The Seer came to fetch me … the 100% humidity in the winter air had made me fall asleep covered in afternoon blankets but I have only a few days left here, so when the knock on the door woke me up I jumped up.
The weather now is different, the drops of wet hang in the air in tiny little pinpricks for your face, a myriad, wet little dots that bless you … you see, it is not unpleasant, far from it, along with the mist that conspires too, it is mystical, although mystical is just science without a scientific model yet …
So it is a Gift that you walk into, the mud splashes and sploshes beneath your boots, roll up your jeans down there else the pantan (as they call mud in this strange tongue) will walk into the kitchen and the living room and the screams of Nonna too …
We do not have an agenda, we merely put ourselves out there and let the impulse set the course of discussion for our walk.
Firstly, my apologies to the Seer for having had to run away yesterday after our walk as Nonno strode off in his ninety five years to cross that road … Nonno is short and he can blend himself in between the trees so you have to keep a sharp eye for he can appear at any moment and disappear in the next …
It is fine, the Seer said, no problem.
This afternoon the nebbia (mist) is so there, you know, just so there, awaiting to embrace you in its absorbing gentleness.
I did not even bother with the umbrella today, those wet little dots are too little to create wet, although the wetness down below around your boots soaks in and your soaked socks become wet warm.
He is reading Sabato Scala again, for the third time – where others need more, he may need a mere few iterations only to get to the intesa (the implications) of Sabato Scala; the re-interpretations of Sabato Scala are beginning afresh, he is becoming intellectually fashionable again, and there is our discourse for the afternoon …
Every few steps I stop to breathe the drops and the mist and suck in the mystical ambiance as we walk past the trees … I love the mysteriousness of mist I say to him, we have already gone a hundred and more paces past the Chapel of the Christ, and we are in sacred spaces now among these trees.
He sees Sabato Scala as an illuminato so one should read him not as a precise text even if he is or may seem to be precise, but rather as a philosophical terrain or geography of many layers, three dimensional in data/information, plus Time, and the insights as you read depend on where you are in the moment and how deep you have gone … even if the text deceptively appears as merely the surface of a narrow path.
Yes, the implication of his words is the richness, the treasure, I agree.
If you come out of applied science environments, especially technological delivery ones, you are precise – you have to be, the consumer buys goods that can break your toes if they fall on your feet.
Mathematics is a precise language in the quest to secure a specific result Y from a combination of Xs.
So, your technological reading and writing gets rutted in the expectation of precise, singular precision, that a Y is indeed the unwavering result of a string of Xs strung together in a specific way.
Literature – and poetry especially – is not quite like that!
And as I agree with the Seer, I tell him about a recent article I wrote, a fable, a fairy tale like partial reality, with a bittersweet ending that maybe makes it no longer the realm of fairy tale telling.
My proof reader, I tell him, commented on the absence of commas: where are all the commas?
And I explain they are not all necessary, this is a style now that has swept me away, it runs by itself and ends by itself, with all the implications in between, around and about, above and below, make of it what or whatever or however you wish of the pictures that it rolls out of my head … I would not be able to elaborate all the options without being overly pedantic …
So, yes, the implication of words is the richness, the treasure …
He goes on, the Oriental philosophers wrote and write like that, just sufficient for the greater implication, for the greater and vaster set of implications.
Like the Tao or the Art of War …
And it is no coincidence that after a few years of writing haiku you begin to emerge from the cage of precision, a cage which is of course necessary when you build a bridge or a road, or a space rocket too.
Precision is beauty in the context of its realm, but outside of it, it may be sparse, mere rags and bones beneath a crown pretending to be royalty when it can only see deserts or cold emptiness and not the jewels of the Cosmos.
In haiku, you have the ‘spirit of a few words’, not an exact 5-7-5 of syllables, but the spirit of a few words … enough to drive you crazy if your crutch in Life is precision.
Therefore, the Linear Only Beings of the world shipwreck in the Oceans of Possibility … post your 4-10-3 or your one liner 11 here again and you are out of our poetry group, their administrators scream!
Thanks to the incredible haiku fundi Jane Reichold, I was saved and now the syllable count or number of lines do not matter … it is the spirit of a few words filled with implication that do.
Implication can be a quantum of seemingly little which can yet explode into an immense universe of meaning, of multiple paths shooting out in all different directions, delivering their own truths along their vectors of instance … a haiku could require a book of chapters as some explanation with a conclusion that is but a pause along the way where one can catch one’s breath for the next stage or the next stages forward of mining the richness of the spirit of a few words.
Lately the holographic universe is taking root quickly and widely, the 2D surface analogy encodes in it all the data/information of the illusion of 3D plus Time.
And that is only because we are 3D plus Time Beings and not N dimensional where N can be whatever integer we want it to be or perhaps even a fraction or an unreal number or whatever else a mathematical magician conjures up next to create the next best equation for everything.
The N dimensionals will need to work out their own mathematical tricks to figure the universe out for themselves.
But the holographic model for the Universe is like a haiku …
When the Black Hole sucks All, you have to still find a way to conserve Energy and Matter as both are conserved as a collective whole – and if the mathematical model makes All disappear forever then something is wrong so you have to change the model, and whatever is useful to fix the disappearance of what should not disappear is fine.
Hence the holographic model as a useful one … so much so that some scientists have contrived to create gravity too by merely vibrating two dimensional strings on the 2D surface of the holograph!?
Anything then could, at some point and intended purpose, no longer work in its current frame of explanation, the cage of its model, and when it can be explained by caging it into more than one model, like say the atom being both particle or wave, then we can think of this phenomenon of this anything as transcending and that its Ultimate Truth is far more than its trapped manifestations within useful but specific cages.
Somewhere in this is the gut feel that implication can deliver much more than a singular precision, or even an array of singular precisions, so a paucity of commas is not worth bothering about …
By this time however we had soaked our shoes, the humidity had made me pause more often than the Seer, and as we passed the chapel, there among the trees, shape-shifting was Nonno peeling away and about to disappear towards the busy road that he was intending to cross.
When you can hardly see and hardly hear how do you cross a busy road? Intuition!?
I must run, I yelled to the Seer, just like the day before, and he yelled back, Go, Go, Go!
Where are you going, I gasped out of breath, as I caught up to the shape-shifting Nonno!
He never replies directly: can you smell that Perfume, he asked? Someone is baking …
And yes, indeed, what a perfume, mingling in the mist, wafting in the trees, embracing the myriad little wet drops that gently pin prick your face and remind you of the beauty that is Life.
It was as if he would now follow the scent, although he did have a specific destination in mind.
As we crossed the road fortunately it seemed that the perfume of currents was on route to where we were going.
Now it was still light, so the glisten of the tiny pebbles in the wet that they barrowful out of the big dry torrent that rushes itself down out of the mountains and across the plain, to the sea, waiting in expectation for the pouring rain, these tiny pebbles of similar but different sizes in the fractals of the processes of erosion and deluge and the tumble, tumble, roly, poly of the journey to the sea, why they make such wonderful drive ways and path ways – well, that glisten, as if they were jewels, their glisten was not yet glistening.
But the perfume was precise, how ironical in all these implications, and we journeyed forth like the Magi, from the Chapel of the Christ just behind us, like the Magi to find the Truth of this Moment.
And there She was, by coincidence and precision in her kitchen, baking the crostoli that Nonno loves so much, our Madonna of the Crostoli, with the wood hissing and cracking in the flames of the stove, and there we waited for the birth of these wonderfuls, Nonno chatting about the old ways and how the new ways are different, this new dispensation, as She bustled about and checked and tweaked and turned and churned until the gold of their bake was showered in the sugar of their sweet.
We sat there like those kings, in adoration, whilst the Madonna piled her crostoli into a manger, and with the large glass of white wine she poured for the each of us, we swallowed and dined, truly a feast for kings, were we not the Magi that had followed the perfume of the scent comet of these stars … ?
Afterwards, when we said our goodbyes, armed with yet more crostoli to take back with us, the tiny pebbles glistened in the leftover light of the dark and the mist hung still in its myriad wet drops, the lights of cars shone as they came by us past, and when we crossed over into the splish splash splosh of the puddles beneath the dark trees that whispered their drops, in a hush hush chorus of sing song, we too journeyed our way back home to our own …