Your shouts of providence which reach us
by Christos Polydorou
Your shouts of providence which reach us do not begin as shouts. They do not begin as shouts, and so you will not find me shouting. This is my secret. I tend to be as the source combines something human and elsewhere transcendental. I buoyantly and hesitantly discovered within myself and my species an imitative nature which I decided to stop surrendering to the media, or to another film director’s vision, however dazzling, amazing, and seductive. I came to my senses when I started directing my own life. Wild horses, nourished, fed, loved, carry spirits from underworld to overworld, and we suddenly drop a spatula in our kitchen as we are cooking, for no apparent reason.
Several gardens over, children jump up and down on a trampoline, shouting, because it is summer, and this is London, and it is the hottest day of the year, thirty degrees Celsius, a heatwave so unusual for London it makes a city which already feels other worldly, stacked, as it is, in history, additionally otherworldly.
I have had a good time. And sometimes I still do. But in this period in my life, I long to remain on the edge, listening, to whatever comes in, like an aspinger deciphering the flights of birds, the numbers of the types of birds, and the frequency to which I say out loud that time hurts and say a wood pigeons settles on the edge of the stone fence, opposite where I am cooking a home cooked meal.
I want to be able to ask big and difficult, however answerable questions, and receive an answer.
This, as I understand it, is the human condition. Being human is weird. What is in us, cosmic seashell, which traps answers, sent from stars that have collapsed, centuries ago?