An Unusual Proposal

An Unusual Proposal

By Sylvia Sullivan Villarreal

I have an unusual proposal. Not one likely to be enacted, but one that might offer some comfort in a week so filled with pain and grief. Let’s take all the talking heads, the hosts and the pundits, and replace them with poets for a week. Let’s imagine that our air waves, usually pulsing with the sly and slick rantings of Howard and Rush, are suddenly ripe with the language and images of some of our unsung heroes. Allow the words spoken and transmitted to our ears to be the same ones selected, crafted, and then polished to perfection by artists whose lives depend on finding that precise noun or verb. Those whose impetus is to constantly pare away the extraneous, the sensational, and explicate in concise and moving ways the bare bones of our existence.

How could that possibly be relevant? In a week that contains a horrific slaughter of innocents on a college campus, more savage suicidal bombings on the Iraqi war front- how could any of this be helped by piping the voices and visions of our poets into our weary ears and broken hearts?

Consider for a moment the words of poet Mary Oliver, who appeared onstage here in Houston the very evening of the Virginia massacre. This slight woman, clad in gray yet somehow luminous, read softly from her work, including a much beloved poem, WILD GEESE. In it she invites the reader, “Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.” And later in that same poem, she reminds us “Whoever you are, no matter how lonely, the world offers itself to your imagination, calls to you like the wild geese…announcing over and over your place in the family of things.” The blackness, both experienced, and created by those who feel no stake in that family, felt palpable in that large room.

Perhaps we could really listen to the words of Naomi Shihab Nye in her poem entitled KINDNESS. “Before you know what kindness really is you must lose things, feel the future dissolve in a moment like salt in a weakened broth….how desolate the landscape can be between the regions of kindness.” She continues, “Before you know kindness as the deepest thing inside, you must know sorrow as the other deepest thing.”

It’s possible that rather than another rehash of security concerns, and the endless, looping exercise of assigning blame to all guilty parties, we could let ourselves dissolve into loss and come out the other side, laying down our arms, and reaching out in the kindness born of sorrow, to all who suffer so profoundly in our world.

Or we might choose to listen to the voice of Pablo Neruda, who is no longer physically present, but through the body of his work continues to offer us his insights.

In his poem, KEEPING QUIET, Neruda proposes that we all count to twelve, then keep still. He goes on to state, “If we were not so single-minded about keeping our lives moving, and for once could do nothing, perhaps a huge silence might interrupt this sadness of never understanding ourselves and of threatening ourselves with death.”

Neruda implores us to do nothing, not for inactivity, but for the sake of recognizing what we have wrought in the world in so many “victories with no survivors”.

We have all been dulled by constant and repetitive analysis, by now we are saturated with the menacing images and psychotic ramblings of this young Virginia man. We hear stories of teasing in his early life, of increasing alienation in his young adult life, and we are puzzled and frightened by this morphing of a troubled teenager into a murderous man. We suffer with the families as they choke back their sobs, and we watch in horror at their vulnerability, at their unending and inestimable loss, at the harrowing possibility that any of us could be one of them. We know with dead certainty that only a thread separates us from sudden and complete sorrow. The faces of their recently life-filled children smile back at us from our morning newspaper, and the litany of their promise and potential in stark contrast to their sudden, violent end is almost too much to bear. This event opens the window into the black, snarling presence of the hate and evil that lurk in the world, and how they can be manifest in any of us.

We have heard from Katie, and Brian, and all the others who intone for us nightly the innumerable details, the ‘very latest’ in our collective attempt to try and make sense of events that constantly spiral out of control in our violent world. I, for one, have no more stomach for the constant stream-of-consciousness detail and one-upmanship that often passes for analysis.

To help ascertain the true impact of these events on our psyches and souls, give me the poets. At times of such despair, they help us name our grief, and remind us that even when muted in sorrow, life is a jewel to be prized. Perhaps just for a moment, their voices stir us to remember, what poets everywhere are always calling out to us. Attention must be paid.

The Dinner Show

"So, you are a fashion model?"

"Yes," the slim, chiseled face across from me responded.

"Do you have a preference on the kind of work you do?"

"I prefer runway to photo shoots - you are in-and-out and it's not as tiring." The Model explained.

Her mobile rang. Her sister was calling from Bogotá, and she smiled as she listened. Her boyfriend, a dark and handsome sport trainer from Bulgaria, rolled his eyes as he related the escapades of her large family to Mr November, who sat to my left.

I listened to The Bulgarian Trainer relate his story, as my eye wondered down the table at the unusual assortment of connected friends gathered to celebrate Transvaal Irish on her day of birth. Aside from those previously mentioned, dining at the table were African Author , The Palliate, The Lizard, The Bishop and The Shetlander. A diverse and traveled group, to say the least.

The Bishop was on his best behavior, considering the tardiness of the food, and lack of general attention the staff was providing at the tavern. Still, the food was good, and I relaxed into the evening, my gaze continuing on to the next room, focusing unexpectedly on another birthday party in progress.

The honoree at the head of the other table was dressed in what could only be a manufactured-hide corset, too tight for her frame, that enhanced her cleavage beyond necessity. Her hair was bleached straw, and it tossed as she gesticulated wildly with her glass of liquor. Her court, a bit mismatched in age and dress, had become louder and filled with spirit since we were seated. Mr. November followed my eyes, his ears already picking up the fury as a man appeared from the other end of the table, and gave The Corset a kiss.

Then a woman followed the man, moved him aside, and began to kiss and fondle the honoree for several minutes.

Mr November and I exchanged an entertained look and a raised eyebrow. This might be a more interesting evening than either of us had prepared for.

The other members of our party became well aware of the show next door, as the wild ride continued for several hours as we were served our courses. The Corset's voice started to carry over our conversation, profanities mixing with alternating laughter, anger and sadness. More fondling ensued, and we struggled to determine who each person had arrived with, who was going home with who, and if the older gentleman was The Corset's father ... or perhaps some strange uncle.

Then suddenly, in rekindled aggression from apparent past wrongs left simmering, The Corset ordered, in a verbose manner, that one of her guests leave the premises. When the rest of her court attempted to pacify her, she decided she would just leave herself... breaking an ancient pane of glass in the tavern door.

Our evening had come to an end it seemed, and the curtain was closed. But we waited a acceptable amount of time to allow the other party to clear the area -- just to ensure we gave their exit a wide berth to avoid any collisions.

We had come just for a dinner, but we got quite a show. The tavern owner ensured us there would be no extra charge.


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A Bloodletting

The Bishop was initially a firm opponent of the practice. He'd argue with The Lizard, "They're stealing your life force!", when she would suggest the members of 721 contribute to the Bloodletter's cause.

The land needed healing liquors for the many ill and infirm, and the Blood Takers provided a portion of the raw ingredients. Her nature-centric outlook carried no ill-conceived prejudices toward alternative approaches to solving a problem. Thus, with the support of Traten and Sandy, she allowed us to benefit from her liaisons with certain cultures and groups not strictly within the boundaries of Justice's or The Bishop's canons.

I had nothing against them, personally. Unlike vampires, these fellows asked politely if they could take a portion of your fluids. Still, I turned down The Lizard's requests, as I was on the front lines most of the year, and couldn't afford to have my ebony form at less than prime.

But then I went into retirement after twenty plus years on the battlefield, and The Lizard approached me again to participate in a Bloodletting. I considered, then accepted the invitation, and she promised to be there to guide me through the process.

I was lightly amused with the Takers of Blood as they clamored about me. Most commented about my "nice huge veins", with some having to verify by feel what their eyes were perceiving.

"I could hit that with a dart from here!" one Bloodletter boasted from across the room. She gave me a bit of concern, not from her comment, but from the view I received as she proceeded to bend down to retrieve one of her instruments, allowing her trousers to betray a foreboding Crack of Doom . Whereas combat has never left a stain on my memory, this chance occurrence I fear may haunt me for some time.

Certainly a rag-tag group.

Nonetheless, they impressed me with their skill and efficiency, and I was soon enjoying their appreciation of my contribution in the form of sweets and beverages offered to satiate my famous appetite. This was a bonus I had not expected, and I promised The Lizard to return, if only to make periodic samplings of their treats! She seemed amused, but proud, and agreed to join me when I made my contributions.

So, I continue to fulfill my promise to The Lizard time to time, enjoying her company, smiling at the buffoonery of the Blood Takers, but also knowing that my actions are helping others, at little expense to myself.

And after relating my good experience, I think even The Bishop is starting to consider allowing the "fiends" take a look at his veins!



http://www.giveblood.org

It has risen...

The rain was cold and lightly pelting my visor. I moved my gloved hand up the shaft of my weapon, and walked steadily through the mud and muck to stand before an enemy, seemingly countless. I turned to look at The Lizard. The Private was at our side, eager for her first major battle. The enthusiasm made me smile despite the odds, and with a nod, I drove us into the fray...

At first the signs had been subtle. A strange sighting here, a rogue tendril there. But then it became evident. The Thing had escaped.

The Bishop had kept cursing and lifting his eyes skyward for solace. He blamed himself that The Thing had broken through the ward he had constructed with wisdom and craft to keep the land safe. But, inexplicably, It had found a hidden path beneath the walls. It was only a crack, unseen, but enough to grant clear passage for destruction. It was out in the wild... and threatened to overtake us all.

I left The Bishop to his prayers and meditations. I know not of blame or forgiveness, only action and consequence. The Lizard's reports from her local reconnaissance were grim. The beast had moved further, and spread it's tentacles far wider than any mortal might comprehend. We had no time for delay.

I pulled the necessary implements from the stockpiles and said to Gunny, "Guard the perimeter, old girl."

She eyed me with a knowing glance, then retired to the outer gates. The Lizard and The Private took their weapons at my side and we strode, grim faced, into battle with the awful foe.

We waded in, breaking apart to better divide the beast. Hacking and slashing, minutes turned to hours, and we realized that we had to resort to the trenches and sapping if we would have any chance of success. We divided labors, The Lizard and I digging in at two separate points. I was in awe of The Private, who took on the beast with a ravenous ferocity unheard of for such a young warrior, tearing into the stragglers with hungry abandon.

At the end of the day, we had managed to corral The Thing back into its prison. The Bishop, with all of his characteristic obsession, devised and constructed a new fortification to keep It at bay.

We walked away from the battle, dirty, sick, and tired. We had accomplished our task, but a sense of forboding hung above us. Had we contained the chaos permenantly, or would we have to face the foe, perhaps in darker corners of the realm, soon one day? The silence was uneasy, and I needed to break the tension.

"We need pandas," I stated.

The Lizard brightened us with her smile, and quirkily remarked, "No, we need ninja pandas."

Gunny just rolled her eyes and guided us into the keep for supper.