Reading about 30 knot gusts registered by a weather station just a mile away is abstract
. Federal funds maintain my local station, and I read it religiously
|CMAN4, at the Cape May ferry dock (photo by NOAA)|
Thinking about the wind and clams and life as I drag my rake through the mud is literal
happens when the words fade away, when “I” (never real) dissolve in the salty mist of the strong breeze coming off the flats.
real is as unknowable as the shiver of life felt when a rake’s tine carves a line in a quahog. I find the line later, as I wash the mud off the clams under running water, like blood from a deep cut, reminded (again) of the violence even in clamming.
The strike of tine against clam is real.
The clam knows something at that moment, as I know something, but words serve neither of us as I curl three fingers under its perfect shape, a tinge (literal)
that my imperfect state (abstract)
requires eating (literal, again)
We take mammals made for running under the sun and the stars, made for climbing and dancing and singing and playing, and (literally)
make them human (abstract)
at the cost of the real. Show me a child who loves schooling, and I’ll show you another lamb who has lost her way.
Clamming reconnects me to what is real. So does gardening. And stargazing.
You have your ways, too. We all do, or did, anyway, before we let the abstract get in the way.
All the words and pictures I seek, the ones I share, are useless if just reading and looking are the goals. The goals remain wordless but not unknowable.
But sometimes all we can do is point and hope.
And try to assess that on a standardized test, Mr. Coleman.