Of all those odd jumbles of vowels my son brings with him to the world – the gurgles; yelps; indian war whoops – broken consonants, riddles, squawks, the strangest by far is that piercing screech; a squeal of brakes on a dodge scraping the corner, hubcap flapping, all this accompanied by tiny fists flung out over each shoulder, as he comes to in his crib, half drunk on milk, one expression after another, mouth yawning; lips smacking in a perfect \’o\’; forehead furrowed with all that effort required just to break wind, squeeze out a fart: a pistol shot.
It is an undecipherable conundrum.
The letting go of past lives, the slipping of an old soul into a new shoe. The lacing and interlacing of self, eyelash and fingernail, an epic struggle.
There was a free thinker named Boehme, much admired by the engraver, Blake.
\”Man must be at war with himself,\” he wrote, \”fighting must be the watch word, not with tongue and sword, but with mind and spirit, and not to give over.\”
Peaceful soldier. Wrestling with tigers. image from the comic book, \”Fiasco Bombasco\”, by Ive Sorocuk.