The Crane or Mandala & Mantle

The Crane or Mandala & Mantle September 10, 2015

On the road outside my apartment, a cave of solitude where time is lost in the count and my leaky normal dreams finds the end of summer and company moved to their own time that I come to the last of my resources well planed welcoming the solitude of my cave, a ghost town with no planning in relief against the depth of night against dangers outside the flatland nor of reliving the day in depth to sort or pick and choose that there is learning.

But the holiday, movable but periodic, that of Labor, some celebration leaving behind little meaning as if the passengers and the rail are but ghostly echoes of the age of trains. I step out of my doorway, not the cracks in the sidewalks, the denizens of the undergrowth trying to break through my thick glass windows and screens in search of warmth, not that it was cold but that it foreshadowed in them the tilting of the sky toward what in their hearts the once or all too familiar rocking vessels inside them between the dark and light.

In the fog going downward from the hillside I see the great water tower in the distance a little blurred and only a few souls about as the buses start to come to life, the sway of the bright legged gal's pony tail, typical, running toward me as I move to my side of the narrow path thru the park, she nods good morning per functionally as do I a soft morning offered not noticing how worn her face that stored so much sunlight. I may as well have stood in place while the city itself moved around me, no barriers encountered for it was just a greater ghost town. Only the fog seemed to remain constant, the distant torrential rains, its rapids a mind of its own.

In the East the crescent moon and star, Venus perhaps creeping down and glowing brighter until the rainbow of her belt explodes rapidly into its rainbow of red and blue before sunrise. Just fast or slow enough that like my wind up watch in steps I register the expected surprise.

I cut through the large parking lot empty of cars and see the tall crane start to do its robot arm thing as the hard hats are donned and it spins another day to deliver some beam of metal. I recall the progress of construction, note that the wall holds against the record anger of the river as once it looked like the bank would wash away. I am like the drone they use to view the progress from above, a fleeting moment of energy, an overview as if in my dreams.

I feel so small on the wide parking lot and the crane so tall, I wonder if it feel would it reach me. The means and the extremes my Dad taught me that I could measure by sight the angle of a smaller triangle to the unknown height if I measured as well walking to it. Yet here halfway to the North pole the North Star seems to forever fall weightless down and all around if I were to climb toward it holding tightly on the fixed shadow hour caster as if the day. My clock face stood on edge against the flat Druid circle in the sky then turned North East. I understood then that I would not need to walk toward it to measure its height, that all I needed was the angle, forty five degrees it would reach me, greater than that it would miss me. I seemed taller than the distant North Star save if I looked to the zenith through a whirlwind.

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 If prejudice is the child of ignorance can conviction be the child of wisdom?You said "I don't know".  That point mentioned in Sabine's paper 　

  There is a much deeper issue here thinking about this that influences my thinking because of the lucid advice of which this essay is the perfect example.  It is the Wagner in the background of some Hawking slowly evaporating desiring to run yet deep into the contemplation of problems of our existing, lost useful thought to which we now regret what was a time for effort.  In this post-alphanumeric age whom is to blame? Academia? Those who set themselves up as judges of another's work? Perhaps the drive on the surface to turn last century's light into renewable but ever expensive text books for the sake of industry?  Some of us, if not all of us are outside the bell curve like said by Jung of a few prophets.  Or the whole process that extracts tribute by a token salute to a long list of names implied in a conspiracy research, Fermi escaped, and Einstein slipped through. In refuge some are wounded looking back at the evil miasma tied quite irrationally to some patch of soil its existence in world consensus so are driven to imagine some evil that would diminish their perfect pearls, shells or walls in walls that they focus the light within the light to achieve some ultimate fusion that save for such a fear science as we know it would not now exist. Maybe what Nietzsche said in Zarathustra, in his down-going, eternal return, trial by fire of ethereal spirits against the indignity of the empty sky and its murder of carrion crows - we petition the prophet who responds one should not ask him lest he takes from them what little they already know.  I do not exist myself as beyond a few friends it made a difference for that I am not part of a university. It does not matter because I as human have seen something of an original truth - but I regret the volumes of work so vanished or the time spent that such a wound in festering will undermine the positive awakening of our shared and private lives.  If we were worthy and could confirm it then the ideal should be free to do inquiry or at least our scientists exempt from war.  How little of great work may not have gotten through.  Let us find a new way to teach, to acknowledge our youthful and ancient contributions of what may be the best of illustrations of those lost in the margins.  But friend, I am not telling you something your own sensitivity to the human condition is not aware of on some level, of what you already know of that, don't you?

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