The Self and the Stone

Sunday, November 13th, 2005

It may be that there is a rather large stone on the horizon, a small black thumbs-up against glazing sun-down purple and orange (those southwestern sunsets never leave you). Perhaps there are runes on what may be a monostone, some message that points to secrets, but about what? The quest would be to cross the space between and check it out. In Alaska, a crew and I seeking a shortcut out from somewhere tore into the thorns and extended our packing time by perhaps a few hours more than necessary. No birds that day, just some odd stomping behind some high trees.

“Make sure you hit him in the chest,” one of my partners said, handing me the rifle brought for protection against grizzly bears. “Just in case. We’re counting on you.”

That’s the way shortcuts workout sometimes. Not always, but sometimes.

Reading this post by Daniel Green got me thinking about the horizon and other metaphors for knowing or wanting to know. Susan Gibb at the moment is all over The Body Artist on her quest. In an unrelated post (maybe), she writes:

Down by the river, trees naked gray their hair fell out with autumn chemotherapy, revival and survival. Leaves in golden curls on grass no longer green. Centuries of mowings, leaves, and people turned to earth.


One response to “The Self and the Stone”

  1. susan says:

    But the shortcut teaches new things as well, as long as one is open to what lines the path. I think your metaphor is excellent, and what is learned by either trail is what is important.

    I think we hit Dan Green’s post at the same time last night. The post and its links do make some good points, and I left a comment at The Reading Experience to the effect that not only do the changed goals make the difference, but the valuable tool of the internet is a path that may be considered a shortcut, and an abused one if one only looks to it as immediate knowledge.

    As far as my post goes, it has inspired another; wondering how the hell I have the nerve to put DeLillo’s Mr. Tuttle down as speaking in annoying gibberish.