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liz:
there is a ringing
harmony
to the moment where two notes synthesize each other -
the sound of george winston's piano
in laura ingles wilder's log cabin.
there is a state of abeyance to the air -
a feeling that something is brimming,
lighting inside so full that if you
spoke it would pour everywhere.
this absolute fullness, this vividity of life
like prairie grasses dancing.
whitney: a sunny, hot day, when people are content to lie at the
beach. there is, however, a thunderstorm in the afternoon. everyone must run
for cover, and although it lasts only a few hours, the storm is powerful.
after the storm, there is re-birth as people once again emerge from their
houses.
liz: have you ever wondered what a mouse thinks
when it sees a snake's eyes?
if there is something imprinted in his subconscious
some coded message from his great-great-grandfather
that says to him, "be afraid."
or perhaps there is some kind of defiant stillness,
a moment in which he notices how green are its eyes,
how glossed its scales, how fluid -
perhaps in this moment, he is overcome,
finds himself at the crossing
of destiny and design.
whitney: picture a cat in a house, laying in a patch of sun by the
door waiting to be let out into the backyard so he can go off and explore.
liz: there is something devastating about indifference,
the callousness of not caring,
an air conditioned closet of pedagogy
in which we find no irony in the words
"in the real world, this will not matter."
there is something tragic about the way he
shrugs it off: overpopulation, deforestation, war.
it will not matter tomorrow,
will not decimate his controlled climate,
his american pride in the beauty of things.
whitney: i see the mass destruction bush is causing. i see the
pictures of civilians crying because of this pointless war. democracy could
not stop bush from committing these atrocities. injustice happens, and i
feel ashamed to be living in this great country.
i smile at the sight of a group of elderly tourists. a couple in their late
80's are holding hands and talking while two friends (also in their 80's)
talk and laugh quietly with each other. it is apparent that these people
have been together for years and truly have learned to enjoy each other's
company.
liz: the things that we have not touched
are the most beautiful -
dew on the tip of a leaf,
snow without footprints,
the unmarked, nationless moon.
these things have the power
to pull so much out of you
and fill you with so much
in the exact same moment.
these things are not of man's hand,
his ration nor his art.
these things are primal, they are religion,
they are god. |