Walking Each Other Home / Always Coming Home

Reading list for February and March 2021:

Horizon, by Barry Lopez

Walking With the Wind, by John Lewis

A Handful of Earth, A Handful of Sky:  The World of Octavia E. Butler, by Lynell George

Deaf Republic, by Ilya Kaminsky

*

Thank goodness for public libraries.

UNTO

Here's another question from the I Ching:

Return to the way.
How could there be blame in this?
Good fortune.
(p. 41, Richard Wilhelm / Cary F. Baynes translation)

And something I found at wood s lot, with some questions from Cesar Vallejo:

I AM GOING TO TALK ABOUT HOPE

César Vallejo

I do not feel this suffering as Cesar Vallejo. I am not suffering now as a creative person, or as a man, nor even as a simple living being. I don't feel this pain as a Catholic, or as a Mohammedan, or as an atheist. Today I am simply in pain. If my name weren't Cesar Vallejo, I'd still feel it. If I weren't an artist, I'd still feel it. If I weren't a man, or even a living being, I'd still feel it. If I weren't a Catholic, or an atheist, or a Mohammedan, I'd still feel it. Today I am in pain from further down. Today I am simply in pain.

The pain I have has no explanations. My pain is so deep that it never had a cause, and has no need of a cause. What could have its cause been? Where is that thing so important that it stopped being its cause? Its cause is nothing, and nothing could have stopped being its cause. Why has this pain been born all on its own? My pain comes from the north wind and and from the south wind, like those hermaphrodite eggs that some rare birds lay conceived of the wind. If my bride were dead, my suffering would still be the same. If they had slashed my throat all the way through, my suffering would still be the same. If life, in other words, were different, my suffering would still be the same. Today I'm in pain from higher up. Today I am simply in pain.

I look at the hungry man's pain, and I see that his hunger walks somewhere so far from my pain that if I fasted until death, one blade of grass at least would always sprout from my grave. And the same with the lover! His blood is too fertile for mine, which has no source and no one to drink it.

I always believed up till now that all things in the world had to be either fathers or sons. But here is my pain that is neither a father nor a son. It hasn't any back to get dark, and it has too bold a front for dawning, and if they put it into some dark room, it wouldn't give light, and if they put it into some brightly lit room, it wouldn't cast a shadow. Today I am in pain, no matter what happens. Today I am simply in pain.

unto (un'too); unstressed un'tᵊ (prep. Archaic. 1. to (in its various uses, except as the accompaniment of the infinitive). 2. until; till. [ME; modeled on the word "until"]