Billowing Earth and voluptuous hill
Sonorous hum of the deep valley creek
Cavernous mouth that no supper could fill
Billowing Earth and voluptuous hill
Dusk comes approaching, celestial will
Afternoon sun but her shine cannot peak
Billowing Earth and voluptuous hill
Sonorous hum of the deep valley creek
I always remember to stretch in the morning.
In a therapy session, I was once asked
why I looked so uncomfortable.
I replied that it was because I was in a therapy session.
The therapist told me to relax,
and for the first time in my life
I was prompted to stretch.
“Never be too afraid of formality
to give yourself the right to be comfortable,” he continued.
On that day
and in that moment
I first explored exploring myself.
Once I felt my comfort was valid,
I could no longer accept not adjusting in my situation.
Once I twisted my back in relief,
contorting my perspective to new angles became my default.
Once my arms stretched into infinity,
how could I cease to fill the expanding universe
with my expanding self?
Conversations hung in the air
suspended on rising warmth
from an active street
Billowing syllables soup into a moist ether
A spark of light cuts the chamber mist
as Isabel thumb-flicked her jacket’s button
As the garment glid from her shoulders
She felt immediately cooled
Only to be cloaked again with
surrounding voices
Satin red interior hidden by dark blue outer fabric
folded over her arm
Stately well read interior narrative replacing it
from the dark, blue, and droll faces they escape from
It may be the end of the world as we know it. We’ve only known so much of it, and only for so long, but it may be ending. Nature is not without her forgiveness. Where there is death there is rebirth, meaning a new world is always imminent, but it may no longer be ours, or what we called ours. At least not what we’ve laid claim to.
We call ourselves the dominant species. We are right, but only inasmuch as that means anything at all. It is a word and concept that we invented. Nature is equitable to each of her children; there is no hierarchy outside of those we’ve created. Simply roles that must be filled, mandated by evolutionary equations and the sublime will of the Universe. Nature herself is the only boss. But even by our own definition, that dominance is threatened. And we are at fault. The Earth is ill.
Today is Earth Day in North America, and attention turns, even if just ever so slightly, to care for the planet. Our planet, by the way, is very large. It is also very powerful. Ancient, pulsing orb of mineral and minds, it is a mother in its own right. The Earth is not the world, however. The world is far smaller than our planet. A superficial writhing on her skin. The world is nature made more complex by human curation. The world is a garden, and the Earth, what’s left, is wilderness.
Among our most ancient inheritances is mythology, the spiritual breath of our collective cultures. Many of our creation myths discuss gardens. Gods creating mankind and placing them in land set aside for curation. This is how we view ourselves, divine groundskeepers bending and twitching branch and vine to our pleasure by a heavenly authority. As antiquated as many people claim to find this idea, we certainly act like it is the case.
Curiously, it is also common for mankind to be expunged from their Garden, being found undeserving of paradise through means of hubris and mistakes. These mistakes aren’t limited to snakes and legendary towers. Rome and the Mayan empire were said to fall due to environmental degradation. When we make the Earth ill, we become pathogens that die with the host.
If we are to consider ourselves dominant, then the world is our throne on Earth. It is the seat of our power. It is also the contract of our reign. We have to consciously design our world with wisdom and felicity in mind. So long as the world remains a legitimate structure under mankind, we have the right to exercise our curation. This isn’t a statement that requires any level of theology.
Accepted tenets of leadership tell us that to rule legitimately we must earnestly serve first. In history, exploitation has been excused in the name of some greater good or another. What greater good can there be than the planet that sustains all life or the communities that give human meaning to anything at all? To exploit either not only breaks maxims of leadership but violates sound sense.
We must cater to and curate our world in a way that serves and glorifies both the planet and our communities. This is a scale we must balance if we are to legitimize the world and all of its creations. If we do not, the equity of nature will take over. Communities will revolt or nature will disrupt herself for her own sake.
I’m neither a sociologist nor am I a scientist however, I speak from the rhetoric of both. If we fail to control human-affected ecosystem and climate change, natural compensation may exceed our expectations to adapt. If we continue to treat scarce resources as abundant and abundant ones as in dearth, society will rebel against unfair distribution and destruction of natural resources.
We worry a lot about carbon footprints, recycling, and conscious consumerism. Each is good, but they only address the world as a place of harvest while neglecting it as a garden. This Earth Day we should add onto these mentalities a culture of curation. We should own our roles as planetary gardeners. Here are some suggestions to do so in your own day-to-day life.
We call leaves on the forest floor “litter.” In a garden we control what grows and the health of the soil by clearing litter. While we don’t have leaves, we still drop litter. We must begin to look at the ground as the floor of our garden and take initiative to intentionally take time to clean litter.
What are weeds except for plants that take resources away from plants we want to thrive? What weeds can you pull that take away resources from you and nature? An electronic device that is almost always on standby? A water feature that is always on and rarely seen? This can serve you economically as well.
Turning soil helps both loosen it and mix its nutrients. Where can you make it easier for environmental thinking and actions to take place? This is a great place to start as a consumer. Not by consuming something new, but by making adjustments with what you have. Adjust your water heater. Arrange your kitchen in a way that uses fewer single-use tools.
This isn’t a metaphor this time. Plant seeds. Grow greenery. The world is an actual garden for humankind amidst the wilderness of nature. Lest treat it as such by planting a tree somewhere this Earth day.
A garden is an aesthetic structure. Whatever you do, keep it beautiful. This may not be an obvious service to the Earth but consider that we take better care of beautiful things. Well placed beauty, especially in ways that nod toward or sit besides nature, help us respect and admire it. Flowers and houseplants are encouraged. We should also keep renewable energy collectors and reservoirs aesthetically pleasing.
These are all merely suggestions to help condition the mind toward curation mindset. To help establish the identity of a world gardener. However, it is a daily practice. Simply building the garden doesn’t unemploy the gardener. Every day she must pick, prune, plant, and plan. If not, it all returns to wilderness. This is what the peace of the garden truly is. Let’s act as caretakers to our garden, and work to heal the Earth from its illness. Let’s never let that illness be us.
With one eager inhalation, she fills her halls with the first round of customers. Still stiff with the sleep of night, this first breath draws quickening life into groggy corridors. A stretch and a yawn from wide, creaking, opening doorways invite another small crowd. The City Market had been stirring for some hours, and now with the sun hanging in the sky above bird and building, she is ready to rise. The shining warmth of well-settled dawn massages her outer walls and breaks through the high glass augers frightening away chilly night air.
This was not just any day on Meeting Street. It was mid-April. Spring break was underway. The tenacious chill of winter reluctantly gave way to heat and blossoms. Pockets of tourists and residents alike jingled with money from refunds. This promised to be a busy day for the market, who was still setting her intentions for the day with each blow of her nostrils. She was not caught by surprise. This time comes every year without fail, and she had decorated herself for the occasion.
Dressed in gorgeous flags and signs she sought to compete with the colorful bouquet of spring petals. Just as attractive as the bloom to the bee, she spun and danced and attracted many wandering eyes. Several incoming hadn’t visited for over a year and others arrived whom she met for the first time. She loved to be admired. Not simply for herself, but this was her duty. Her neighboring friend, the Farmers Market, had just returned from his winter vacation. It was both of their jobs to sustain the thriving commerce and activity of the city and she couldn’t wait to gloat. All in good fun, of course. They had a mutual respect of one another and were earnest old friends.
One more deep breath. The street was a pulsing current of life, flowing with waves of curious meandering and late appointments. It has been hours since the morning and the rush has officially begun. In just a few months the same amount of labor will leave sweat dripping from air-conditioned pipes. Not yet, however. Fresh, cool Spring keeps the air moderate inside and outside of the market’s several open edifices. Regardless, the work is laborious. She hyperventilates with the ingress and egress of customers and gawkers. Her sides seem to bulge painfully from the bustling within her walls. Ever so slightly she settles and stretches her aged bricks to make room for the commerces within her.
She didn’t mind. This was a job she had come to love. These first days always excite her, but today particularly she housed new art. Several entered the City Market just for this alone, but today she was extra proud and wanted everyone to enjoy the colors and canvases leaning upon her booths. She flaunted them joyfully, beamed at every exclamation of how pretty they were, how talented the artists, how well that depiction of a docked boat would look over the sofa. This is what she lived for. Each transaction was life-blood, each paused and engaged shopper a heartbeat. And nothing brought her more pleasure, except maybe on occasion an exceptional street performance. There was very little that didn’t energize her bones. Little she didn’t enjoy. But there was one thing.
The word “commerce” deconstructed means “merciful together.” It pays a slight nod to an archaic idea of mercy, one many may be unfamiliar with nowadays. In long forgotten times if you killed a poor man’s cattle, you have destroyed his livelihood and he must pursue strict justice. Kill the cattle of a king or queen, however, and it was simply one of many. To demonstrate their power and abundance they could show mercy because they could afford to. The market was the symbol of being merciful together. Of commerce. She was a dance of abundance. In her bosom all were welcome. The wealthy, the peasant, the harlot, and even the tax collector on their tax season vacation. Regardless, what she couldn’t stand was a thief.
Theft disrupted the very soul the market embodied. With theft comes distrust. With theft comes guarded and unfriendly displays. Theft brings unfriendliness, and that is why she can’t forgive it. Without togetherness there an be no mercy, there can be no free flowing trade within her cavernous halls. It makes her ill and she hates it. Today, deep in her belly a woman tried to steal a fragrance from a booth as the vendor turned. Another spied her before she could get away. The upset turned the market’s stomach and she regurgitated the thief with a shudder. The market can’t excuse theft. One can busk, or panhandle if you’re brave. But never disrupt the spirit of the system.
The evening approaches soon, but the Sun still hangs fairly high overhead. What was once shoulder to shoulder congestion has hummed down to empty tables and some stragglers entranced in conversations. The City Market’s brick walls and cement floors are sore from today’s activities. While it has been splendid, she is glad to relax and recover for the night. Her art sold, and baskets packed up for tomorrow, she’s proud and has earned her rest. Slowly, one-by-one large doors and gates slide to a close.
Tomorrow promises a new day of wares and wanderers. Tonight the market will sleep and dream. City Market season has begun. She’ll need her quiet night’s slumber. Morning isn’t far away and soon her tables will billow with soaps, fabrics, woven trays, spices, and toys again. Shortly after, she will once again open her nostrils and breathe deeply. The air is cool over her rooftops.
My love is a confection mixed with bitter herbs
Tubes of sour lemon icing, disguised in pink and blue
Milk white filling leaks from parted lips again
Half baked emotions don’t contain the recipe flavors
Glowing bright, my oven sits with vacant racks
The timer hasn’t yet called my attention
Yet unjust desserts are served to Gordon, Judy, and the rest
While the iced tops make it look appetizing
Cold, sour, and bitter argon colored undone tarts
For me, the question of identity is crucial. Who I am and what I stand for lies at the core of my intentional action. This is important in my lifestyle and professional activity. In the first three months of 2019, I went through some tough times and difficult events including spending some time in the psychiatric ward of the hospital, the subject of my latest poetry book. I lost a lot over that time. My business, my reputation, and my sense of identity were among the casualties. I plan on spending the second quarter of the year in rebirth, reaffirming my sense of self and the shape of my career.
Suffice to say this process is substantial, if not in reality then certainly in appearance. As I write this it is Easter Sunday, a day historically connected to the renewal of Spring and the rebirth of deities. Appropriate then that I reflect on my own rebirth after a painful ego-death. I should ask the question of what I need to complete this ritual. Are all the tools already within me, or do I perhaps need to collect or build something external? I certainly think the latter and that some external things are necessary to stand as affirmations of the identity I am assuming.
As I dive deeper and deeper into myself the more I find an affinity towards the art of words. Historically poetry, fiction, journalism and in fact, even this post is a meta-affirmation of my identity as a writer. I’m not as well read as I would like to be or maybe even ought to be, but I’m well informed by means of listening and discourse. Affirming this as something I identify with, I will continue to curate a modest but admirable collection of books and a lifestyle of engaging in profound, or at least engaging discourse. Meanwhile, I want my own words to be recorded. I’d like to publish more and will attach a sense of achievement around my own recorded words and written books. Again, that includes posts here.
In rebirth, the decision of whom you claim to be is an “ownmost” kind of thing. Only you can make the choice and do the work for yourself. Being the only person ultimately responsible for these actions is a hefty and necessary burden, but that doesn’t mean that it’s done in a vacuum. This is a high feedback activity, informing itself from the outside and announcing itself back. Identity is a conversation. It is largely for this reason I have taken initiative to publicly share my journey step-by-step.
All of these words and the most important question still has neither been answered nor addressed: Who am I? Well, let’s give an attempt at answering this in a few ways. My name is Devon M Scott and I am a poet aspiring for the nebulous but noble title of “warrior poet,” or at least being worthy of it. I live a chronicled lifestyle of writing and speaking, particularly on philosophical and spiritual matters and how they apply to my being “good” or “content” in life. In my own growth, I aim to positively influence the world around me and to act in response to relevant community matters, wherever my community may be.
That all sounds very good and honorable, but what do I want? Leisure. I want time to work on myself and my projects, to participate in my family and legacies, and to find peace and joy through performance and intimate social engagement. This would be most easily maintained through some level of wealth or meaningful support, so I will seek to earn my living by providing useful service through my art and standing as leadership where I am able and effective. Further, I want to continue earnest involvement in the martial arts and reaffirm my sense of identity as a capable martial artist.
Finally, I want to state what I stand for. This is pretty simple for me, as I’ve long devoted myself to a single phrase when asked what I want most. I just want things to make sense. I want to stand for as uncompromising a representative of sense as I am able. Not logic, not reason, but “sense” in almost an aesthetic manner. I want to solve problems and encourage living in such a way that smooths away at the roughness of life, even when that means carrying some of the roughness oneself. This is my idea of a beautiful life worth living.
The above is the seed of the identity I want to grow into. The activities and lifestyle I described are how I plan to germinate this seed. I am still not able to determine what type of plant this will sprout into, but I feel that a good seed in good soil will grow into something worth cultivating. It’s no secret that I romanticize the concept of Eden, so perhaps the garden in which I grow can become close to a paradise. If not, the things I surround myself with should still represent a beautiful place to enjoy for all who enter and curate alongside me. I hope your seeds also grow into beautiful things that you come to love. May we all blossom and bloom during this time of renewal, rebirth, and resurrection. Thank you and happy Spring.
Response to a GIF prompt from Victoria
Blinded by your feelings
You may paint me a villain
Once I was your prince
But now Machiavellian
Caught with my hands stained in vermillion
My brilliance really is diminished by this silliness.
Didn’t you once tell me I was one in a million?
Now I’m just like the rest of them
Living as a testament that the best of men
Can be put to rest and sent to death and end.
Hold your breath and when you breathe again
Will you still be seething then?
Or will you lean to reasoning easily?
We were scarred by that evening
Leaving deepening wounds
Grieving like we’re keeping the memory
Of those sleeping in tombs
I may be leaping in soon
To follow under my buried reputation in your eyes
And in your heart.
Once I was your prince
But you led a rebellion
Now I’m dwelling in Hell again.
Response to a GIF prompt from Mikaela
Love the way you love yourself
If you find you don’t
Love yourself differently
Until you do
Love the way you love yourself
If you find you can’t
Learn to treat others
As well as you would want
Love the way you love yourself
If you find you won’t
Accept the way
And you will learn it is you
Response to a GIF prompt by Drew
I throw words at the wall
And see what sticks
And it clings similarly to dry spaghetti
Does that make sense?
If you’re following me, then nod.
I struggle with words
Like I struggle with bowling balls
Once I send them off
They never seem to hit quite right
Language itself is a sport
Where meaning is the ball
Words are the sticks
And someone else’s prior experiences are an invisible goal
I have to guess the location of the goal
The sticks are all different shapes and sizes
The ball is actually a box
My teammates never made practice
There weren’t even tryouts
Noone ever plays home-field
The Jumbotron is actually social tension
The audience wants you to lose
And the referees cost 175 dollars an hour
Does that make sense?
If you’re following me, then nod.
I struggle with words
