Life or Stuff?
Is my stuff my life or my life my stuff?
I wonder 'ere the pillars of grace.
The desert stone, set back and sharp
Against the marble gate.
And who shall pass, what life is this?
Who wants the dry old way?
For I can see clearly enough,
The road is brown, the trav'ling tough.
I am compelled, I must confirm.
The gate speaks to my soul.
My eyes scarce watch the burning hell,
My feet, would well retreat,
And yet I stand, now think of that!
What brings me here to see at all?
I barely stand and shift around,
My heart yet holds its beat,
I really wish my soul would speak,
And spare my confused feet.
Part two:
And right before my soul, I think,
There flashed a vision, fierce!
I saw but for a moment,
It, all parts of life did pierce!
Not a particle of soul did stand,
Not a shredded shadow in the barren land,
But what felt terror, piercing light,
Glory, ecstacy and Godly might!
I saw that here, the land around,
The dread dry heat, the barren ground,
The rocks and creatures,
Scorned! Reproached!
The land was me! Now think of that!
What dread forsaking...cursed, my state!
And yet, in said pierced soul I heard,
A tale, only heart had understood,
The tale of man, a man of fools,
Taken and defiled with devils' rules,
Happily given to pry this for that,
Life for stuff and stuff for life!
Two sworn enemies, understood,
By evil gathered, conquering good,
Not battle 'gainst God, parish the thought!
Instead with each other, believe it or not!
And here, a battle, all were told,
The battle of battles, the oldest of old,
Your side is good, yours evil of course,
One on elephants, another on horse.
But who, pray tell, should understand?
That here the result, this barren land,
Should be the spoil of every lord,
Of every shield and every sword,
The side forsaken, switched, who cares!
The victory is not in the battle there!
The victory sweet, the devils, they laugh,
The battle IS the loss! Oh cry me dead!
I whithered every tree and bush,
And every blade of grass, and rush,
And all the water, I burned as dross,
To enter a war, that only yeilds loss!
So at last I understand,
The marble pillars, the barren land,
Are my place now, to build again,
The real stuff of life, and then,
To spread the word, from my kingdom gate,
Tis nary side escapes the fate.
But one stands free...
For the many, stands he...
The life of stuff, the stuff of life,
Are cast out as fertilizer!
Yup, that is right, the ground up bull,
Makes well the growing of grass and tree,
And life is mine, to heal, learn, grow!
To look, to feel, to touch, to see!
Life is is, is now! Wot riddle?
No battle at all, no place in the middle!
Indeed, life fools create!
It is, it is! The blind speculate!
More blind, thinks I, than the eyeless stare,
To not see life! It sits, right there!
Cannot be won, nor lost, nor failed,
Cannot be helped, or hurt or prevailed,
Life is is, is now! See here!
Kal discusses the "Life of Stuff" poem: "This poem, like many, tell of the fool's paradox, a fool because the fool is ordinary, common, attached to common things...fool's things! The substance of life is not won or lost! Any battle in it is only there to keep the fool occupied looking at that which is fabricated so that s/he cannot see the rich things that are real!
"It is cynically funny to me that anyone would tout themselves victors of anything I know of. Such implies that which cannot exist. Really, it is the love of a fabricated glory or pleasure or victory against one's opponent that is the real bondage in this life.
"The story of this poem is the story of one trying with all his might to explain what he saw at a subatomic level: a world made dry, desolate, horrid by a riddle, a riddle that must be answered before the climactic hero can pass through the great marble gate and see what is instead of what isn't. What isn't, ironically, is what is, for our hero. He is compelled by it somehow. He finds himself totally unable to travel away to...say a land of beauty and abundance. This, we presume, is because the hero senses that the only thing that exists for him is of his own choosing and he has chosen, historically, pretty poorly.
"Our hero finds no obvious comfort in the fact that everyone seems to be doing exactly the same thing. In fact, he feels compelled to help them, in the end.
"Our hero sees that life is not stuff, nor is stuff life and life cannot be exchnaged for stuff either. He sees that the battle to argue about such things is fabricated, in this case by devils. These devils are primarily motivated to prevent humans from seeing what is by keeping them very distracted in a fabricated battle. Presumably, this creates a desolate world of a veritable garden of Eden. Certainly it creates this illusion for every participant who must eventually realize that the battle is not for winning, but for losing...on both sides! The participant then must let go, sink away from the prestigous battle and see something very different...something that only his most primordial elements even remembers exists..."