Ultima Thule
“Got an ego big as a barn,” I
accused my good old man,
Presbyter; and he says “Sure
I do, and mine’s crucified.”
I don’t have a crucified ego or
trans-formed, reconfigured,
died and resurrected, dead
and born again, gone thru hell
and ascended, but I can imagine
what it’d be like.
I could care less and more.
Not give a shit as it were
about the small things, walk
on water re the large and
monumental.
Nobless oblige: there, there
all you weary and heavy
burdened, all is well etc.
My office neighbor is right
now off to China to study a
trash-picker population with
several students. A grant.
A 40 hour four-stop flight
They subsist on what is thrown
away.
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I choose, as a determining POINT in my life, to acknowledge a bullet fired into the armpit of my grandfather, Samuel Scoville, Jr. by a thief in the night sometime in the late 19thc.
The thief escaped, my grandfather having pulled his own pistol from beneath the pillow, squeezing off a couple of rounds and sending the burglar scurrying into the
For reasons of family notoriety, the incident was reported in both
In those days couples were not advised to be alone. Unaccompanied.
Sam took a steam-driven locomotive train down to
For one thing: YOU, dear Reader, wouldn’t be reading THIS HERE right now, resurrecting these words to walk around in your skull-haus this very be-here-now moment. So even you are impacted forever by that bullet.
(I could drive up to Connecticut right now, retrieve the small bite of lead, drop it in your hand and remind you how co-incidental our life is—how inexplicable, how arbitrary & selective our accounts, how much we omit which is also absolutely necessary, how inadequate our because & affects.)
The bullet is a NECESSARY but INSUFFICIENT cause of who-I-am, without which any explanation would be incomplete. Sam Scoville
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