Seeing, Feeling, Breathing

Tonight, I was speaking to a young boy: one who has spent the last three years in Turkey with his family, and who is delightful; often-smiling, intelligent-eyed.

My sister asked him what Gallipoli was like. It was a rather abrupt question. I would not have thought to ask it, and yet, I was intrigued by the coming answer. The events that occurred on that steep, rocky hillside and skinny beach have always fascinated me. The terror, bravery, anguish, honour. . . I am struck by that inevitable and useless loss of human life. The way men survived, (or did not survive) through it will continue to arrest my attention for years to come.

I knew what would be said in answer to my sister's question. Gallipoli is a beachy cove, rocky hills, blue sea.

But even though I had inwardly asked the question, I knew I would not get the answer I wanted.

The answer I wanted could not be worded. The answer to the question, "What was Gallipoli like?" Is to go there myself; to walk along the slim strip of beach; to drink in the blue and grey tones of the sea and feel the hot air mix with the breeze that comes sweeping off the ocean with a tumbling, gentle glimpse of the significant past; to climb one of the dirty hills, never mind the dusty slopes, just for the sheer beauty of knowing how the soldiers did it in 1915, though without the inescapable gunfire and panic.

I want to see, and feel, and breathe in that place. I want to know; to really know the answer to the question.

And the answer to every question like it.

What is Gallipoli like? Well.

                                     I might just have to go and see.

Stream of Consciousness: Reflections

Sometimes you don't need another human being to explore life, and love, and poetry. It is on days when no one is around (or when I forget that they are) that I remember this.

Then I talk to myself.

“Here, read this.”

“This? What is it?”

“A poem by Robert Frost. It’s called ‘For Once, Then, Something.”

“What’s it about?”

“A water well, I think, but knowing Robert Frost, I’d say it’s about more than that.”

“Pass it here, then. .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .hm. Nice .  .  .No, pensive.”

“Hm. I s’pose. What do you think he’s saying, though? Why look for the water beyond the reflection and then write a poem about what you saw when you glimpsed beyond it?”

“You already said that you don’t really think it’s about the well or the water. I agree with you. Why else would he have added ‘truth’ to the short list of things it might’ve been that he saw for a moment?”

“You think it’s about truth?”

“No.  .  .Yes; Well, I’m not certain. But you can’t see truth, so it’s not as if he could have, staring into the well. He’s brought our attention to that quite deliberately. It sticks out.”

“Yes. It’s almost as if Frost never had this experience at all, but that it’s a metaphor for another that he did have.”

“Or he had them both.”

“Yes.”

“Hm.”

“The reflection masks the water. That’s what he’s saying isn’t it?”

“Water isn’t the only thing that wears a mask. Who-”

“People.  .  .  .people do.”

“Hm. He doesn’t mean a physical mask, though.”

“Oh, of course not, no.”

“I think he’s talking about ‘perceiving people’ in metaphor.”

“Among other things.”

“Yes, but mainly people.”

“Hmm. We do wear masks, don’t we? All of us. I guess that’s what life is about. Getting close enough to people you love, so eventually they get comfortable enough to-“

“-To take their mask off. If only just for you.”

“Yes.”

“You were right. It’s not just about a well. It is about discovering truth.”

“The truth about people.”

“Truth that can be just as soon obscured as revealed.”

“The truth about me.”

Others taunt me with having knelt at well-curbs

Always wrong to the light, so never seeing

Deeper down in the well than where the water

Gives me back in a shining surface picture

Me myself in the summer heaven godlike

Looking out of a wreath of fern and cloud puffs.

Once, when trying with chin against a well-curb,

I discerned, as I thought, beyond the picture,

Through the picture, a something white, uncertain,

Something more of the depths—and then I lost it.

Water came to rebuke the too clear water.

One drop fell from a fern, and lo, a ripple

Shook whatever it was lay there at bottom,

Blurred it, blotted it out. What was that whiteness?

Truth? A pebble of quartz? For once, then, something.

-Robert Frost