The Lion's Voice Echoes From the Stone Walls
When I was born, salt-water waves lapped against glacial clay banks and the great, glacial stones of the Pacific coast, the rocking of the world in the cradle of the Sea. The shouts of seagulls mingled with the rude clang of foghorns and the forlorn keening of ships' bells in those gray realms between the physical and the fluidic, where dream and landscape are knitted together with calm, insistent voice. Port Angeles is a harbor of dreams, of poignant longings that seize the heart. The Killer Whale searches its depths; the Eagle circles overhead. Though brave knights sought the Grail in the misty isles of Britain, some rumor of it lurks here - an echo of its ecstasy in the shadowy rhythm of salty mists, and in the preternatural shouting, from time to time, amidst bursts of strange light that casts across restless dreams. All who have been touched by this finger's trace across their soul share in a delightful madness known to the likes of me, this womb in which I was proud to have been born.
O this Madness, Mine
The Olympic Memorial Hospital - named in recognition of the local men who gave their all in World War II - sits just above the Straits of Juan de Fuca, eighteen miles across the water from Victoria, British Columbia, where the wild and stubborn Emily Carr painted ancient, mysterious landscapes before they were razed by the oblivious arrogance of modernity. A Greek sailor named Apostolos Valerianus discovered the Straits in 1592. He was commissioned by a Mexican viceroy to sail northward, in search of the fabled Northwest Passage, by means of which explorers could pass from the Pacific to the Atlantic directly. The Mexicans referred to the Greek as "Juan de Fuca", for which the Straits have ever since borne that name. Two hundred years after penetrating the mouth of the Straits - and one hundred and fifty years before the actual Northwest Passage was discovered - both Spaniards and Englishmen pressed northward from Cape Horn toward the northwest shores hoping to claim the Passage for their countries. It was the Spaniards who first continued eastward past the uppermost corner of my beloved Olympic Peninsula; it was the Spaniards who were the first to map their way into what would later be named Puget Sound. Neither Englishman nor Spaniard nor anyone else would find the Northwest Passage at this longitude, but they did discover a treasure trove of inland harbors and islands, a delightful cascade of blues and grays amplified by pungent mists of salt and rain that drift across the mountain landscapes, veiling salty dreams in their folds. One particular Spaniard - don Francisco Eliza - fell in love with my little harbor. In his passion he named it "Puerto de Nuestra Senora de los Angeles" - Port of Our Lady of the Angels. Such is the way of the Sea: it makes you pine for a lover you cannot embrace but refuse to yield, a condition that has driven more than one noble soul mad. Poets and madmen alike shiver in the swirling mists that haunt such places.
A presence made itself known to me in those days. I would call it a male presence, but who knows? Perhaps it was beyond gender, but it sure had a resonant male feeling to me. Mostly it was a kind of theme, like the repetitive tapping of Morse Code. It dawned on me, as my third birthday approached, that I had been observing what are called 'recurring' dreams, only it wasn't one dream, but recurrent dream patterns. Frequently I would lift into the depths of space, where the stars 'shined like lead drops against the canopy.' It was so clear, so vast, so holy, this breadthess arch above the earth. Sometimes ordinary objects would pass across the expanse, such things as telephone books, or frying pans, or chairs. And always a repetitious feeling -- not words -- thick and thin, thick and thin. I could literally taste the dimensions of things. The nature of things telegraphed their qualities and distinctions to a part of my brain that synthesized the experience into combined senses. And then one night a hand opened. By its gesture it announced: Behold! I knew very clearly that whatever this was, whoever this was, it wanted me to acknowledge that I could hear. If one could say it had a smile in its "voice" -- a breadth of peace that surpasses all words -- this Voice was that! There was no speech, only comprehension, the kind that pours through one's veins like the waters of the sea surge through the earth, very warm, very stern -- but not in a human way. There is nothing petty or vindictive about it. It was the Law itself, the muscle that shapes canyons and beasts and measureless expanses. Talking toward such a thing would never have occurred to me. The idea of chattering at it is preposterous.
I discovered to my delight that when I closed my eyes at night, this clanking, lumbering world died, and a more intelligent one made itself known to me, giving life to Blake's Jerusalem:
These were not words a child could have known. These were the visions of life that unfolded within and above. Some say Blake was a madman. I say he saw most clearly.At some point the portholes of Vision are sealed, and the clanging wheels of life's industry take over. A child's shivering soul is taken into the cruel embrace of those who shout and swagger, those who make proclamations and give orders. I knew this, so I closed my eyes and entered into those places that the loud and sanctimonious cannot reach. It was there I sued for a kind of peace: would the Dream Land respond to requests?
At age 5 I lighted upon the project of lying down flat, when bedtime came; of projecting a televsion screen directly above me; of flipping on the power, as you would a television (then waiting for the tubes to warm, as we would have then); and then of selecting a channel to view. There was some excitement in the choice of programming, but not much time to choose, so I would grab whatever caught my fancy, roll it as many times as I could, then fall asleep as it rolled. Would it work?
It worked about 50% of the time. I found the effort involved to be greater than the reward, so I gave it up, and let the waters take me down.
Down, down, under the froths of the Sea....
Down....
To the Land, as the Eygptians called it.
The Land.
Bruce Hanify All Rights Reserved
When I was born, salt-water waves lapped against glacial clay banks and the great, glacial stones of the Pacific coast, the rocking of the world in the cradle of the Sea. The shouts of seagulls mingled with the rude clang of foghorns and the forlorn keening of ships' bells in those gray realms between the physical and the fluidic, where dream and landscape are knitted together with calm, insistent voice. Port Angeles is a harbor of dreams, of poignant longings that seize the heart. The Killer Whale searches its depths; the Eagle circles overhead. Though brave knights sought the Grail in the misty isles of Britain, some rumor of it lurks here - an echo of its ecstasy in the shadowy rhythm of salty mists, and in the preternatural shouting, from time to time, amidst bursts of strange light that casts across restless dreams. All who have been touched by this finger's trace across their soul share in a delightful madness known to the likes of me, this womb in which I was proud to have been born.
O this Madness, Mine
The Olympic Memorial Hospital - named in recognition of the local men who gave their all in World War II - sits just above the Straits of Juan de Fuca, eighteen miles across the water from Victoria, British Columbia, where the wild and stubborn Emily Carr painted ancient, mysterious landscapes before they were razed by the oblivious arrogance of modernity. A Greek sailor named Apostolos Valerianus discovered the Straits in 1592. He was commissioned by a Mexican viceroy to sail northward, in search of the fabled Northwest Passage, by means of which explorers could pass from the Pacific to the Atlantic directly. The Mexicans referred to the Greek as "Juan de Fuca", for which the Straits have ever since borne that name. Two hundred years after penetrating the mouth of the Straits - and one hundred and fifty years before the actual Northwest Passage was discovered - both Spaniards and Englishmen pressed northward from Cape Horn toward the northwest shores hoping to claim the Passage for their countries. It was the Spaniards who first continued eastward past the uppermost corner of my beloved Olympic Peninsula; it was the Spaniards who were the first to map their way into what would later be named Puget Sound. Neither Englishman nor Spaniard nor anyone else would find the Northwest Passage at this longitude, but they did discover a treasure trove of inland harbors and islands, a delightful cascade of blues and grays amplified by pungent mists of salt and rain that drift across the mountain landscapes, veiling salty dreams in their folds. One particular Spaniard - don Francisco Eliza - fell in love with my little harbor. In his passion he named it "Puerto de Nuestra Senora de los Angeles" - Port of Our Lady of the Angels. Such is the way of the Sea: it makes you pine for a lover you cannot embrace but refuse to yield, a condition that has driven more than one noble soul mad. Poets and madmen alike shiver in the swirling mists that haunt such places.
A presence made itself known to me in those days. I would call it a male presence, but who knows? Perhaps it was beyond gender, but it sure had a resonant male feeling to me. Mostly it was a kind of theme, like the repetitive tapping of Morse Code. It dawned on me, as my third birthday approached, that I had been observing what are called 'recurring' dreams, only it wasn't one dream, but recurrent dream patterns. Frequently I would lift into the depths of space, where the stars 'shined like lead drops against the canopy.' It was so clear, so vast, so holy, this breadthess arch above the earth. Sometimes ordinary objects would pass across the expanse, such things as telephone books, or frying pans, or chairs. And always a repetitious feeling -- not words -- thick and thin, thick and thin. I could literally taste the dimensions of things. The nature of things telegraphed their qualities and distinctions to a part of my brain that synthesized the experience into combined senses. And then one night a hand opened. By its gesture it announced: Behold! I knew very clearly that whatever this was, whoever this was, it wanted me to acknowledge that I could hear. If one could say it had a smile in its "voice" -- a breadth of peace that surpasses all words -- this Voice was that! There was no speech, only comprehension, the kind that pours through one's veins like the waters of the sea surge through the earth, very warm, very stern -- but not in a human way. There is nothing petty or vindictive about it. It was the Law itself, the muscle that shapes canyons and beasts and measureless expanses. Talking toward such a thing would never have occurred to me. The idea of chattering at it is preposterous.
I discovered to my delight that when I closed my eyes at night, this clanking, lumbering world died, and a more intelligent one made itself known to me, giving life to Blake's Jerusalem:
The Starry Wheels revolv'd heavily over the Furnaces,
Drawing Jerusalem in anguish of maternal love
Eastward, a pillar of cloud with Vala upon the mountains
Howling in pain, redounding from the arms of Beulah's
Daughters
Out from the Furnaces of Los above the head of Los,
A pillar of smoke writhing afar outstretch'd among the Starry Wheels
Which revolve heavily in the mighty Void above the
Furnaces.
These were not words a child could have known. These were the visions of life that unfolded within and above. Some say Blake was a madman. I say he saw most clearly.At some point the portholes of Vision are sealed, and the clanging wheels of life's industry take over. A child's shivering soul is taken into the cruel embrace of those who shout and swagger, those who make proclamations and give orders. I knew this, so I closed my eyes and entered into those places that the loud and sanctimonious cannot reach. It was there I sued for a kind of peace: would the Dream Land respond to requests?
At age 5 I lighted upon the project of lying down flat, when bedtime came; of projecting a televsion screen directly above me; of flipping on the power, as you would a television (then waiting for the tubes to warm, as we would have then); and then of selecting a channel to view. There was some excitement in the choice of programming, but not much time to choose, so I would grab whatever caught my fancy, roll it as many times as I could, then fall asleep as it rolled. Would it work?
It worked about 50% of the time. I found the effort involved to be greater than the reward, so I gave it up, and let the waters take me down.
Down, down, under the froths of the Sea....
Down....
To the Land, as the Eygptians called it.
The Land.
Bruce Hanify All Rights Reserved
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