new age of exploration and icy intrigue.  Snowy peaks and the slow crawl of glaciers like the hand of God, move deliberately, grip the past, press it firmly forward.

  The storm blows a frigid wind and it makes us shiver.  In our tents, we nibble on bones like Neanderthals, teeth chattering sounds like ants at work.  We are bundled deep within our parkas, cheeks pink and cute, toes blue and numb.

  Our days are marked on a glossy calendar of John Muir and his life’s legacy, trees and half-domes and things that are beautiful but do not last.  Things that are fearful, like big rigs and urban sprawl, are inevitable.

  So, we are here in the cold, warming hands by a blue chemical fire.  During the day, we dig in search of truth, hoping it’s to be found in slowly churned layers.  When I was a child, I remember a story from church.  Supposedly, a petroleum hunt went so far deep that ungodly sounds and shrieks rose up to the fear of working men.  I even remember a badly manipulated tabloid cover with a demon face, chalked up in the plumes of a gaseous cloud.

  Zippered up, covered warmly, we live restricted.

  We eat out of cans – peas and powdery sausages hidden under pop-tops.  At night, the winds are shrieking.  During the day, we get lost in the flurries.  It is frustrating to live here but fortunately, we get consumed with work and the daily grind robs much feeling.  We mark our days but ultimately, none of us knows how long we’ll be here.         

  The snowcats are a godsend.  Roaring like tractors, their diesel coughing gets us everywhere we need to go.  But really, one place is as good as the next. 

  I was once lost, left staggering knee-deep.  Hands shaking, I shielded my eyes in search of a familiar landmark, something rare in an unvaried place.  Everything was white, foreboding and even majestic.  The building cold was harsh and lonely and looking skyward, I saw nothing but blue.  I thought it was much like heaven – far and mysterious, unfriendly to most men. 

  It is ominous to stumble on workers from the past, frozen and trapped in a quiet, confused moment.  They are like warriors, carved and hidden in the Great Wall.  When the dissident stands before a rolling tank, the world stops and listens because forceful men take hold of the kingdom.  I wonder if we are the tank and salvation is the man. 

  Here, few things are easy.  But in the cold, things will last; life is a constant.

  ——–

  
  boy near cincinnati, ohio  (John Vachon)

  Matt11:28

  • 4:06 pm
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