Re-creation

Each of us is in some way trying to retrieve something that was lost- either from childhood or maybe from our deeper evolutionary past. Art, poetry, and song are means of losing one's rational self so we may (re)experience a sense of pure emotion, perfection. The artist and the bird-watcher- even the alcoholic- seek a return to the wilderness- a return to a time when there was no scarcity of food or drink- only orgasmic pleasure, adrenaline rushes, burning hunger, exhaustion.  When humans were wild things, when our emotional, animal nature was all there was. A time when time itself was beyond perception, when pure pleasure - perfection - existed in each moment and each moment reached to infinity. In the real world, we don’t thrive in “wilderness”- “wilderness” can't meet all of our real needs. Wilderness is an abstraction, an esthetic, a figment of our deep subconscious. If it ever really existed. And we didn’t destroy it with our technologies, through wanton exploitation and persecution.  And it wasn't our exploding population that killed the wilderness. We destroyed it with our own emergence into human consciousness. Wilderness was destroyed by our own evolution, by our own coming-out as human. But we continue to try to re-gain our wilderness- sometimes successfully and sometimes less so. Sometimes we fall into drug addiction. Sometimes we put ourselves in mortal peril, recognizing that wilderness lies deep beyond our own humanness, our own physical bodies. But these are the misfits- even the well-adjusted man seeks his wilderness. We all need passion and mystery- we need wilderness, and all men will be led astray. We are all sinners.

This is a poem I wrote down a couple days ago, based on conversations with other members of the Syracuse area underground philosophy society, "Fugue".  Recreation (re-creation) is, in a sense, a form of returning to our primal origins, re-enacting the creation of ourselves, the earth, the universe.

Re-creation.

Prepare to disrobe, pupa-like, from your human trap-pings.
And ask: Where am I? Where are we?
What does the One look like? You know,
The universal hum that we heard over the mountain.
The giver-of-life,
The first invitation, the yawning womb
Long before the earth smelled of love and mushrooms

I try… we try… we are trying…
To stretch our telescopic eyes
To the end, maybe catch the big bang or something.
Or, turning our fiber-optic eyes inward toward some dark bodily interstice, in hopes of
Re-enacting our own gastrulation.

Better late than never!
Everything, every little thing was upside-down, mis-placed, mis-taken
And now we return, shell-less,
Our bones inter-coursing with the rocks, wet with the mist. Or maybe tears.
We are brothers and sisters to Australopithecus! Saber-toothed cats! Trilobites!
Pre-cellular protoplasm!
Extruded, one from the other, like sea-foam.

Lost for words. What words?
We fall down, back in time, blindly, willingly,
Hoping for… 

Some kind of recreation