She Comes With Horns & Tail

 

SHE COMES WITH HORNS AND TAIL

She comes with horns and tail

And yet no nightmare made of air

Such carriage

She carries heaven when she walks

On all fours she is

The metamorphosis

Hair done or undone

True to the touch

And true only to her looks

Till she comes with horns not the moon

And tail not the comet

Someone no woman has met

Except her

In the mirror

Advertisements

From: Erwin Ca…

From: Erwin Castillo [mailto:calliope@pldtdsl.net]
Sent: Tuesday, January 13, 2009 11:09 AM
To: Cesar Aquino
Subject: EVOLUTION

Dear Cesar: I am not too interested in speculating on the trajectories that evolution may lead us to. For me – but only for me – this is generally risky and useless. Although of course I have publicly indulged, and continue to indulge, in varieties of science fiction, which form may have entertainment and even deeper values, depending. But my time is short and I tend to attend to more pressing concerns.

What I can discuss with some certainty is the past of our evolution and leave you to infer possibles and probables.

The fundamental fact to remember is that we, and everything else, evolve not for ourselves but for the species.

This involves a constant struggle for the basics of life, for maintenance and reproduction. The species finally dies when it can support itself no longer. Often it dies in 1) competition with other species for space, food and other essentials; else 2) when it becomes exhaustible food for other species; and 3) when it mutates into another species, as when we transformed from homo erectus to homo sapiens.

In Case 1, this was how all the other species in the genus Homo fared. Homo sapiens – that is, us – we, killed them all off. Our last major rival specie being the thick browed homo neandertalis, the Neanderthal Man, whom we rooted out of his last bastions in South Africa and Spain a scant 30K years ago. We did this by evolving away from our common erectus ancestor into a species which was smaller and weaker (therefore less expensive to feed and maintain), but smarter, a lot smarter. This is not to be assured that being more economical or smarter is the way to success:  another branch of our family, the much smaller and equally intelligent  homo florensis, flourished side by side with us in the Indonesian islands, until we slaughtered them all off as late as 10K years ago. We dispatched our cousins so thoroughly that not a single gene from any other hominid survived!

In Case 2, there are the remembered, historical cases of the species we destroyed, i.e., the dodo, the passenger pigeon, etc. But more dramatically there are species that threaten to destroy us today..  Species much smaller and stupider, such us germs, viruses, bacteria  that have us in mortal peril, who are obviously much, much smarter than them! For evolutionary requirements also change in pace with evolution, and there’s the rub. On the other extreme, there – seeming to mock us in our ethnocentrist vanity – are terrible beings neither animal nor plant, indeed by strict definition neither dead nor alive, who continue virtually changeless for billions of years and from all indications will continue changeless long after we are gone, and which will through processes feed on our metaphoric carcasses. Then the universe, as before us, will have no need of our glorious decorations: our thoughts, our music, ideas, our forms. Our poetry.

Case 3 is our future: the mutation, the metamorphosis. Cape Engano attempts to invent an evolutionary trajectory for our specie, but merely for dramatic effect. I have no expertise past that.

Hope this is of some clarification, dear friend.

A Poem by Robert Frost

Directive

by Robert Frost

 

Back out of all this now too much for us,

Back in a time made simple by the loss

Of detail, burned, dissolved, and broken off

Like graveyard marble sculpture in the weather,

There is a house that is no more a house

Upon a farm that is no more a farm

And in a town that is no more a town.

The road there, if you’ll let a guide direct you

Who only has at heart your getting lost,

May seem as if it should have been a quarry—

Great monolithic knees the former town

Long since gave up pretense of keeping covered.

And there’s a story in a book about it:

Besides the wear of iron wagon wheels

The ledges show lines ruled southeast-northwest,

The chisel work of an enormous Glacier

That braced his feet against the Arctic Pole.

You must not mind a certain coolness from him

Still said to haunt this side of Panther Mountain.

Nor need you mind the serial ordeal

Of being watched from forty cellar holes

As if by eye pairs out of forty firkins.

As for the woods’ excitement over you

That sends light rustle rushes to their leaves,

Charge that to upstart inexperience.

Where were they all not twenty years ago?

They think too much of having shaded out

A few old pecker-fretted apple trees.

Make yourself up a cheering song of how

Someone’s road home from work this once was,

Who may be just ahead of you on foot

Or creaking with a buggy load of grain.

The height of the adventure is the height

Of country where two village cultures faded

Into each other. Both of them are lost.

And if you’re lost enough to find yourself

By now, pull in your ladder road behind you

And put a sign up CLOSED to all but me.

Then make yourself at home. The only field

Now left’s no bigger than a harness gall.

First there’s the children’s house of make-believe,

Some shattered dishes underneath a pine,

The playthings in the playhouse of the children.

Weep for what little things could make them glad.

Then for the house that is no more a house,

But only a belilaced cellar hole,

Now slowly closing like a dent in dough.

This was no playhouse but a house in earnest.

Your destination and your destiny’s

A brook that was the water of the house,

Cold as a spring as yet so near its source,

Too lofty and original to rage.

(We know the valley streams that when aroused

Will leave their tatters hung on barb and thorn.)

I have kept hidden in the instep arch

Of an old cedar at the waterside

A broken drinking goblet like the Grail

Under a spell so the wrong ones can’t find it,

So can’t get saved, as Saint Mark says they mustn’t.

(I stole the goblet from the children’s playhouse.)

Here are your waters and your watering place.

Drink and be whole again beyond confusion.

 

#