Monday, January 10, 2011
29. THE FISHERMAN:
A fisherman lives each day engaged with every elemental nuance of his territory - immersed in both the physics and the metaphysics of life and death and shot through with the adrenaline surge of living so near to the razor edge of mortality by which he comes to personify finally the elementals of our spiritual commons and if he experiences things that most of us can no longer experience then merely the assurance of those experiences in some men's lives - like innocence perhaps or sainthood - they become the markers of his personal and constant pestilence the breeak the pain he lives with : no record no marvel no mark and we are as alone again no different than the sailor and his sea the drifter looking afar through his monocled eyeglass spanning the stars - my father was a fisherman until the day before he died - looking out scanning the seaward skies watching the level water running at skiff jamming the line heaving the ballast and pinning the piers with no satisfaction ever beneath the high moon and the distant scars of all sky and star he watched every constellation fall until he fell himself : Nautilus typecast floundering drowned the pearls that were his eyes that entire bit of nothing and everything passed - the sand went through his fingers like just like like the dribble of Time itself and all he ever had was nothing.
A fisherman lives each day engaged with every elemental nuance of his territory - immersed in both the physics and the metaphysics of life and death and shot through with the adrenaline surge of living so near to the razor edge of mortality by which he comes to personify finally the elementals of our spiritual commons and if he experiences things that most of us can no longer experience then merely the assurance of those experiences in some men's lives - like innocence perhaps or sainthood - they become the markers of his personal and constant pestilence the breeak the pain he lives with : no record no marvel no mark and we are as alone again no different than the sailor and his sea the drifter looking afar through his monocled eyeglass spanning the stars - my father was a fisherman until the day before he died - looking out scanning the seaward skies watching the level water running at skiff jamming the line heaving the ballast and pinning the piers with no satisfaction ever beneath the high moon and the distant scars of all sky and star he watched every constellation fall until he fell himself : Nautilus typecast floundering drowned the pearls that were his eyes that entire bit of nothing and everything passed - the sand went through his fingers like just like like the dribble of Time itself and all he ever had was nothing.
