Fresh Kills _ Hands of God - Day 21

Hands of God - Day 21

I am in a new milky gray world.  Not white, not dark/black.  Perhaps a fine mist or a fog is an appropriate word or energy.

Hands of God.  The phrase will not leave me. 

Somewhere the literal energy mixes with the poetic metaphoric energy as I realize that Hands of God is not the grandfather in the sky, Sistine Chapel, God.  This God is something else.

In a way, I pave my own way and I mark my own time as I carve that singular pathway, my pathway to heaven.  I do it here and now.  I have been doing all my life both here and just previously.

If and when I get to the end of this prison, this transition to another space or time or dimension, I know that the real God should He, She, It really exist, I will deal with it in that other future space, time, dimension.

Here is someplace special.

A rumbling, a shaking, an awareness forms into being.

Part of me is free of the rubble of the World Trade Center.  Did they find my body? Yes. And no.

They have not found me yet but by chemical breakdown of that former body, a piece, a major piece of me has somehow been scooped up and is being transported on the back of some truck.

Where are we going?

Which way are we going?

Dusty.  My past death senses are about dust.

I think I sneeze in conscious acknowledgment of a past sinus situation.

“Bless you” I hear.

Bless you?

I reach out and touch something cold.  A piece of metal?  A piece of bronze.

I reach out and am in strange ecstasy.  I feel in the metal now warm and not cold by my psyche touch what seems like a woman’s breast.

And indeed to focus on imagined there is part of a head?

In momentary disgust I back away only to realize that I am looking at a piece of mangled metal, a once precious sculpture and only a piece of a sculpture.

The energy of words I begin to search for the mystery of this metal.

The world shakes and rumbles.

Oh yes, we are being transported someplace else other than the old Dutch city.

I look at the partial mangled metal and begin to see the hair of a male near the female breast and all is lost in male female body parts and something sticking up, a tree trunk, a large penis? No. A large thumb.

What is this?

Hand of God - a pause - by Auguste Rodin.

An authorized copy?  I ask myself.

What is this? A piece of junk.  A piece of priceless art in a trash heap.

Is that what I am?  A piece of trash?  Merged, my earthy molecules with or near junk art?

Strange thoughts. Then words. The energy of words and the energy of thoughts and impressions of those who had viewed this objet d’art.

And in perceptive, it was a decent decorative sculpture. But entwining lovers within the womb like large hand, the so-called hand of God, was a bit gimmicky for its time over a hundred years ago.

Cutting edge? Hardly.

A great loss to the art world. Not really.  Rodin never broke his molds.  They keep schlocking them out again every generation or two when the commodity art market demands it for a new wave of nouveau riche crooks.

I am dumbfounded. One minute I am in the heat of a Muslim pilgrimage thing in Mecca, then I am part of a trash delivery to parts unknown.

And I thought I had heard the term Hands of God. That was a plural.  There is only one hand displayed in this sculpture.

Then I heard or think or feel the energy of some eastern mystic talking about the sound of one hand clapping.  A conundrum? A spiritual weekend trick to impress the temporary audience and their terrible yoga and breathing.

Breathing. Breath. I am breath. Part of the great lung of the universe.

And like some shallow little pilgrim to the weekend resort guru I realize that anything can offset the sound of one hand clapping.

The point is that there is no sound.  It is a yin and a yang thing.  One does not have one without the other.  That the only thing that can hear one hand clapping is oneself or a split version of oneself.  One self to set in motion the clapping empty sound.  The other self to catch the non-sound or to at least catch the ball of the concept of sound, non-sound, motion, non-motion (thought, perception).

So too, the lovers in the sculpture don’t have to make love, even if the hormonal instinct it to couple.

In a way, God set the world, the universe, into motion.  But only his creation must cooperate in the program.

The hands of God are two hands, one belonging to God, the other belonging to me (us).

Even the silent sound of God’s one hand clapping can only make sense when it comes into the sphere, energy of me (our) thought reaction to original energy and or another concept of God.

I hear in my hand clapping.  Clapping of one entity and or two hands clapping together in correct coordination.  Syncopation. Synchronicity. Etc.

Before I dismiss this distraction of this art work, I see or think tags and tangents.  This piece of bronze had been in the other tower I think.  How do I know that? 

The things at the top of two building falling eventually land in the common pit of the grave at the bottom of life’s heap.  The rich man’s sculpture in his lobby merges with this working poor guy’s pocket change.

Why would I be the same proximity of this piece unless some breath of the gas of what was left of me had somehow coated its surface?

And maybe a few molecules of me are now a part of this trash.  We are sliding out into the light of earth twilight.  The sun is setting in magnificent Arizona colors. There is a cold chill.  I think it is winter.  And the sound of seagulls flying and fighting for any scraps of edibles left in the trash of the now deceased world trade center.

Shit! I am back in Staten Island.

Shit! Again!

Life sucks. Then you die.  I died and went to Staten Island?

I close my eyes.  No.  I rest my thoughts.