Cultural Blanket in a Dynasty of Wonder Blog space
I’m a screamer, a birth process , no nonsense, screaming meemy of a screamer; a whiner, a whaler, a heel bangin, foot stompin, head beatin, rollin around squirming and shoutin screamin meemy of a screamer whenever I have to change from one way of being, thinking, moving to another
Does that make me wrong? Or human? Does that make me a failure because my feelings are more important than the ideas that seem to elevate most people; does that way have any more weight than it did in the so-called simpler times (of our youth). Even so, I have a justification for this screaming sensibility. Most people seem to be losing their ability to really feel anything anyway—which I say soto vocce—because I am afraid the other screamers will be offended! So many people cite sources, statistics, their parties, their documents, he said so , she said so, because I say so, because MY reasons trump your reasons, because MY story is better, has more drama, elicits more sympathy/ empathy than your story. Because Because Because. I am a screamer and I am afraid I will lose this ability one day and I will slip away (the I of I…the me of me –the observer) and I will no longer care about these things I like to scream about. The changes that happen whether we want them to or not, whether we were the catalysts or not, whether we were victimized by them or whether we bullied someone into buying into our story or not begins to deteriorate in the face of so much screaming,
We think or someone else thinks anyway–there is so much rhetoric out there now that the experts have experts –their go-to guys—and those experts have their experts like a three- fold mirror that gives us back our image through eternity, a smiling eternity of faces in the same pose.
The point or the head of the pin is lost in that myriad of faces and in that roar of sound. (Because I am not the ONLY screamer ), not the only tip of the iceberg existence cat, not the only rolling line of dusty running animals—bulls or extinct buffalos; I don’t know, you choose. They’re still runnin’ I think we’re going faster now, too.
The Head of the Pin
The head of the pin steals the limelight, a short stop man;
each time the round-topped post appears,
the point already disappears into a seersucker suit
a transparent blue linen shift, the hem of a raw silk scarf,
or a nun’s headdress: cornette and wimple*.
Two frayed collars lay waiting beside the iron,
prickly cotton tendrils shy away from the heat,
finally introducing us to their symbolic gestures.
Their ordinary positions hold them still,
their actions practiced over and over with careful precision.
A seamstress weaves them into a starched white dress shirt;
light years away, a star soon to be discovered connects
And the head of the pin, the point of the pin
goes in and out, up and down. Yards of cloth extend
their elongated fingers toward their pointy death,
a knife fight of pin-pricks eventually drains
their wraith-like bodies, their essential fabrics;
an empty space is left, unexplained,
embarrassed about the silent theft of the emptiness within.
Oh, you thought something was in there?
When a pin makes a hole, it’s hollow, a void.
Everyone knows that.
Think how long it would take to patch
thousands of tiny holes in a million yards of fabric;
oh, you say the weave closes over the hole;
hot water shrinks the holes in one of the preparation stages.
I say the holes are still there ashamed of their emptiness,
desperately wanting to be filled or fulfilled.
The clothing industry hasn’t been clothing us all these years;
they’ve been infiltrating our souls, stealing our identities.
We are the clothes wear the man not the man wears the clothes.
We are their creation, made of whole cloth, not flesh or bone.
A flock of birds head west, the last frontier for a long time now; so long that the west coast became the east coast and the Midwestern plains became their own kind of coast where writers liked to gather because it cleared up any misconceptions they previously had and because when they look out over the Tall Grass prairies something breaks inside and their vision clears as well. Something about waving golden grasses and translucent flitting insects, I think.
*A nun’s total outfit is called a habit. The head covering is a veil or a cornette. A wimple is the piece of cloth that covers her neck, and goes over her head under the veil or cornette. The various orders of nuns have adopted many different and characteristic styles of veils or cornettes as part of their habits.