The wilds mean
many things and often we go on
into it. We put our precious bodies
in a tent. We have a lifespan and O how
we live it out. I don’t know much
about anything. I drink my coffee and wait
for what is next. My fine house blows over
on a Tuesday and the anthem of what
this means is awfully sweet. Where
shall I wander before I finally
am gone? What do I bring back
in my careless hands to show you?
This is me, last month, after burying my grandmother and my great-aunt, heat, the Columbia River after it loops down from Hanford, this is one of the only photos of me that matters, that I never want to forget -
Today being the 40th anniversary of the US-backed coup of the Allende regime in Chile, I can’t encourage you enough to watch Nostalgia for the Light if you have not.
If the history of Chile, US imperialism, astronomy, archaeology, loss, memory, the desert, poetry or any combination of those things interest you, you will want to see it. I think it will haunt you like it haunts me, or you will at least think it was worth your time.
You can watch it on Alluc here - Spanish audio with English subtitles. Make sure to click the small button at the bottom to close the ad and watch as a free user instead of the large button in the center or you will be confused.
The world — whatever we might think when terrified by its vastness and our own impotence, or embittered by its indifference to individual suffering, of people, animals, and perhaps even plants, for why are we so sure that plants feel no pain; whatever we might think of its expanses pierced by the rays of stars surrounded by planets we’ve just begun to discover, planets already dead? still dead? we just don’t know; whatever we might think of this measureless theater to which we’ve got reserved tickets, but tickets whose lifespan is laughably short, bounded as it is by two arbitrary dates; whatever else we might think of this world — it is astonishing.
we are afraid in a fear which we cannot know, which we cannot face, which none understands, and our hearts are torn from us, our brains unskinned like the layers of an onion, our selves are lost lost in a final fear which none understands.