Callista, goodbye,
Keep open your eyes,
Your future is finally here
It's not what you will but it's still
And it's yours and it's clear
In some other season
Had we governed reason
Our hands and our faces would meet
And the seas you water
Would dry up, my daughter,
The seas never touching our feet.
Most beautiful friend,
The time is the end,
And time has no meaning no more
The forges of fury
Are beating the plowshares to swords
The world has gone wrong
And you know you belong
To an unrevealed age of life
Let bad fall to ruin
And yield to the human,
A new birth of spirit from strife.
The stories they tell
Of heaven and hell
Will diminish and cease to be true
A little revenge on the gods
Who dared wrestle with you
They, the conceited,
They, who deceited,
Could never set you in the stars
Who love themselves only
They deserve to be lonely
And sightless and frozen and far.
But your vindication
Brings no consolation
The beauty you found they have missed
Your flag is unfurled at the top of a world
That does and does not yet exist
Callista, you're turning
Your God, she is yearning
The two of you one and apart
I hear you cry softly
How moving, how costly
To follow the prize of your heart.
O virgin, O mother,
We sing for each other
We watch across infinite space
A harmony passes -- it whispers
In silvery quavers of grace
Much more I would give you
If I could be with you
To ease, to lighten, to share
Your burden, O maiden,
So heavily laden,
That you and you alone must bear.
Callista, goodbye,
Keep open your eyes,
Your future is finally here
It's not what you will but it's still
And it's yours and it's clear
In some other season
Had we governed reason
Our hands and our faces would meet
And the seas you water
Would dry up, my daughter,
The seas never touching our feet.
About Me
- Anthony Zuba
- New York, New York, United States
- I was born Sept. 27, 1977, in Flushing, NY, and raised in North Babylon, NY. From the suburbs of Long Island I moved to the hills and gorges of Ithaca, NY, studying at Cornell University. There, my spirit was awakened, and everything changed. The Spirit that stirred my spirit brought me to Baltimore and then to Boston. I studied at Boston University School of Theology and learned better how I wanted to live. Today, I am a Capuchin Franciscan friar in perpetual vows. Yesterday, I was a community organizer in Boston, an editor in New York, and a teacher in Baltimore. Tomorrow, God only knows. Many things interest me, though nothing in particular. I have an abiding interest in living simply and living well. Life that is authentic interests me.
22 comments:
You have been quiet lately, Anonymous.
We all fear the fear. If I speak, will you listen? If you listen, do I know of what to speak?
What fear do we fear? I do not fear silence. I fear absence. Rather, absence creates fear.
If you speak, I will listen. If I listen, you will be heard, even if neither of us know what you speak.
Have you had the chance to read Mandelbrot?
It is not within my means to buy books at the moment. I should acquire a Boston Public Library card.
I'd ask you to lend me your book, but that, of course, is impossible.
Have you had the chance to read "Callista"?
Yes, I read it. I suspect it has a deeper meaning than one gets at first. I'm still trying to understand it fully.
I refer you to the Greek myth of Callisto and to Callista, an 1855 novel by John Henry Newman.
Fortunately I have a library card. I was shocked to read that you did not have one.
Until last year, I had full access to Boston University's libraries and to the libraries of all the Boston-area seminaries. I could obtain any book I wanted. That is why it never occurred to me to get a BPL card, Anonymous. But that can easily be remedied.
Have you discovered Alexandria?
You're funny. I said I could find any book I wanted, not every book that ever was.
But wants are not the same as needs, and though I am looking for everything I want (mostly), I am not looking for everything I need. Such is my smallness and blindness.
Only one eye is blind. The other should be all you need.
My inner vision is clouded lately. I am painting a picture I cannot see. I am writing the words of a song I cannot hear. I am looking for someone I do not know and who may not exist.
Meanwhile, God is looking for me and wondering whether I exist.
One good eye? How do you know I am only half-blind?
While round, it cannot contain the truth. Nothing can. Not even the eye you lack.
I'm straining to understand you. We're both speaking obscurely now.
As much as you need to conceal yourself, I wish I knew who you are and why you speak as you do. Have we ever met?
Why would it matter? This is the only medium in which we can interact.
It matters because I count you as a very interesting friend (female?) who surely has an interesting life story of which at present I know little or nothing even though we have been writing for several months. And I would like to know you in person.
Unless you were disabled or incapacitated or lived halfway around the world, or unless interacting in person somehow would put you at risk, there is no reason I can see for this being the only medium where we connect.
I think we know each other beyond cyberspace because it is unlikely you would have found the blog otherwise.
But, then again, I may be wrong.
It may be best to think of me as an 80 year old man who enjoys our conversations. You have so many experiences in front of you. I'm most interested to see how they develop along the way.
I don't think you're telling the truth about your identity -- we should call you Pseudonymous -- but whatever the case, the rest of your sentiments ring true to me. And these are interesting, albeit telegrammatic, conversations. I can learn to be content with that.
Truth I said not it need be. I said it would be best, for your sake, to think of me as an 80 year old man. Find a picture of Mandelbrot, and when thinking of pseudonymous, have that image in your mind. It is best for your well being.
I will pretend you are Thomas Pynchon or someone similarly elusive/illusive/reclusive.
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