Like the question about a tree falling in the forest, I wanted to see if I failed to post this monthly column whether it would be missed. Of course, the answer is no — unlike the classic tree punderance, which you know would still make a sound even if no one were there to hear it strike the ground. Don’t give me any guff. There would be a sound.
In fact, some might think this proves the existence of The Divine, because God would hear it. Others might argue it is proof of the universe being infinite, for the cosmos will continue to exist after each of us is gone. I say, and this is purely hypothetical, that it’s hearable because it can be proven by relative comparisons to other things that fall. But then, there will always be someone who claims the forest floor is padded by needles and leaves and would soften the impact. I say there would still be the rustle of leaves, the snap of twigs, birds wings, and a quiet thud.
What does any of this have to do with posting my Reflections column?
Not a thing. I just thought it would be an interesting way to start off, with a classic reflection. Besides, I love trees and woods and forest punderances.
Back to my original proposition: I predicted my column would not be missed, and so far there is little evidence to the contrary. As I peer out into the vast internet of cyberspace, I see few if any peepers gazing in return. There are plenty of eyeballs roaming networks, cruising the Information Highway, surfing those currents of data and text flowing from connection to connection. Yet I know too well how even the highest quality of content can be overlooked, ignored. Because there’s too much flotsam.
The average person these days will read an immensity of bland uncreative drivel over the course of their lives. Will they sit down to read a scintillating book? Will they lend an ear, or glance, to an eloquently starving poet? Will they spare a thought for a provoking notion when they aren’t Twittering or blogging or vlogging or BARFING (as in, Being A Repeat-Fire Incessant Nonstop Gamer)?
The answer once again seems to be no.
Why bother? I ask myself. Why write something that won’t be read? Because it isn’t up to me. The true author will scratch and scrawl in vain, regardless of the absence of another set of eyes. It is that devotion, that arduous ardor that separates the artist from the elephant.
If no one reads this, I shall laugh in the face of their folly, not mine. It will be entirely their loss . . . for I have gained another poem.
Whither, dither? Whather, dather?
Such punderances nag me
I haven’t settled one of ’em
Ere another baffler be
Whilst thinkening or thunkening
I can never seem to say
What I meant to mean, what I’ll never glean
What I’ve lost along the way
From the tides of Time and the hourglass dunes
I once thought my journey vast
Now each second spent on remembrances
Robs the future for the past
If I contemplate what should be my Fate
I will not the richer grow
Lest I walk the route of the greatest doubt
There is where the champions go
With a wink I’ll ask for the devil’s dance
But I’ll skip to my own beat
As they play the tune of a weeping loon
And the notes unlock my feet
In the soupy fog of my hollow log
I no longer heed the rhyme
And as reason fails, a sixth sense prevails
To embrace The Waltz Sublime
Whence springs my well of wondering
Whose source flows like the seas
From whose font spills out the quest-mad cries
Of Life’s deep anomalies
I will not ask why nor how nor whom
And I won’t inquire within
I’ll not which-hunt, speculate, or be swayed
From unsolving punderances.