of a collaborative effort with
the enigmatic Michael Mather.
April 5, 2011.
***********
michael mather + carla wilson
pity/pitilessness
i.
on
the occasion of my daughter's eleventh birthday I decorated her finely
perfumed hair with a crown of six candles and then devoured her
slice-by-slice limb-by-limb until only her birthday cake head remained.-surely, you exaggerate.
in a world such as ours exaggeration is unnecessary.
-perhaps. tell me, why six candles? was a wish made?
wishes, like exaggerations, swaddle our dying mother earth yet leave her in fits of shivers. no, I left the candles (yes, six) ablaze watched the wax drip embrace daughter lips nose eyes. has anyone beheld a more sweet and darling celebration of life?
-few, if any. but, what then? you tease and we are hungry. we are so very hungry.
I kissed her forehead dipped my lips in her birthday candle wax sung devotion to a god that long ago willed himself from existence: “christ has died. christ has risen. christ, brothers and sisters, christ will come again.”
then I dismissed barbie doll presents congregation cradled them in my arms bedded them individually and in groups.
-copulated with the dolls, you mean to say?
oh, yes! they were not without passion so full of poses my little lovers!
we exulted in one another for hours and days and then (on the seventh day) we rested. yes, we lounged gorged on leftover daughter cake and we were satisfied and blessed in the eyes of the father he who then gifted us with little plastic children boys and girls and birds – yes, we birthed birds – we multiplied and filled the earth and the sky.
-an earth, as you say, that sustains so much already? is such multiplication supportable?
the children, I assure you, will not see their twelfth year. but the birds (oh lord!) the birds will remain! is there anything more divine than a planet inherited and inhabited solely by birds?
-a finer comparison eludes us. but, can we say something here regarding the pitying the pitilessness in the world today?
birds – in the thousands – are released from their flights aborted by the burdened sky. they fall writhe into death cuddle nest into land below. above only cellular television radio uranium waves remain. such is the life supported on this the planet we have possessed.
the fallen winged sweet creatures are noticed only to be misidentified misappropriated as prophecies for human – yes, human and not animal! – kind. but, I assure you, they do not listen to prophesy. instead, they sense the future what is to come in the vibrations of the land the seas the winds.
such is the pitying the pitilessness in the world today.
-you, then, are an alarmist a prophet?
As I have spoken, hopes and exaggerations inhabit and overcrowd our planet. Alarm, dear ones, has already made its visit. Long since has he departed. In my walls I now entertain despair.
Thousands in japan are once again exposed to what only a human lust a human misadventuring mind can imagine. People still radiated by the land microwaved for our consumption. Can you still deny this? Are we still blameless infallible like some pretend pope god?
Thousands – I repeat myself – are radiated as their mothers fathers grandfathers grandmothers were radiated and our only collective response as a country is to condemn their attempts at cleaning up their mess to condemn it as sloppy as unacceptable and insufficient to protect the lives of americans? Yes, I say americans!
I invite cloud plume radiation smoke wafted from blown-out birthday candle celebration reactors japan. Let me be the first coursing sailing welcome committee coast to take a deep breath inhale the weary particle travelers provide meals beds conversations. We will speak long american nights with neighbor despair.
Such, my dear friends, is the pitying the pitilessness in the world today.
ii.
such, my dear friends, is the pitying the pitilessness in the world today.
Pitilessness has been inhabited; Bacon’s world’s become prophetic:
The media widely broadcasts images of families searching for one another after the devastating 9.0 earthquake in Japan.
We are weary and in despair as we search among the dust and rubble.
No one is sure the extent to which the radiation leaks will become harmful, with global implications; however there is speculation about Godzilla’s imminent comeback.
We are weary and in despair as we search among the dust and rubble.
Relevant sound bites express one woman’s or one man’s story in 60 seconds. The stories capture a sentimental ‘effect’, and tell us everything we need to know about what is going on ‘over there’. He will go on, one man tells the reporter. He has lived through much worse.
Good thing it’s over there, another country. We continue munching potato chips, amazed.
The cherry blossoms are briefly in bloom! Reminders that all of life’s beauty is fleeting.
Flipping channels, flip, flip
- sentimental photos
- sound bites
- video edits
We flip on…flip…
- info-mercials!
- reality shows!
- ticker tape...
- next topic...
We are weary and in despair as we search among the dust and rubble.
And yet we have pity.
Those who remember have pity. They tell stories (unabbreviated) to the children; to those who have long enough attention spans to listen, stories of those who have lived before, and endured. The dead among us have pity, offer advice, though we don’t always hear them. Their lessons provide the living with reasons to endure; despair is given meaning, a purpose when the dead remain with us.
And yet we have pity.
Shall the compassionate among us be pitied? Are we, too, among the suffering? Yes, of course.
My friend, here’s an idea: Fold an origami crane and give it to your daughter on her birthday. See her face aglow in birthday candles; see her joy illuminated among friends and colored paper lanterns.
Are we too self-contained to be aware of our greater surroundings? Yes, we are.
And yet we have pity.
And yet we have pity.
Who among us shall be most pitied?
The homeless man or his young dog?
The abused mother or her neglected son?
Mother Earth, or her suffering children?
A world without hope or those who have it?
Samsara. Is life really an illusion? Yes, of course.
Yet there is in this letter a flow.
The newspaper reads:
“I lost it all”
-the old geisha
keeps going
And yet we have pity.
If you are not careful, they will confine you, my friend; then we’ll be as caged as birds in pet stores. Better to let yourself be free.
Come, smoke with me. Sit and have a glass of wine. Let me tell you about my grandmother. She suffered in her final days in hospital. I’m glad I wasn’t there to see it. She couldn’t breathe and suffered great pains in her chest and abdomen. She had six children; no seven: six survived. She was born with privilege and died with little, but her six children were there in the end. The Catholic nuns had never seen such devotion. Her children visited every day until she died. Should she be pitied for her suffering? Working her entire life once she was married, she did little else but cook and clean. Speaking at least four languages, and tutoring neighbors’ children in math and languages, she was a diplomat’s wife. A diplomat who in the end dug ditches in another man’s country. How were her children to know who they were?
And yet we have pity?
How can it be impressed upon young people today that their lives may amount to absolutely nothing? The wealth and privilege we pursue in this country would amount to nothing if we were devastated. The media would have us believe we as Americans are survivors, yet how can we survive without compassion for our fellow citizens?
In Japan, hope continues. Survivors make due. We watch and are thankful it did not happen to us.
And yet we have pity.
iii.
And yet we have pity.
blake
ginsberg dostoyevsky black elk manson whitman together we orgy artaud
clenched and weeping in a corner spying through spread fingers. no, he
refuses to even touch himself and is mocked by charlie's massive sex and
genitals and arresting gaze. black elk intervenes insists we not
infuriate the chronically furious man. no, perhaps we misunderstand one another. it was I who was consumed. I confess with much embarrassment that I have no daughter. and you - I now recognize the face – my sweet mad angel brother let us chew coffee grounds in the living rooms of the middle and upperclass vomiting fits of panic prophecy as we foreplay fondle their sons and daughters (and, yes!) artaud has followed us here too! still he pouts protests refuses his participation. it is you (not he!) waiting holding open the doors of maya delirium to other alternate consciousness for our amusement salvation.
behold! infinity! a fasting buddha lifting his robes to piss. hands outstretched we beg expect meditative puddles but receive only fists of reincarnated fetuses and the buddha laughs releasing from his dharma bell flower mouth makeshift crude crucifixes that splinter our faces.
-that, dear brother, is religion, you instruct me I your forever student companion.
what choice is there but to agree? we are both mad prophets inhabiting visions – you, your towering jonah escort guiding stair-stepping descending virgin mary anima; I, my madmen deviants sexual congress parading mourning waking the scorched earth and her animal angels. together we forestal the procession uncle walt brother allen fuck in the grass the former tickling the thighs of the latter with his wiry beard. how wonderful a sight! how beautiful a pause! the buddha applauds our mindfulness.
dare we undress unclothe unburden ourselves unbutton our panic unzip our anxiety in piles at our feet?
naked we run home to father mother professing our sanity. but the dogs sniff lick our sweaty shaking lying limbs.
-victory, repossess your underwear, ginsberg howls, these fags are not yet free to fly the aeroplanes of their souls!
our parade of prophets visionaries proceeds marches on. alone behind naked we profess preach the end of the ego.
jubilant swarm swifts tumbling mad beside hawk making circles swifts complaining at that bitch muse his hawk delectation of insanity of deranged delirious soaring ecstatic cycles. but look! we are together! brother, we are among them the soaring.
below we watch maya delusion humans without aim we release loosen sprays of shit in which they bathe enjoying what they sense is the warmth of capital.
despair not! we are strong maintain our stamina!
how beautiful it is to suffer! how wonderful this madness of ours!
iv.
how beautiful it is to suffer! how wonderful this madness of ours!
My dear friend, I wish I could describe to you the giddiness I felt this Spring day. The paths I walked were green and lush, and tiny wildflowers budded and sprinkled bright colors among fragrant herbs and sweet foliage: purple, yellow, red. Their tiny petals bursting ripe with heady fragrance among the tall, wild grasses along high cliffs.
And then I came upon the tragedy. The carcass of my beloved pet cat! It had been dragged to the side of the road, limp and lifeless, like an old shirt crumpled in the dust. My soaring spirit crashed; I spun as if drunk. If it was the coyote, I would soon find him, but not now. Not at this very moment. I cradled my pet in my arms and wept. My beloved pet, my beloved angel cat! No longer warm and breathing, she lay limp in my arms.
Pitiless cruelty. Life is fleeting.
We survive chaos. Endure pain. Suffer cruelty. We hate our world leaders, loathe our superiors, avoid our mothers; hurt our loved ones. You say it is wonderful to be mad. Yet we are alone in our madness, like Van Gogh.
As a girl, I was fascinated by his paintings. I remember the “Sunflowers” hanging above my grandmother’s dining room table. Such a melancholy still life! People see it as beautiful, but looking closely, flowers are withered, on the verge of decay. Did you know, my friend? Van Gogh painted a series of sunflowers in various yellow pigments, not long after his self-inflicted injury, before his death in Theo’s arms.
I didn’t know...
My grandmother warmed milk on the stove every morning when I visited Germany as a girl. She then mixed sugar with unsweetened cocoa to add to the milk. It comes in boxes, imagine! I would arrive at the table already dressed to enjoy my beautiful breakfasts those several weeks. One morning, upon waking in my feather bed to the sound of church bells chiming, I thought of VG in San Remy. He looked out his window and saw poplar trees silhouetted against the dark sky. I opened my casement window wide and saw them too, and vast, farm fields that smelled of turned earth and manure. That day, my grandfather, the former diplomat, was taken to the hospital, but didn’t return. Digging ditches after the war had scorned his intellectualism, destroyed his spirit. The next morning, as I waited for news from the hospital I prepared my own hot chocolate.
Life is fleeting, time waning, Earth, dying.
Technology:
There were no cell phones, no computers in those days. We wrote letters and went to the bank with bankcards in our wallets to withdraw funds. We used traveler’s checks, not ATMs to withdraw foreign currency.
Economy:
There was no Euro. Each country had its own individual currency and corresponding exchange rate. Every time you went to another country you had to calculate the rate of exchange per dollar.
Communication:
We bought tickets for the train at the window, not online; we spoke to people, face to face. We made long distance calls in phone booths at the post office. There was no email. We registered for classes by standing in line. If communication is more convenient today due to technology, it certainly doesn’t lend itself to better social skills, don’t you agree? What is it with the MTV, no, the Facebook Generation?
Nature: There were plenty of quiet, public places to sit then, and plenty of animals. I’m not kidding, they would eat right from your hand!
Are you in mourning, then? Do you mourn your cat?
I mourn my cat, my grandparents, my two dead babies. None of it matters without you.
So where is the pity, the pitilessness?
v.
so where is the pity, the pitilessness?
blessed are the hunted and consumed for they will inherit everlasting energy life in expanding belly buddha universe.
*young palestinian rock hurling angel jonah inhabits insides isreal whale palatial intestines. patiently and without tears he awaits digestion thinking thoughts remembering memories: his bulldozed family.
*incarcerated madmen poor homeless bulge belly snake corporation america predator prisons. despair not! my brothers my sisters social rats. refuse (if strength remains) their paper goods linens soaps foods inbred profits. call out your prayers confessions sufferings. st. matthew is but one cell away cradling his flashlight.
*middle east snacks gorged by demented giant america reclined on continent couches falling asleep while watching television planet syndicated destruction death.
*assange manning dissenters terrorists deviants enemy combatants collected in black site prison stomach obama who performs acid white-wash disappearing act u.s. government department of justice.
*sons daughters beloved by bible law maker papa god a god that polices thoughts desires imaginations state senates elementary middle high schools. yes - brothers sisters fanatics - he is everywhere be vigilant minutemen patriot congregation.
* human stew simmering on stove desktop laptop slopped up by facebook entertainment news online commerce. reproduce multiply be plenty! internet web connection america growls grumbles moans is hungry! the speed with which he metabolizes is without match!
yes, dear friend, our brother van gogh is dead by his own hand, but artaud - yes, he has remained at our side - screams: suicided by society!
i assure you and him that dear vincent is still alive (yes, alive!) as graveyard worms grass flowers trees. look here! i fondle his blades inhale his pollens caress his trunks.
behold! he grumbles vibrates we are the same! buddha’s belly universe dissolves our shells containers we are digested become one!
we do not display his paintings but brother vincent himself. yes, i have not misspoken! let his suffering pained body hang crucifixed on our walls.
i, too, lost an animal angel friend stomached in a starved coyote. somewhere in lonely desert america your cat my dog meet as coyotes cacti roadrunners hawks! yes, can you sense their vibrations their continuations? they are friends as we are friends. we are consumed yet consumers. let us all wish one another peace.
vi.
Let us all wish one another peace
Let me respond one last time, dear friend, since you have been good enough to listen to my rantings. Once I am through, though, be assured I will grant you freedom; you’ll go your way and I’ll go mine - we’ll be free of this madness. After all, isn’t it freedom for which we Americans fight, defend, suffer, endure, and continue to hurt one another? Perhaps with freedom, you’ll deliver Palestine, or other border crossings. You’ll clothe and feed the poor and hungry. Harness nuclear power and radiation leaks. Save the Earth’s dying creatures and waning resources. Employ technology for good. Prevent cruelty and injustice to the impoverished and imprisoned. Cultivate peace and brotherhood among nations. Nourish our children. Save our souls? In return I will sacrifice my body and blood for the pity, the pitilessness of mankind. No? You’ll use your freedom to expand your real estate investment portfolio? Advertise on Twitter?
Let us meditate. Remember the Buddha’s path.
You are correct, my friend, Van Gogh lives! Along with Elvis Presley and Marilyn Monroe. They were spotted together in a pink Cadillas sharing a chocolate malted at the Doo-Wop Diner just yesterday. All proceeds from admission to view their appearance will go to the SPCA and to the hungry children in Africa. There will be a walk for breast cancer and a race to cure Leukemia-Lymphoma. There will be energy drinks with guarana for maximum performance and stamina. Stand in line and show your tickets at the gate. Put on your badges. We’ll wear pink ribbons and fly American flag bumper stickers on pickup trucks and high on poles in front of our homes.
We are all one.
“Don’t Tread on Me”, my neighbor’s bright yellow flag declares as she waves her fist, spitting filthy obscenities behind the backs of those Beaners who dare park in her spot. Good thing she is on the Community Planning board and a member of the Tea Party. Above all, she believes in the separation of Church and State!
Let us wish one another peace.
As a girl I was taught by my mother who was taught by her father:
Be good to all people; you never know what they’ve been through, what they’ve suffered. You never know, but a stranger could help you one day.
It’s similar to the Golden Rule, but with a Croatian twist. My grandfather taught it to his children, like so many grandfathers and grandmothers have taught their children. Can such compassion and pity possibly still exist today?
***
Hold Everything Dear“...the paths they make towards us and how far we open towards them
the justice of a grass that unravels palaces but shelters the songs of the searching
the vessel that names the waves, the jug of life, as it fills with the days
as it sinks to becomes what it loves
memory that grows into a shape the tree always knew as a seed
the words
the bread
the child who reaches for the truths beyond the door
the yearning to begin again together
animals keen inside the parliament of the world
the people in the room the people in the street the people
hold everything dear”
-Gareth Evans
