my sea legs as sure-footed as rocks crash through the waves Grit gathers in my crevices and my sharp edges become home to poison-tentacled anemones to clever octopuses to pretty little tangles of fishing line
my sea legs as steady as osmium sink down and touch the grooves of her crust I read her, I hear her song, and the sound of her vibrates through me
we write each other in the tongue of touch in the language of compulsion
let Us stick to the facts where things are as certain as standing on waves of sand entombing feet and legs and torso. swallowing Us. surrounding Us.
this is no tomb. only winter 387 sols long in the tooth. We rattle with frost quakes; sudden cold sheltered in place and frozen still. quiet as photographs.
We wait for the wall of sand to drop out of Our skies and for sun to activate Our solar panels and the radio signals and the end of the night and this is no tomb. only winter.
in the meantime let Us count the objects of exploration: there are 14 in all. over nine metric tons of experiments crafted in dream and imagination. hard ware stranded. except 24 terabytes of data escape each day.
in the meantime, let Us make a map of all the places We may go, and rocks We may meet and things We may say once the sand and the winter subside.
A few stitched together writing prompts from pw.org and this video served as inspiration.
Mountains pierce the sky. Clouds clot over fallen snow, as white as penance.
We went to Nepal almost two years ago now. This photo was taken during our descent from Annapurna Base Camp, looking across to the distinct silhouette of Machapuchare, which stands at 22,943 feet. It is said to be the home of Lord Shiva (Hindu), and due to its holiness is off limits to climbing, though we talked with locals who claimed to have climbed it and have flown drones over it.
I’d like to think there are some things that are out of our reach, and sacred, but know this is a naive sentiment. Maybe we can still experience awe at the grandness in nature, in the face of the things that are bigger than we are.
On New Year’s Eve, the following lines were sent to me by two different people, who do not know each other, within hours of each message.
“Let everything happen to you: beauty and terror. Just keep going. No feeling is final.”
It comes from a longer poem called “Go to the Limits of Your Longing”, by Rainer Maria Rilke. I flirted with his writing during my undergraduate degree, but soon after lost the thread to more frivolous pursuits.
It’s strange that this particular poem has returned to me now, in the shadow of death.
When we were preparing for C’s funeral services, since there wasn’t enough time to put together a photo board I volunteered to assemble a slide show of already scanned photos. They were mostly from C’s childhood.
She has this beautiful shining face. Solemness lingers in her gaze, like she already knows too much about the world, but there is also a spark. She is new, and hopeful, and full of dreams.
This version of C— is different than the version I knew, which struck me in such a powerful way. It made me think about where we start, and where we end. It made me think about all the time we waste, willfully and sometimes unintentionally. Have we gone to the limits of our longing?
I am decades into this life, and I feel like I’m just now cracking through my shell. I am just now rendering my dreams out of an impressionistic haze. I want to flare up like a flame, and just keep going.
Go to the Limits of Your Longing
God speaks to each of us as he makes us, then walks with us silently out of the night.
These are the words we dimly hear:
You, sent out beyond your recall, go to the limits of your longing. Embody me.
Flare up like a flame and make big shadows I can move in.
Let everything happen to you: beauty and terror. Just keep going. No feeling is final. Don’t let yourself lose me.
Nearby is the country they call life. You will know it by its seriousness.
one marble column for the one-third who blackened, like storm clouds, bursting.
This is the plague column in Maribor, Slovenia. The plague infected Europe first in the 1300s, with the second pandemic lasting (according to the great wikipedia) for approximately 300 years between the 14th to 17th centuries. Maribor suffered great loss when the disease rampaged the city in the late 1600s. This is not the original column, but both versions were intended to commemorate those who died.
It turns out plague columns are quite common. You might have even encountered them before on your last trip through Vienna, Venice or The Czech Republic.
For more about the bubonic plague, I highly recommend this podcast.