9.4.09

today, it is waters of march, not aguas de março

Waters of March
A stick, a stone, It's the end of the road, It's the rest of a stump, It's a little alone

It's a sliver of glass,It is life, it's the sun, It is night, it is death, It's a trap, it's a gun

The oak when it blooms, A fox in the brush, A knot in the wood, The song of a thrush

The wood of the wind, A cliff, a fall, A scratch, a lump, It is nothing at all

It's the wind blowing free,It's the end of the slope, It's a beam, it's a void,It's a hunch, it's a hope

And the river bank talks of the waters of March,
It's the end of the strain, The joy in your heart

The foot, the ground,The flesh and the bone,
The beat of the road,A slingshot's stone

A fish, a flash, A silvery glow,
A fight, a bet, The range of a bow

The bed of the well, The end of the line,
The dismay in the face, It's a loss, it's a find

A spear, a spike, A point, a nail,
A drip, a drop, The end of the tale

A truckload of bricks in the soft morning light,
The shot of a gun in the dead of the night

A mile, a must, A thrust, a bump,
It's a girl, it's a rhyme, It's a cold, it's the mumps

The plan of the house,
The body in bed,
And the car that got stuck,
It's the mud, it's the mud

Afloat, adrift, A flight, a wing,
A hawk, a quail, The promise of spring

And the riverbank talks of the waters of March,
It's the promise of life It's the joy in your heart

A stick, a stone, It's the end of the road
It's the rest of a stump, It's a little alone

A snake, a stick, It is John, it is Joe,
It's a thorn in your hand and a cut in your toe

A point, a grain, A bee, a bite,
A blink, a buzzard, A sudden stroke of night

A pin, a needle, A sting, a pain,
A snail, a riddle, A wasp, a stain

A pass in the mountains, A horse and a mule,
In the distance the shelves rode three shadows of blue

And the riverbank talks of the waters of March,
It's the promise of lifein your heart, in your heart

A stick, a stone, The end of the road,
The rest of a stump, A lonesome road

A sliver of glass, A life, the sun,
A knife, a death, The end of the run

And the riverbank talks of the waters of March,
It's the end of all strain, It's the joy in your heart.


there has been some really funny quarks around me in last couple days, from all people of all directions, of people who does not know of one another, but are somehow connected vicariously through me- like the raindrops that rides on the same spiderweb, eventually falling down and meeting at the same junction point, making a much larger water drop, which then may finally fall down, then do somewheres totally different.

the early spring that was pleasantly surprising here in toronto has been taken away with two days of wet sleet blizzard and record-speed wind. the ground on last sunday was dry enough to be worked, weather in pleasant teen-degrees. we were all giddy happy with the promise of spring and early relief from heavy winter coats, thermos, wet and frozen toes, etc.

came monday, nothing can be done. realize once again this is canadian east coast, that it's just going to take a little bit longer for the spring to come. meanwhile, ive getting much happy snippets of springs from all over the places, indirectly from the bookbomber (esp. about rain, birthday, which somehow led to vladmir and estragon, then to easter, which naturally leads to one of the most vocal opinion on godot- that of birth/death and the cyclic nature of the world- which i think may be valid, however, still distorts from the play, but more on that later. it's brewing. steeping. mud tea.)

then from the chemist, with a spring night walk and a closure of a chapter, which then evidently opens a new page (we would make good friends over the time to come i think/ hope), with a hyacinth pot that burst into visual and olfactory assault. an early spring. a playbill of what is to come in just a little while.

from mr. salamander- absurd and beautiful images,- cheap cider drinking, fag smoking daffodils, a sincere but light-as-bubbles-in-the-air spring poem from laurie lee, forsythia with a passing glory in blinding-bright-yellow. muddy puppy. nip. tug. wag.
stereo sounds of rains, coal fire in march-april shower. and budding fuzzy plans for may.

from around where i actually am, the tree buds with their new fuzz, looking quite adolescent and self-important ('i shave you know. ahem.'), a stumble through old notes and finding e. e. cummings and his ballade for eddieandbill, how the earth laughs in flowers, the world, mud-luscious and puddle-wonderful. laughing because i can see some impatient buds slightly opened, now being chastised for that impatience. the occasional smell of green-lights that permeates the late afternoon sunny wind, though it still cuts through your lips, all chapped and dry still.

'...it's all symbiosis, Peter; it's symbiosis,' answered Beckett.
and boy he is right. with clashing planes of different lives, mostly separated by distance time tasks, the mud brews a new life into solid-frozen winter earth. jobim actually wrote two different sets of words for waters of march/aguas de marco. sensitive man. march, in his home in brazil, apparently is a rain season of end of summer. the torrent carries sticks stones whatevers, bringing it down, moving away, often causing death. water that cleanses and brings death, for next cycle, of fall.
instead, jobim gives us a different perspective in anglo version. in addition to the promise of life, we also get more hopes, 'the joy in your heart"'and the 'promise of spring.' the waters of march is not the same torrent rain water of aguas de marco. it is the melting snow, melting ice, the cold rain that brings the last bits of winter, transforming once-solid ground in stasis, bringing it back as mud.

mud then becomes a symbiosis.as cirlot puts simply, of plasticity and promise of emergency. much like when estragon/vlad meets up with pozzo and lucky, where the static, cyclic stage becomes anything and everything, alive, real and true. another set of symbiosis.

mud: mud signifies the union of the purely receptive principle (earth) with the power of transition and transformation (water). mud is regarded as the typical medium for the emergence of matter of all kinds. plasticity is therefore one of its essnential characteristics, and it is related, by analogy, with biological processes and nascent states. (cirlot, a dictionary of symbols, dover, 2002, p221)

this is such a messy mudpatch right now. so many things crossing one another, a soup. pozzo calms says 'they give birth astride of a grave, the light gleams an instant, then it's night once more.' the opposites of one thing, life, contrasts and pulls one another closer and closer, just like waters of march/aguas de marco. and im just riding the momentum. grasping on the all the lucky bits i run into- from the book bomber, the chemist and dear mr. salamander, puppy and yyz, i am happy to be back, being simply eddieandbill, running.

oh it is so simple and so messy.
wag wag wag
the puppy reckons to be walked.

i shall not pull him away from the mud.
we'll, in fact, both puddle around a bit.
laughing at the daffs looking shifty, holding their cider cans under their jackets, smoking cheap fags.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=g3oNSFQVzNM&feature=related

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