The World Demands of Us Our Existence

Abstract

Lighthouse, and: The World Demands From Us Our Existence, and: Echoes Romeo Oriogun (bio) Lighthouse After midnight when the lantern's oil is outand for a brief moment the sea is blind,the moon its only visible companion will loweritself into water, offering nothing but grace.I have often wondered about those who go outat this hour, men who walk the shore,picking crabs, occasionally picking upwhat the earth has deemed fit to be seen again.I have often wondered how at that momentwhen the ship that has no memory of the lighthousemust trust darkness, and the men at the shore mustwait, so briefly in the dark, holding their breathas they wait for light, how at that momentthe sailor who caresses love onto an old worn out dollmust think that men must be faithful to light,but the crab hunter who has found a King crabmust hold darkness for a while, living in the infinitesimalmoment of awe. The night is faithful once here,after that it continues, a woman will turn to her sonand say it is well, while her eyes hide tearsin the comfort of the dark and the rooster must falteronce or twice, trying to gauge time in its throatbefore heralding to the world its task, its ongoing music,dawn. The master who holds light in his calloused palmmust smile, then offer the lamp his service. The nightis a spirit, once I saw it, the endless shimmer of lightrolling on water, I saw it in the gentle stroke of an oar,in Iowa river, and just like that, it was gone. I had stoodon the bridge for minutes, hoping the river will partand I will see him, the light master, his shuffle, the glowof his tunic, and how when he comes down from the stairshe looks up to see the burning light, then goes out,into the night, smoking a cigarette. I must haveremembered all of this wrong, I must have, what cigaretteburns incense into air? What light was even there? [End Page 278] The World Demands From Us Our Existence So much of terror depends on movement.I walk through the cold, across the bridge,where I visited the woman who always calledme faggot after sex, where I sat alone,not knowing why I was there, not knowinganything. Yet, I love this life, our broken roads,the lone bird perched on a lamp, the riverand its mystery, the earth with its villageof buried bones, all those who criedbefore leaving this life. I know I will crywhen it is my turn, how much beautyis required from us? All the sonatas are risingin me, a masked man. A masked man in a theatre,I recognize you. The bird is gone, the boats too,the river is empty, yet mercy lives in its currents,it moves toward other cities. So much is asked of us,I do not know why; I do not know how to choosemyself but the birds do, I would like to join them,I have no need for speech, I want my existenceto be a long song, a bird who after taking to airdiscovers heaven is emptiness and does not lament.Having known that there is no home apart from terror,I lend my voice to our survival. I demand a wild life. [End Page 279] Echoes In Boston, I walkedthe night. From blackness I beheld salvation of dreams. I have moved. In rural Oregon, the plants spoke.Red Alders, White Oaks stood still, two geldings ran aroundin a small enclosure, tiny creatures ran underneathmy foot as I walked the wooden bridge that separated small pondfrom paths leadingto a farmhouse. So much hope ranthrough this familiar space. Across the bridge I saw the algae of my childhood. I trembled. I fell to the ground,it was August,I heard the earthworms saying, we are of this world, this world is ours only, our great bounty, in it you live.In all your yearning for...