katster's closet

A hat tip to Hugo Schwyzer. If you grew up in California, you'll understand this poem. If you're not, let me just say that California has a tendency to be somewhat ahistorical, and leave it at that.

(If you're curious, I once did an essay attempting to explain why history, which touches on some of the same subjects, but it's not very good. I plan to revise it soon.)

The Politics of Memory
Kevin Heard

I was born in a state
where everything had to be named twice
to survive:
where Hangtown became Placerville,
where La Brea couldn’t hold its bones
in Spanish, but had to be redundant
and bi-lingual ---
The La Brea Tar Pits,
redundant, like the Sierra Nevada Mountains,
in name only;

a state so arid in parts
that what has been forgotten
is blown to dust
in the wind across the alkali flats;
a state where you change the name
and all is forgiven:
where Gospel Swamp
loses both its muck and its religion
to emerge the model suburb

Fountain Valley forgives the swamp,
but what of Manzanar?
In a state where everything
has to be named twice
or be forgotten,
who will remember Manzanar
(a place in exile
from the maps)? The detention camp is closed,
but I was born in this state
and, for now, I know the name.

I tried to find Him on the Christian cross, but He was not there; I went to the Temple of the Hindus and to the old pagodas, but I could not find a trace of Him anywhere.

I searched on the mountains and in the valleys, but neither in the heights nor in the depths was I able to find Him. I went to the Caaba in Mecca, but He was not there either.

I questioned the scholars and philosophers, but He was beyond their understanding.

I then looked into my heart and it was there where He dwelled that I saw Him; He was nowhere else to be found.

    -Jelaluddin Rumi


I found this quote in the new enigma CD I got from the library, but I wanted to put it here so I can come back and meditate on it.