I’m here, not to worry (and a poem)

I apologize, those of my Imaginary Readers, who might still be haunting this place despite my long absence.  Before leaving, I was given all kinds of warnings about the dangers of drinking unfiltered water or eating certain foods.

In India, I was fine.  No problems whatsoever.

This changed the day after I got back home.  Since then, I’ve been sick as the proverbial dog, and I have spent entirely too much time reaquainting myself with our bathroom.

I promise a much longer accounting of my adventures in India, both in Bangalore and at Kaleshwar’s ashram in Penukonda, to be posted at some future date.  Also, I might as well break the news here and now: I am going back in June, to attend Kaleshwar’s one year university program.  We’re selling our house, putting our stuff in storage — and we’ve already bought an apartment at the ashram.  (Nothing says one is serious like a real estate investment, eh?)  Unlike this last trip though, I am going to try to get some moderately regular Internet access set up, and although I won’t be able to post daily, I should be able to manage weekly blog posts.

What I won’t be able to do — nor am I inclined to continue — is my political commentary, at least not to any huge degree.  If you’ve visited here much at all, you know how I feel about the current U.S. government.  The GOP is a hopelessly corrupt and criminal political party basically so wrapped up in keeping power and making rich people richer, they don’t care what they destroy.  As for Bush and his administration?  Both incompetent and pathologically megalomaniacal.  In fact, probably the only thing that’s kept us from total destruction at this point so far is the fact that they’re so breathtakingly incompetent.

Kinda like the way Doctor Smith never quite managed to destroy the Jupiter 2, on "Lost in Space."  Or maybe a more apt analogy would be Gilligan, only hopped up and all sociopathic on a stash of crystal meth that floated into the island lagoon one shipwrecked day.  That’s Bush for ya.

Anyway, I had some really remarkable experiences.  B’lore, as we call it, was a loud, crowded, interestingly-aroma’d city — but a lot of fun, especially once I got the hang of the shopping thing.  And the ashram… well, I’ve never been anyplace more peaceful and serene.  If anything, I’m having severe adjustment problems, being back — especially as I look forward to three months of packing and getting our house ready for sale.

Now then, I promised you folks a poem, and I keep my word.  This is one I wrote at the ashram, and with utmost honesty here, I have NO idea where it came from.  I just sat down one night, and this thing practically wrote itself.

Signal Fire

Light the signal fire, my friend
for the armies are on the march

Dust raised by tens of thousands
of tattered leather boots
creates inadvertent prophecy for us
in a blood-red sunset

They bring spears
war-elephants and chariots
battle-wagons and battering rams
siege engines to fling diseased corpses
over the parapets

Light the signal fire
for though these walls are high
and have never before been breached
nothing stands for an eternity

Were their generals to order
the men to turn aside
still, mortar crumbles
rain, ice and wind
merely taking a little longer while
than hurled boulders

You say we shall withstand the armies
and keep our walls in good repair
What happens when you are gone
and your sons, and their sons after them
leaving none to remember
in the chasm of time
why the walls were ever built
in the first place?

Eventually, inevitably
they will fall
We are but temporary stewards

Yet light the signal fire, I say
for this is our place
our duty, in this time
to fight and stand true
to die, if that is our fate

What comes after
is not our concern

Light the signal fire
or, if you will not do it
give me the torch

- (c) 2006, Rebecca Morn