Do us a favor hold back on your tired, your poor. We’re no longer real hot on those yearning to be free. We left it on the plaque but no one’s supposed to read them anyway. Take the hint, we closed the Island, made it a museum that ought to tell you something. Emma’s dead, get it, and Lazarus, well just read your Bible. We closed the sweatshops and shipped out all those menial jobs to Mexico and the Far East so you’re of little good to us now.
So stay home at least until you’re fluent and can speak at least one Scandinavian language.
It was written for all to see but went unseen as no one entered the portal willingly, never sufficient curiosity to offset the foreboding. Everyone knew what it said but knowing and seeing are separated by an unbridgeable chasm. It remained an imposed solitude, an isolation inherent in location, implicit in a world spinning off its moral axis, time extended and compressed, an irregular pulse. It was written in a long forgotten language, a warning etched into the walls of time faded from inattention, left to stare out knowing the outcome they would never see until it arrived.
If Aristophanes were suddenly to arrive here, he would no doubt pause, but with the eye he had, would soon discover such a treasure trove of material, he could produce comedies to last several lifetimes.
The problem would be in finding the right audience, for here we have little taste and patience for the sort of comedy at which he was so adept, and wit in language has long been forgotten in our blunt, in your face world of entertainment, and his natural audience in ancient Greece would never imagine a world so badly screwed up that even Kubrick would be hard pressed to bring Dr. Strangelove into the present.
The utter and complete absurdity of living in Florida can be ever so easily illustrated.
Last evening the neighbor’s dog decided it needed to express itself and did so in clear and loud terms.
The limpkins and gallinules in the wetland behind both our homes shouted back and based on my admittedly limited vocabulary of bird there were several four letter words and at least one upraised middle claw, for that language is universal.
And all of this was once Native American land and I am certain they would not be pleased at what we have created and the birds would agree.
Tonight, when the sun has finally conceded the day to its distant but ever larger kin, the moon will again sing her ever waning song hoping we will join in a chorus we have so long forgotten, bound to the earth in body and in waxing thought.
We will stop and listen perhaps, over the din of the city, the traffic, the animals conversing with the sky, our thoughts, but the words will now be an alien language for which we have no dictionary, only the faint memory of the place from which both we and the moon share cosmic ancestry.
It is the Italian season in the southeast. This has nothing to do with the country, its food or language. Well a bit to do with food. It is hurricane season here, and when a storm arises, you can be certain most of us begin to scan the web for information, for weather can quickly become our nightmare. But NOAA and others know we are thristy for information, and perhaps that almost everyone loves Italian food, so they feed us ever changing, ever shifting spaghetti models. Pass the red sauce please.