View From Above – Photo: L. Weikel

Random Discoveries Again

I wrote last night about two poems I came upon a few days ago, discarded in the tall grass and weeds beside the road. The question is whether these so-called random discoveries*, again, are indeed random or are somehow, in some way, orchestrated by consciousness we just can’t yet prove.

I make no secret of the answer my experiences would seem to support. And just because I can’t prove the existence of the consciousness behind such discoveries does not disprove its existence.

The bottom line is that I choose to expand my awareness to include the numinous. My life is immeasurably enriched by my choice (and capacity) to soften my gaze and thereby see a little bit more of what surrounds and infuses our world and, indeed, each and every one of us. Embracing the possibility that these discoveries are anything but random increases my risk, perhaps, of being perceived with ridicule or pity. But I’ve reached the point where I throw my lot in with the magic I know is Truth.

With that, I hereby proffer for your contemplation the other poem by Charles Bukowski that managed to find its way into my life. Torn out of a book and crumpled up. Tossed into the weeds along a single lane country road, only to be discovered by a 62 year old woman and her Boston Terrier; these words were published 55 years ago.

The Genius of the Crowd

There is enough treachery, hatred violence absurdity in the average

Human being to supply any given army on any given day

 

And the best at murder are those who preach against it

And the best at hate are those who preach love

And the best at war finally are those who preach peace

 

Those who preach god, need god

Those who preach peace do not have peace

Those who preach peace do not have love

 

Beware the preachers

Beware the knowers

Beware those who are always reading books

Beware those who either detest poverty

Or are proud of it

Beware those quick to praise

For they need praise in return

Beware those who are quick to censor

They are afraid of what they do not know

Beware those who seek constant crowds for

They are nothing alone

Beware the average man the average woman

Beware their love, their love is average

Seeks average

 

But there is genius in their hatred

There is enough genius in their hatred to kill you

To kill anybody

Not wanting solitude

Not understanding solitude

They will attempt to destroy anything

That differs from their own

Not being able to create art

They will not understand art

They will consider their failure as creators

Only as a failure of the world

Not being able love fully

They will believe your love incomplete

And then they will hate you

And their hatred will be perfect

 

Like a shining diamond

Like a knife

Like a mountain

Like a tiger

Like hemlock

 

Their finest art.

*Speaking of random discoveries, as I was proofreading this post and re-reading the link to Charles Bukowski, I finally saw that Henry Charles Bukowski’s actual birth name was Heinrich Karl Bukowski. Hence, in a manner of speaking, this literally was a message from Karl. Gotta love it.

(T-160)