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August 12, 2004
From Walking Words
by Eduardo Galeano
Window on the Word (VIII)
The woodsmen arrived, and the rabbi had nothing to offer them. So the rabbi went to the garden and spoke to it. He spoke to the plants with words that came from the damp earth, like them. And the plants received the words and suddenly matured and bore fruit and flowers. And thus the rabbi could tend to his guests.
The Cabala tells the story. And the Cabala says that the rabbi’s son wanted to do it too, but the garden was deaf to his words and not one plant believed or grew.
The rabbi’s son couldn’t do it. But the rabbi? Could the rabbi repeat his own feat? The Cabala doesn’t say. What would happen to the rabbi if neither the orange tree, nor the tomato plant, nor the jasmine tree ever answered him again?
Does the word know to fall silent when the moment that needs it has passed or the place that desires it has moved on? And the tongue, does it know how to die?
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Why Ain’t There One Lonely Horn and One Sad Note to Play?
Yesterday at work my boss, in passing, referred to my boyfriend and me as a “one-car family.” It just came out of him so naturally that it didn’t occur to me until a bit later to notice that a sweet feeling washed over me when he used those words. It was so nice to see that other people find it possible, even easy and obvious, to look beyond a marriage certificate and tending babies and blood ties and easily see that family is family. I remembered getting in a huge debate with my high school sociology teacher (Mr. Monzyk, who was a sexist dick that I’m angry at to this day, for a number of reasons that are neither here nor there) who didn’t agree with me that in the future, all families will be chosen rather than what you’re born into.
My boss is an older guy from a farm community in West Texas, and it’s clear to him that Jacob and I are a family. Why should it be so hard for people? (Of course, I suppose it should be mentioned that he’s also a homosexual living in Austin, Texas, but that’s not the important thing here.)
I just wonder about all those people in California who were married, and now suddenly aren’t. How does that work? What makes a marriage? I mean, what truly makes a marriage? And how is anything that they are any different today than it was yesterday?
Posted by pogo at 07:37 AM | Comments (1) | TrackBack
August 05, 2004
It’s Been A Bad, Bad Day
I was brought up in a strong religious (Christian) tradition.
My split with it began strongly and certainly and with no looking back in the third grade. We were having indoctrination hour, wherein we were asked things like, “If you die, where do you go?”
The obvious and important answer is, “Heaven,” or “With God,” or some such.
It went on, if your mother dies, if your father dies and so on.
The pivotal question was asked. “If your doggie or kitty dies, where do they go?”
I knew the proper, expected answer. And I knew the answer that, in my heart of hearts, I still know to be true to this day. And they are not the same.
Sammy was a cat. I loved him a lot, and happily, so did a lot of other people, too. I’ll miss him more than I can say.
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