"Fort Aidore" (562 hits)
Category: NoneRating: 0.88 on 11 reviews (Rate this item) (V)
Submitted by TaK (View user info) at 2004-06-17 16:22:07 EDT
Dear You,
I have a fort inside of my mind.
I took the cushions from the couch and situated them so as to have four walls around myself, made of cotton and woven from separate strands of fabric as they may be, with a fifth one on top for a ceiling, and a small notch between walls for a peep-hole. I come here often. More so; always. I am here. I built it myself, light work as it may look to you, but let not it's outside appearance deceive, it's more than just roomy on the inside, mind you.
Crouching within, I do not own a secret. A secret owns me; I am secret.
Secret says:
Let not what a man does, but what a man feels, alone be his judgment.
But I ask, do we not all carry all feelings inside at once? Are not all feelings, before they can be worded so, alive and practicing, having been and will be already, inside our hearts? Before thought can become a word it must be felt; the seed for the fruit. All actions are the result of thought. The line of decision, which ultimately judges a man, comes when thought is grown into an action. The vast land of feeling is and always has been. A thing beyond and behind us, pre-existing, post-extinct, "is" and "is-not", "are" and never was. This bounty of land, picked from by the hands of all creation, a thing inside and of everything there is and ever was, outside of but owned within your heart as in all others, irrational, savage. Feeling remorse means nothing without penance. Feeling hate means nothing without a thing at first to hate. Feeling fulfilled - nothing without a physical body at first to fill. To feel in this reality means nothing; perhaps in a more spiritual where, but here runs solely on action.
To feel is only to dip from the same waters as do the mouths of all creation; to think is to taste the water in your mouth and your mouth alone; to act is to take the water into your body and make it a part of you, you a part of it, fueling one another, feeding off of one another; and to discover why you walked to the river to drink in the beginning.
Sssshh. Here comes someone. Look. Through the peep-hole.
He says:
Old Master, have mercy upon the weak, not for they are weak, but for they are not yet strong.
And in the same breath, filling the same holes in the air:
Old Master, be vengeful upon the strong, not for they are strong, but for they are not yet weak.
And then he is gone. Perhaps he considered it a secret, yet I heard; perhaps a secret is more a secret when known between more than one. These walls are cotton and fabric mind you, not wood.
Cookies in the jar in the kitchen and I can taste them through their thought alone - licking the thought of cream from the thought of either half of cookie. It is the cream on the inside that men seek, men kill for, men wage war for, all the while not knowing the sweet rots their teeth until their teeth are in their hands rotten, useless. To yearn for that cream in that cookie in that jar in that kitchen is to drink from those same old waters, while to wrestle down the want is to walk on the waters very surface, earning the judgment of self and of peers.
I would adore to walk on the water, adore their strained faces, eyes and mouths wide with awe, I gliding gracefully upon that which can not be walked upon, their hands perhaps outstretched to touch the one who must be filled with such love.......and their faces........ their faces beholding a love that has eternally been, beyond outside and inside all of them, all of us - The sky riding above, the ground slinking below, and in between, I on top of the very blood of the land, that which is the key to all life, inside every breathing thing, the force which stands before you in river yet away from you on top a mountain, that which is simultaneously the oceans of the earth and the rain which seeps the ground before returning to the sky to fall again; the ever living component to all beings, and then I, symbol of human frailty and imperfection, sign of human triumph and potential energy, walking atop that very thing which is the blood and the breath, that which makes life "is".
I would adore.
But I would adore also that in the jar in the kitchen and I can think-taste them and I want them. Perhaps I am weak.
So I go to the kitchen and the counter is too high and the jar is on the counter so I cant reach. It is not the fail to reach that beats a man down, but yet the very possibility of reach at first. It's not that Ah cant, it's just Ah could! Follow? If I was stronger I could use a chair or a stepstool but strong I am not. So I have to ask.
"Dear Mother, kindly wouldn't you mind retrieving me a sweet from the counter jar?"
But it meets her ears and eyes like: "Dee muh kiwymnd rerer," or some other unintelligible moans and grunts, with a few spastic arm twitches at the jar to help her along a bit. Cookie from the jar on the counter in the kitchen in my hand and communication is a funny one. The human tongue is perhaps the strongest muscle in one's body, it does not know it's own strength. Feelings grown to thoughts pressed on the tongue to form words appear haggard and beaten, worn out and bleeding after the ritual that is speech. Besides, to communicate is only to let others taste of your water before you even get the chance to swallow it yourself.
But no, I cannot take the water unto my body yet. I like the way it tastes in my mouth and my mouth alone. Selfish maybe, but not a fish, I cant swim, and no man can breathe under water, but I go back to my fort. Cookie from the jar on the counter in the kitchen inside my fort with me. I can think-taste it longer than chew it up. I look at it and it looks at me and we look out the peep-hole on starboard side.
Ain't nobody out there.
Where do they go when I cant see them through the peep-hole; like a thing you know is there because it's always been there obscured by fog so thick it's alive, and you stand and wonder if it ain't there no more because you can't see it. How to know without wading through the fog? And where are they if they are not outside the peep-hole; like people on the television talking and you change the channel, do they keep talking?
Do you wish your thoughts heard, or wish only to hear your thoughts?
Such is the essence of words.
Me and cookie from the jar on the counter in the kitchen can't talk, but he knows his place as I know mine and so we get along just fine.
If your unhappy I could gladly show you how to build your own fort, it ain't hard work, and you could make it look just how you want and you could run there and hide there and think there and be there. Anytime you wanted. Right in your head. You could maybe even have a peep-hole.
They're great fun, but I can't talk so you couldn't hear, being as how I'm dumb. Mother and Doctor says. Funny, thoughts look pretty in my head, beautiful even, but in the air in words on anothers ears they sound like nonsense. Maybe if I think all these thunks loud enough through my head you'll maybe hear 'em from over there where your standing. Then they won't look so ugly to you, beautiful even maybe, cause I won't put 'em on my dumb tongue. I'd sure like to help you.
Look right there here comes Alley Cat. Cat's gone try and get my cookie, but I won't let him cause it's my cookie and I'm walkin on the water with it. No-sound comes from his paws on the wood floor like he's gliding, and he can move his tail. His eyes are big like quarters and green like sour apples, and he stares at you like he knows something. But he ain't gone tell you. And he ain't gonna tell you that he ain't gonna tell you. He don't have to. He just stares.
His eyes say:
"The great folly of human wisdom is this: That no man, no matter how learned in the ways of the world, can impress upon another man the enlightenment he has obtained; Likewise, no man can show another the err of his ways. One must see through one's own eyes, feel with one's own heart; This, the crux of Mankind."
And then he is gone. Slinking away around the corner wagging that tail like he was too good to even try and get my cookie. Cat knows something, but he should beware of cleverness, one can always be too clever.
The portrait of life is often taken by it's admirers to be something completely different from the artists' original intent. We tend to read too far in between the lines and make it more complex than needed. This is derived from the fear of the unknown, the un-understood. If life were art it would be abstract, simple yet unpredictable. If it were writing it would the haiku, short yet every bit long enough. And of course, if life were dance it would be that timeless wonder, "The Hokey-Pokey".
The other side of Cat's Knowledge is that if no man can tell another man a word of wisdom, yet wisdom has been found, has been achieved, then it must be true that all humans have the capacity for wisdom, for virtue. It must be true that all of us have the potential to be holy, to become godlike. God created man in his image. Is it totally ridiculous to consider that His will may be for us to gain the aspects of godhood that we lack in our human forms? That this place, these bodies, these hindered minds and souls, may only be a sort of pre-god training ground, high-school for the unenlightened?
Cookie from the jar on the counter in the kitchen and me own a secret now and we've practiced walking on the water and our song is over and our time is gone, so after peeping through my peep-hole to clear the coast I'll go to the backyard and dig a hole with my hands and return him to where he came from, where he belongs, where he'll smile and listen to the blood of the land seep through the earth around him up through the air back down through the clouds above him to seep through the earth around him.
Then I'll go back to my fort.
Thinks from Fort Aidore ,
"Collie" Cole
User Reviews
Submitted by gain (user info) at 2004-06-18 09:38:51 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
TaK: I gave you that -2 because you reposted it. nothing more. Here's a plus two for the story, it's really good. In case you didn't notice, i was being a tiny weeny itsy bitsy little bit sarcastic.
Submitted by TaK (user info) at 2004-06-18 09:24:04 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
Thanks to the few of you who are not blithering idiots.
I'm not "back", I just noticed Tom had reposted his pie thing and I figured what the hell I may as well. Nobody ever read this because it was my first post and it was long, so now that some of you know my name I thought it would get read. I always liked this one.
gain, the idiocy of that comment paints a picture of you.
filth fused with filth. Man that's a way cool wicked awesome name! It's like you're filth, and you're entwined with filth, making you even filthier!!1 And I love the x's too dood, that makes it even darker and more cryptic!!! I bet you're a way scary crazy vampire killer gothiK werewolf guy eh?!?!?!!!one!!
Jesus Christ some of the names you youngin's come up with astound me.
Let's see how you write...
Submitted by Vermin (user info) at 2004-06-18 02:56:04 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Fart Odour? Yes, it stinks.
Submitted by xfilthxinfusedxwithxfilth (user info) at 2004-06-17 19:27:25 EDT (#)
Ranking: -2
No Comment
Submitted by William_Q_Percy (user info) at 2004-06-17 17:28:23 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Glad to see you've been able to look past what drove you away.
Post as infrequently as you like, just keep coming back every two weeks or so, please?
Submitted by gain (user info) at 2004-06-17 16:52:51 EDT (#)
Ranking: -2
http://www.ubersite.com/m/19937
??
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You're plagiarizing yourself?
Submitted by youarsoghey (user info) at 2004-06-17 16:41:35 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Submitted by JMG114 (user info) at 2004-06-17 16:30:43 (#)
Ranking: 2
You write WAY too seldomly.
Submitted by JMG114 (user info) at 2004-06-17 16:30:43 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
You write WAY too seldomly.
Submitted by Anansie (user info) at 2004-06-17 16:26:28 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Hey, can you get on AIM for about five minutes?
Submitted by reallybored (user info) at 2004-06-17 16:26:00 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
WTF IM NOT READING ALL THAT!!
Submitted by TaK (user info) at 2004-06-17 16:22:35 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
Thanks for the idea Tom.