The Daffodil and the Universe
a written sketch | an encountered text
sketch⬩text
monthly on The Matterhorn
SKETCH: The following is a word sketch for a work of fiction.
⎯⎯⎯⎯
The Daffodil and the Universe
It’s difficult to make art for others to see without feeling a fool. One must wear a coat of armor yet allow the permeation of nature, emotion, openness to new worlds. They’re all the same, really.
There is movement in both directions as the body seeks balance with its soul, which is the universe — all universes — collapsed into an interconnected web of energy.
I wake early to guard some of the quiet darkness for this space where the passage is clear, nearly visible. It is the only time the tiny movements of the clock reach my ears. That time bomb is always ticking…regularly…forward. But we must forget it if we are to live.
In this exquisite metronomic space, the tree branches out the window reach into my brain. They vacate their roots and trunk to bring me a little piece of stardust and alien songs intertwined in the bark.
The world is calm at this hour. We can fold into her, release ourselves from silly burdens created in our minds, by a collective mind.
My daffodil cranes her long neck to whisper something sweet. Her bright yellow center appears omniscient as I edge my ear closer, anticipating The Truth.
All she does is laugh, swaying on the long stem from side to side, like I’ve come to do since my son was born. First to calm him, then myself. Swaying with a daffodil to ease our tensions, let go of our armors, and be one with the movements of that second hand in the other room that represents all second hands everywhere.
I shush her and glide in retreat. Is death an end or a full merge with the multiverse, no more barriers? Is consciousness a gift or some sick joke the daffodil has placed upon me?
Our realities - if good - must constantly push aside the nightmares of existence. Where do they go? Into some dark corner that explodes in rage. Or - if it doesn’t - it bleeds out in words. We share it with someone and they realize they are not alone.
Art is connection of some elements of consciousness we cannot explain in rational contexts. It takes us deeper than that into the world’s secrets and her desires.
In that space, there is only love, like some abstract energy of connection.
⎯⎯⎯⎯
TEXT: I share with you a recent encounter you might enjoy.
⎯⎯⎯⎯
The Book of Embraces, by Eduardo Galeano, 1992 (Uruguay, translated from the Spanish by Cedric Belfrage with Mark Schafer)1
If you want to read something that opens up your mind about what a book can be, then this is it. Eduardo Galeano’s The Book of Embraces is a series of semi-connected vignettes that come together with a kind of hope. Some are autobiographical, others dream or fairytale-like. There is humor and sadness. Poetry and explication.
I hadn’t heard of this author until a close friend gave me this book for Christmas ten years ago. He just said, “Read it. You’ll see.” It’s as unexplainable as it is beautiful.
Galeano was a writer of many genres and often discusses the plight of people in Uruguay and South America more generally. He is a voice concerned with seeking the beauty in the world and our cultures that can be erased through “amnesia,” as he tells The Guardian:
His desire, he says, is to refurbish what he calls the "human rainbow. It is much more beautiful than the rainbow in the sky," he insists. "But our militarism, machismo, racism all blinds us to it. There are so many ways of becoming blind. We are blind to small things and small people."
And the most likely route to becoming blind, he believes, is not losing our sight but our memory. "My great fear is that we are all suffering from amnesia. I wrote to recover the memory of the human rainbow, which is in danger of being mutilated."
This article also discusses his contempt at the hierarchization of literature that discounts journalism and other forms as sub-arts. He finds great truth from many journalists and sees it as important work.
His artistry in this book is a kind of journalism. It captures the truth of the world around him, commenting on things like invisible people, dialects, celebrity, his ancestors, paradoxical politics — all things he believes should be read like news, that is, important things to know about.
The book is touching at times, poignant even, with such a scarcity of prose in passages that are often just a hundred words long or less. What adds to this as well is Galeano’s own ink drawings that accompany his work.
I think it would be impossible to convey the effect of reading this book through short passages. They fit together like puzzles, however with a lot of gaps between for us to interpret through our own experiences or imagination. However, I’ll leave you with a few of his phrases to pique your interest.
THE NOBODIES (p. 73)
”Who don’t speak languages, but dialects.
Who don’t have religions, but superstitions.”
CHILDREN’S OWN ART (p. 43)
”He sits on the floor with his guitar in a circle of kids and the kids—or rabbits—tell him the story of the seventy rabbits who climbed on top of each other to kiss the giraffe…”
ROAMINGS/3 (p. 208)
”Pilar and Antonio slid down the telephone lines as if down a toboggan run and landed, quite unruffled, in our house in Montevideo.”
CELEBRATION OF FRIENDSHIP/1 (p. 239)
”In Caracas, a friend is mi pana, my bread, or mi lalave, my key: pana from panadería, bakery, the source of wholesome bread to sate the hunger of the soul; llave, from…”
⎯⎯⎯⎯
What are you reading/viewing or writing/creating? Let’s hear it.
Thanks for being here.
If you’re in the US, you can click on the above link to purchase the book through my Bookhsop.org affiliate page and support both local bookshops and my work. Thank you!
Will definitely check out Galleanos, thank you for the recommendation! You had me at: “It’s as unexplainable as it is beautiful.”
Your meditation on the daffodil was really lovely.
Thanks Kate. I have a beautiful patch of daffodils in my yard that catch my attention each day. My thoughts often meander into pondering the wider world as I watch my flowers and the bees around them.