Orion’s Orchard
[Astronomy and Theology]
Revised
In the universe, the one that
surrounds the Earth (perhaps the mind as well)—someone
once threw a ball into dark matter, dark energy. After that, that same, someone
created gravity—I do believe—and threw that same ball now
mixed somewhere out into nothingness, threw it out and over his head,
and it exploded, threw it one after another yet at the same time, as if all the
compounds were in each throw that was really one—; from man’s way of thinking,
it caused a Big Bang, somewhat in that unseen form of matter that pulls the
universe—supposedly this way and that way, thus creating the great expansion,
that has gone on since who knows when; again man’s speculation would say,
fourteen billion plus years, give or take: After ten-billion years, after that
mighty toss everything slowed down a bit, light diminished by fifty-percent,
—yet: some kind of momentum like a heartbeat, or the swaying of a pendulum of a
Grandfather clock kept the universe in check, —that ball thrown in motion (although
its push threw everything in all directions) which
is still keeping it airborne: carried by the shove that was set in motion; hence,
when it loses its momentum, when the ball falls, or the pendulum stops or the
heartbeat has its last beat—complete, it will crash, I do reason, and all that
will be left—again I do reason—will be
the ball (and its substance: what is hanging onto it, in it):
that is all that will be left—I repeat, everything else just: waves, just waves
in nothingness: waves that were made by that One Person who forced out, as a result, nothingness and all that it
created will come to some kind of a standstill (I replicate):
—it has to: for what will carry it—when all the engines that run the universe
weaken: When the protons and neutrons no longer come together in the nucleus of
an atom, and no longer do the great galaxies spin fast enough, and thus fly
apart, and the gravitational, nuclear and electromagnetic forces collapse? Save
that, that someone we—most of us that is—call God, does not create something
else out of some kind of a new nothingness.
It is how it was, how it had to be, how
else could it have been: all this nothingness coming together, surrounding our
world we call Earth, with all its “t’s” crossed, and “i’s” dotted; with its
universal gravitational balance, from moon to earth to the sun throughout our
solar system and beyond. We normally don’t think this way, lest we want our
minds to become mad.
I heard a voice in this dream I had
within my head, it said: “I am immortal, I sit behind the suns, and write
epitaphs, for all the living things, then I open up their lips, an endless task
it seems at times: the zenith of life comes from nothingness—and I, I alone
hear their dying wish: to remain, to be: to some extent, to be like me
forevermore, in my eternity. Eyeless faces, pale and un-molded, that is what
you all were once, but by my graces so you became something more than nothing.
“Orion’s illumed by my side, showers me
like a rainbow with its gasses, breathless orchard: it is the magnificent
mocker of the universe: perhaps you would call it such. Hence, should I touch, only touch it (lest
I destroy My own makings): only touch its burning drums,
put my finger into its aflame winds, —what I created it all out of—nothingness,
the horse’s head would roar, as if into a merciless, pitiless volcanic
eruption, yet the moat around my untouched garments, it would never reach—and
with the beckon of my finger it would go silent.
“The Universe is like a squeezing viper
at times, a sacrificial rip in all its proportions, the magnitude that I’ve
carved out of the thrust, as you call it—or have called it, from the push: from
end to end, or as you have now proclaimed, its endless, end, meaning there was
no beginning, save you have not the knowledge to identify me, so you
create lively and provocative theories,
breezy in style, probabilistic
mind-benders, portraits of randomness.
“You see, and you don’t see, that I created
all this out of oblivion at different stages with different utterances, —yet
its creation became instant, and when you study this more, you will understand
it more, you will understand me more, why your existence is at all—: is this
not a question you keep asking: ‘Why am I?’ It is not that I need you that I
molded you out of clay, pasted you together from that thrust, twist, wave, and
roar— created elements and matter, and mystery for you, which to me was all
from emptiness; but it was a gift of life, from me to you, called love.
That is what it is all about!”
#1366 6/5/2006; written while at the El
Parquetito Café in Miraflores, Lima, Peru, one afternoon (reedited, 7-2012)
Reedited 11-2012/Revised 12-22-2014
Spanish Version
El Huerto de Orión
[Prosa Poética]
En el universo, el que rodea el mundo (quizás la mente también)—una vez
alguien lanzó una pelota—creo—en algún lugar, y
esta explotó—, algo: que retrasó todo un poco, y su empujón (su empuje,
en todas direcciones) todavía lo mantiene en el aire: llevado por el empuje que
fue puesto en movimiento (mucho tiempo atrás); de ahí, cuando éste pierde su
velocidad, éste se estrellará, realmente supongo, y todo es decir, será la
pelota (su sustancia: la que está colgada sobre ello, en ello): esto será todo
lo que quedará, todo lo demás sola serán: olas, solamente olas en la nada, del
que esa persona una vez hizo el empuje; por consiguiente, la nada y todo lo que
este creó vendrán a una especie de una parada (repito)—tiene que ser: ¿para que lo llevará? A menos, que alguien no crea algo más de una
especie de algo nuevo. Esto es como fue, como tuvo que ser, cómo más podría
haber sido: ocurrió para rodear el mundo, con todos sus “tes” cruzadas y sus
“ies” punteadas. Normalmente no pensamos
de esta forma, no sea que queramos que la mente se vuelva loca.
Oí una voz en este sueño de
mi mente, esta dijo, “Yo soy inmortal, me siento detrás del sol, y escribo
epitafios de todo, todos los seres vivientes, después abro sus labios, una
tarea infinita parece de vez en cuando: el cenit de la vida viene de la nada—y
yo, oigo su deseo moribundo: de permanecer, ser algo; caras sin ojos, es lo que
ustedes fueron una vez, pero por Mis gracias tú te volviste, y ellos se
volvieron—más.
La iluminación de Orión por mi lado, me riega como un arco iris con sus
gases, el huerto sin aliento: esta es una simulación magnífica del universo:
quizás lo llamarías semejante, tal vez: a la fantasía de Baudelaire; o el
crepúsculo de Poe; o los peligrosos huertos profundos de Clark A. Smith; las
imágenes musicales de George Sterling, luces fantasmales; el murmullo de Dennis
Siluk, silencio perplejo; el epigramático vuelo de la imaginación de
Ellis. Toco, sólo toco (no sea que
destruya mis propias creaciones): sólo toco más allá de sus ardientes tambores,
en los vientos de nada—del cual he creado todo esto. La cabeza de caballo: ruge
como un volcán, un foso alrededor mío; el Universo se parece a una estrujante
víbora, un rasgón expiatorio en todas las dimensiones que he tallado del empuje,
como tú lo llamas, del empuje: Lo he arreglado (fijé) para ti: el observador de
la tierra.”
Comentario por el Autor: “Aquí está una clase de poema cósmico, que
espero lo disfrutes; realmente confío en que esto breve y vistosamente va a
exponer el elemento de importancia de la belleza del universo enorme de Dios.
"
# 1366 5/Junio/2006; escrito mientras estaba en el
Restaurante Parquetito en Miraflores, Lima, Perú, una tarde. Dedicado a Brynna
Siluk [mi nieta]
