how memories fade


The best things of mankind are as useless as Amelia Earhart’s adventure. They are the things that are undertaken not for some definite, measurable result, but because someone, not counting the costs or calculating the consequences, is moved by curiosity, the love of excellence, a point of honor, the compulsion to invent or to make or to understand. In such persons mankind overcomes the inertia which would keep it earthbound forever in its habitual ways. They have in them the free and useless energy with which alone men surpass themselves.

Such energy cannot be planned and managed and made purposeful, or weighted by the standards of utility or judged by its social consequences. It is wild and it is free. But all the heroes, the saints, the seers, the explorers and the creators partake of it. They do not know what they discover. They do not know where their impulse is taking them. They can give no account in advance of where they are going or explain completely where they have been. They have been possessed for a time with an extraordinary passion which is unintelligible in ordinary terms.

No preconceived theory fits them. No material purpose actuates them. They do the useless, brave, noble, the divinely foolish and the very wisest things that are done by man. And what they prove to themselves and to others is that man is no mere creature of his habits, no mere automaton in his routine, no mere cog in the collective machine, but that in the dust of which he is made there is also fire, lighted now and then by great winds from the sky.  ~Walter Lippman

don’t you just love the mighty shifts that sweep us up and toss us into another completely strange world? no? yes, well, maybe not, but… can be quite adventurous even within the turmoil….

inquiry for today~  nothing messes with us quite like expectation or disappointment after the fact…..can you shift into the changing season with little more curiosity and a little less sadness for the fading roses?

when the truth hits hard

Autumn comes with its riot of death,

the clarion bells of color

drives the living green to ground

even as it thins the veil between worlds.

The visible and invisible walk now together

with arms outstretched over fields

where workers hasten to the harvest

none may divide against itself.

So where are you in this?

How long do you loiter

between the said and unsaid,

the done and undone,

between the half and true rhyme

of a life answering a life?

Geese mark the sky with dark wedges,

call with harsh tongues

to what thrives at the margins

of all we so reluctantly receive.

Go now,

quickly and with great force,

toward what burns in your dreams

at the dying of the year.

Who can say?

Perhaps you reap the whirlwind,

perhaps the harvest-

but is it ever enough to not know

the bonds and bounds of what will one day

forsake you for the grave?




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