Friday, August 14, 2015

Orion’s Orchard [Astronomy and Theology] Revised (Bilingual)

      Orion’s Orchard
[Astronomy and Theology]


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]