Friday, March 15, 2019

"Falling" a word-play documentary



f
   a
       l
         l
           i
             n
                g
into a rock garden
                             off a five-foot concrete wall
                                                                          on my stomach
apparently set off a movie
                                                     in the unconscious
introducing the body to the v
                                             e
                                             r
                                             t
                                             i
                                             c
                                             a
                                             l
                                                               universe
was it a trap or an invitation?
                                      was it an opportunity or a sentence?
or more likely a pseudonym
                                             for
                                                 loss
                                                       of
                                                         control
                               in spiritual terms
a loss of ego, self, a dissolving
                                                  into something “greater?”
                                                                                       than ‘me’
or a foreshadowing
                                 of “falling” in love….with
                                                                              another?
                                                                                          the etereal?
                                                                                                           God?
repeated when falling from a two-wheeler
                                                         crashing into a car sneaking
                                                                                                   from an angle-park
                                            into my path
                          while the biker gawked at Shannon a passing co-ed
                                              
and later, this time falling  u  p   the stage stairs  and landing face    d
                                                                                                               o
                                                                                                                 w
                                                                                                                    n
                                                                                                          on the stage
                    in Steelworkers’ Hall
                                                       in front of five-hundred laughing adults
 while earnestly and immaturely pursuing the “star” trophy in the
                                   1951 Kiwanis Music Festival… playing John Thompson’s
                       Three Blind Mice

reinforced by an accidental slip on soap,
                                mischievously rubbed
                                             into the rope rug
                                                                       on the diving board
secured by a rusted bolt that
                                                     pierced the shin, leaving the bone exposed…

as if the universe needed more reinforcement
                                         this innocent was coached by a best “friend”
in the proper stance for firing a twelve-gauge shot-gun for the
                                                                                                   first time
“hold it loose from your shoulder, to avoid its kick”
                                          was his instruction before he backed away
                                into uproarious laughter as I
                                                                                landed on my derrier

and then, at sixteen returning from the YWCA camp
                                                          in the half-ton, with the three-ton engine,
                             we slid into the ditch and struck a large boulder,
           tipping the truck onto its left side
                                                              pinning the red leather jacket I was wearing
                                                                            to the road out the driver’s window
another fall,
                    this time,
                                    in a machine
                                                         outdone by the
embarrassment when the town saw the
                                                              crippled Dodge
                                                                                with its Dad-sign
on the tow-truck’s lot hours later
                                                            on Sunday morning

still relentlessly trying to tame the green-broke filly
                                       the envelop with piano exam results
from the Conservatory
                                                         exposed a 63, when a 70
was needed to pass
                                
     and the darkened car that jammed into
                  the right-front “bug” fender, on a sloppy snowy intersection
at Richmond and Central as this sophomore turned in
                             pursuit of a pizza after a day of
              reading Milton’s Paradise Lost
                                                   in prep. for finals at Western

and then falling into the recently thawed
                                  Rosseau River,
                                                          out of a twelve-foot canoe,
                                                             while shepherding an outdoor class of teens..

the movie reaches a turning point
                                                     in a conversation in Callander
with a poet, who quietly asks, after reading some attempts at poems,
                            “when are you going to jump off the cliff?”

had the universe been shouting “Lucifer,” that angel of pride
                              who fell from heaven….into deaf ears?
                 had the universe been trying to get my attention?
                                    had these many “falls” been the universe’s
call to awaken a sleeping,
                                        protected,
                                                       masked  
                                                                      impenetrable
                                                                             frozen
                                                                                        psyche and soul?
without consciousness, was this another archetype of the
                       Anglican/Episcopal
                                                       Chosen Frozen?

little wonder, when confronted by choirs, guilds, and committees, as well as
                                        Bishops and Archdeacons
                                                                                  from inside
I experienced a bucket-full of “cubes”
                                                        needing their own
                                                                                      falls/thaws/meltdowns
                                                                            in silence  

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