Friend
Nature always had
a magical way of communicating with my dead ears. Mother! Oh! Mother! Tell me your stories. Sweet violin leaves. Legato in time with the soft and
delicate wind. Miraculous fluted vines. Twisting melodies caressing the pallid
plaster human wall. Divine and thunderous roots of percussion. Beat, beat, beat
the life into rhythm. Structure that support the mightiest of symphonies. Tall
trees. Omnipresent over the glorious ensemble of organic musicians.
Immediately my
brain ceased to seethe and seize within its calcified home. Silence was the
theme of the moment. An antiquated vacuum of serenity devoured my cynical mind.
A smooth pheromone of sweetness, that only a flower could bring, crept into my
uncultured nostrils. I could not ascertain the locus of the flower that
produced this most insatiable odor. Georgia O’Keeffe once said, “Nobody sees a
flower-really-it is so small it takes time-we haven’t time-and to see takes
time, like to have a friend takes time.” My quest now was to find a new friend,
a botaneous friend. The quest would take time; for I was in the rapturous
confinement of a grand vivacious forest. Amazonian it felt; secluded from
civilization. Oddly enough the forest was rather close to the roadway carved
with the passing of opulent automobiles. I wondered how the garrulous fumes
expelled from the vehicles affected the sanctity of the luminous boscage.
But, where are the
flowers in la selva de musica. ¿Donde
eres? ¿Donde eres, mi amiga perdido? Lost. Muted. Muffled. My quest
strengthens in its difficulty. Communication defunct, I must rely on intuition
and keen observation.
Behind the veil of
the leafy shadows. A shriek. A bird. Once again the avian horror divaricates
the veil of the Holy Natural Synagogue. A distraction to the realm of the
plant. A burden to my ears alone.
I step towards an
enfilade of rubicund outstretching branch-arms. Carefully I defilade to avoid the
oncoming attack of the branch-arms. Their dead skin, barren, does not
eviscerate my position. I flank the foliage with my eyes. I study its position.
Any captives? No. My friend is not to be seen in the ranks of the onslaughting
bush.
Moving on. A small
koi pond. I dive into the water with my eyes and look around. Loaves of orange
aquatic bread swim voraciously towards me. They think I have food. No food for
you. The fat aged pescatores swim
away; leaving me with the lonesome sound of artificially pumped water.
The search trudges
along. I pass a mosaic bench. It is a quite beautiful bench. It looks like a
direct product of a kaleidoscope. Many sporadic colors unwillingly trapped
within a pattern. As nice as the bench seems, I doubt it will provide any utilitarian
comfort. Its purpose…a lie. Not a bench, but simply an unused aesthetic. I sit
on the bench anyways. Turns out it is unbearably uncomfortable.
I abdicate the
mosaic throne and make my way further into the jungle. I come across a tree.
All trees look the same to me. Each one brown and woody. Some may be thick and
mighty. Some may be withered and wiry. But, you see, the concept, to me,
remains the same; brown and woody. This tree I find to be an outlier in my tree
philosophy. Hanging down from the branches of the tree is what looks like
potatoes. Yes, potatoes. Potatoes on raw umber cables. I approach the
mysterious tree potatoes. I hear saxophones coming from these bluntungulated
objects. I reach out and grab one of the earthen ovals. It feels like a rock,
not like a potato. The saxophones squawk. “What are you?” I ask the bizarre
rotund form.
“I am life,” it responds.
“No, I mean, what are you in
regards to substance? Are you a rock, a seed, a hardened potato?”
“I am life.”
“Indeed you are life. I assume you
are a seed. Life springs from seeds. Yes. Yes you must be a seed. Life.”
“Life. Life. Life. Life. Alive!” It
exclaims.
Saxophones
begin again. Jazz…Seeds…Life.
The
path ahead of me is a ruin of dilapidated cobble stone. Centuries old.
Something catches my eye. Something squirming in the dirt. An earth worm.
Observing the worm, I ponder about the essence of food in relation to the
worm’s existence. Earth worms eat dirt. They eat it all the time; I bet they
get tired of it. I wonder if they cognitively realize that there are other
things to eat rather than dirt. I guess that requires a tongue, I will say that
I do envy the earthworm in one aspect though. Earthworms have five hearts; I
have but one. I guess that makes the earthworm four times more compassionate
than I.
Next, I pass some
long bony reeds that protrude erect from the coffee black soil. Swords ready to
slice and stab. Dangerous snare drums play in their wake. A small brigade of
officers. Russian grenadiers marching in stasis. Pointy rutilant hat, shiny
silver sabers, clean stiff rifles. I move swiftly past. I’d rather not
interfere with military matters.
My friend, my flower where are
you? My search leads me to a Chinese
garden. The garden is guarded; effaced by a circular moongate. Inside the
portico is a complex and jocose lattice structure. The iron bars weave
downwards creating a mathematical labyrinth. From inside the labyrinth a single
pianist can be heard. Trapped, but content, the pianist plinks out a
surprisingly wonderful and programmatic melody.
Through
the maze of atmic piano notes, I see a Buddha statue. It’s a dharmachakra
Buddha. A teaching Buddha. His yellow jaundice finger motions me to talk to
him. I go over. He chants something to me in a quiet refined voice. I can’t hear
him, so I lean in closer. He whispers, “Dukkha, Samudaya, Nirodha, Magga. It
all ends. Nirvana. Nirvana. It all ends.”
The
Four Noble Truths. Good advice. Hard to achieve. A life devoid of human
pleasures sounds incredibly dull. I’m not ready for that commitment yet. I’ll
stick to Christianity, much easier.
I
wonder if Buddha knows where to find my flower friend. I ask. He replies, “No
one saves us but ourselves. No one can and no one may. We ourselves must walk
the path.”
I
thank Buddha for his help. Useless it was. A lousy guide indeed.
I
sit on another bench. It’s red like communism, but not quite as uncomfortable.
Next to me on the bench sits a patch of moss. The moss is spongy and tumescent.
I decide to touch it. The feeling of the green clump brought me great
satisfaction. The moss felt soft, moist, and pleasant. It was like an organic
pillow.
A
whisper, not Buddha’s, calls from within a thicket. I get up, walk towards the verdure,
and search desperately for the voice. I see it. It’s the flower! My friend! I
close in. “I’ve been searching for you my friend,” I say excitedly.
The flower, weak and wilted, turns
to me and whispers, “I’ve waited so long for you my love.”
“Alas, I have found you,”
excitedly, “I am happy to see you. You look ill, what is wrong? Are you sick?”
“I am dying.”
“Why? No, you cannot die. I have
just found you.”
“I am dying because I have been
forsaken. That is why, my love.”
“Who forsakes you? Who? Tell me
who.”
“Well,” my friend pauses, “it was
you who have forsaken me.”
Alarm and despair thread throughout
my nerves, like water spreading out inside of a potted plant. “I…I don’t know
what to say. I am so sorry my dear.”
“It is okay. Nirvana shall come. I
forgive you. Alas, it is well known that nobody sees a flower. It takes time,
you see, and nowadays time is everything. My friend, I wish you well. I love
you. I shall see you on the other side,” and with that my friend drooped down
into the fresh earth. She became one with the soil. An angelic compost.
The band began to
play. They began to play forte and allegro. The leaves, the grass, the
roots, the cable seeds, the bushes, the water all played gorgeous prideful
music. The flower remained silent. No music emanated from her pedals of
alabaster and galena. The Buddha chanted, “Dukkha, Samudaya, Nirodha, Magga. It
all ends. Nirvana. Nirvana. It all ends.”
