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(Typing in June and July, 2021, from hand-written first sitting. Undated.)
The term “primordial” evokes many reactions in the meta-mulch of our
human consciousness. It conjures in my own dazed and crazed mind an
assortment of prehistoric situations.
Take, for example, the concept of “primordial waters”.
We can all assume that prehistoric primordial waters were full of magic,
for they all dwelt in their particular bodies under spells of pristine
ethers which lent the stuffs of creative chemistries to sloughs and
swamps, streams and lakes, and oceans of global seas.
Some primordial waters gurgled and laughed as brooks who were
happy to be going somewhere. Others flowed silent, deep and strong,
secure in their ability to erode away mountainsides and dissolve stone
for no tangible purpose.
Some waters demarked terra-topologies with little or no concern,
dividing continents for purposes to be revealed later.
Other waters seemed content to collect themselves into lakes and
ponds, going nowhere. These sorts of waters were more readily given
to evaporations, and were thus familiar with clouds and mists and fogs
and certain other ethereal expressions of airy formalities as subtle as
distant hazes. These waters traveled in a much more exciting way than
did those of stream and river.
These waters just went up into the air and rode the wind to all sorts of
places and, at times, in time, fell back to the earth as rain-drops or
snowflakes or hailstones.
To do this they had to transfigure themselves. Waters who were not
experienced at evaporation had to learn about the process gradually, in
steps. These waters would practice for the leap to the heavens by first
becoming humidities.
Humidities are invisible to most beings. They can be felt, though, by
most members of the plant kingdom as well as the animal kingdom.
Otherwise, the senses are hardly capable of the discernment of
humidities. Humidities are very little waters who hover in air at times
and in places of their own choosing. They don’t band together in visible
groupings, and they don’t belie their activities by having odors, or by
gurgling or chattering, or by creating tastable flavors. So we can only
guess that they’re there by ‘feeling’ them. Since times primordial,
humidities have been difficult but not impossible to detect.
After a little water learned well how to become a humidity, it seemed
to gather a confidence in the invisible air. There are myths among older
rivers indicating that some still waters became so adept at changing
into humidities, and took such pleasure at so doing, that wherever their
sport was pursued by great numbers of them the air seemed to
gravitate full and pregnant with them day and night, all year ’round.
Of course these little waters considered evaporation and humidifying to
be spiritual activities falling under the classification of re-creation. They
only would do it for the fun of it. Further, if a particular season seemed
inhospitable to the activity, the air couldn’t plead long enough or hard
enough to coax the little waters up and out of their bodies.
They learned through the drifting Ages that the more tropical zones
were to be preferred over the northern latitudes. They gradually found
that the closer to sea-level they played the longer they could hang in
the air. They learned that in certain climates, during optimum seasons,
they could participate in precipitation very handily.
It must have been great fun to rise out of a swamp or backwater slough
and transform into a humidity entity, and then, just when they had
teased some hairless-faced, anthropoid-like father-of-fishermen into a
sweat, transfigure themselves into a fog and rub silently against the
perspirations forming on his face.
Humidities are like aqua-pranksters. And if a “being” failed to wipe his
brow or in some other manner acknowledge their presence, these
humorous little waters would call back to the bigger waters and request
reinforcements.
But though waters practiced humidifying all over the unconscious
world, they especially enjoyed humidifying wherever could be found a
prehistoric fisherman. Every time a fisherman’s face and pair of palms
would appear near a shoreline, the silent ascension into the air would
accelerate. To this day, all fishermen know this.
In unison the little waters would hover all about the father-of–all-
fishermen, teasing his skin until those little waters who dwelt in his
flesh would come out upon the skin to greet them. The humidities
seemed to like sweat, maybe for the salts or maybe because they saw
in sweat long-lost friends or potential new friends.
The father-of-fishermen knew these little waters would do this, would
make the bow or the spear slippery in his intent grasp, would summon
the sweat to the corners of his eyes to blur his vision, would call out of
his very being the beads of sweat whose joy it was to make long dashes
down the bridge of his noble nose from the patient planes of forehead.
This invariably caused him to wipe his face clean of the trickles of tickles
which tormented his concentration.
Secretly, but in conjunction with hunters, farmers, and lovers, the
father-of-fishermen hated humidities. He had no way to foresee that
his offspring across millennia would one day invent the air-conditioned
bass boat. He entertained his hatred of humidities in the silence of
forced acceptance, but did so cleverly and in a never-ending code-
making mechanism so intense and prominent that his genetic code
itself modified a certain allele with the invested resolution to air-
condition the whole world.
After a little water knew how to become a humidity, its next step was
to bond with others of liquid ilk and create a much larger, even visible,
hovering in air. These activities the father-of-all-fishermen christened
“fogs”, “mists”, “vapors”, and “clouds”.
The crowning objective of still little waters was flight in formations, i.e.,
the forming and flying of clouds. As clouds they could in large numbers roam about the entire globe, still odorless, tasteless and silent, through now visible and courageous. As clouds they had options denied their parent waters resting far below.
As clouds they could invite in to their merry midst electric leaping
lightnings and grumbling ghosts of thunders.
As clouds they could make designs on the face of the heavens.
And of course, as clouds they could transfigure themselves into
hailstones and raindrops and snowflakes, dashing down the sky in great
numbers to wet the whole world and the dreams of mankind.
Such are primordial powers, natural powers which are concentric
endomorphs defying definition. Such powers date back in time to the
very edge of time itself.
Condensation is a magical method enjoyed by desert breeds of waters.
Some waters like to spring out of rocks in high places. Other waters
enjoy spelunking in caves. Still other types of waters choose to remain
underground, where they move about in unscheduled directions to
thwart the digger of wells. Some waters prefer to dwell at the top or
bottom of the globe where they enjoy the state of being frozen solid.
Also, in wintry climes, to this day, some waters like to crystalize into
icicles whose tapered tips glisten in sunlight and wetly point back down
to the earth. And there are some waters who enjoy carrying minerals
up in heated springs from the bowels of the earth. And for no apparent
reason some waters delight in falling, diving from great heights, as falls.
Unenlightened waters like to sneak into the roots of the plant kingdom
and transmute into sap or juices. Other waters, which may be deemed
to be the holiest of waters, like to live in the tissues and organs and
glands of the animal kingdom, of which mankind is both apex and
elemental.
Though popular opinion has yet to notice, waters have moods. When
angered they can sink a ship at sea, or rush down a mountain to flash-
flood a valley. They can agitate the atmosphere and stage storms, or
jump the banks of rivers and rampage field and forest. They can roar
and grumble and crash about, making waves so to speak. They can tear
down buildings and bridges, even consume, as they did unmindful
Atlantis, continents. They can rapidly turn white with rage, or typhoon
black.
Or, if happy and calm, waters can soothe countryside lovers with
peaceful patterings on a cabin’s roof, or tease flowers up out of the
earth’s secret holds. When driven by curiosities waters can go to
amazing lengths of investigative runnings.
One notices that waters can find the smallest disorder in a roof or
window sill. Curiosity is in fact one of waters’ more prominent moods.
Waters have gone the world over, peeked into the lives of all living
things, tilted the edges of mountains and sneaked underneath them.
They have aggravated all agriculture, edited all industry, been present
at all secret meetings, tended to all technologies, teased or tormented
all sciences, baptized once a wicked world, spat his airborne pollutants
back in mankind’s face, bloated all bladders, bounded many nations
with borders, attended every generative conception of life. All out of
primal curiosity.
And what do all these waters do with their thusly-gained knowledge?
They bury it in ocean shelves, lock it away in the seas for safe keeping,
tease the tense tails of disinterested fish who fin their mechanical
maneuvers through the unwade-able wisdoms of reality and wave it
back at human consciousness one wave at a time.
“Shoreward sends the sea her seed
in timely surf and tide
recounting man’s eternal need
in waves he can’t abide.
Supplications sagely and precise
precede the cloud’s abstruse advice
and dry rain drowns
the seed and crowns
the Soul upon its sacrifice.”
But we were dealing here with the term, “primordial”. We have looked
at a few attributes of the nature of waters, that we may focus attention
to certain denotative properties of the term “primordial”. Namely, we
have noticed that primordial waters were somewhat savage and
uncontrollable in primordial times, and we even now may observe
traces of their once un-tamed nature. The key point we have observed
is that primordial waters lived by no system of man-made law, but
themselves spawned “natural law”.
When the world was fresh and new, so new in fact that one could still
see traces of ethers in the air, there were no natural laws. Everything
was just beginning. As Nature would have it, waters had to exist prior to
natural law, for all manifestation of the infinite modalities of the
expression of The Beingness required first a law of movement in space
and time which was as versatile, fluid, and spontaneous as the infinity
of all possibility itself might prescribe. This they did by means of
demonstration.
Demonstration is a psychegenic word comprised of the conjoinment of
two root words, “demon” and “stratification”. “Psychegenics” was the
language invented by the unholy trinity from which we all have
descended:
a) the father of fishermen,
b) the father of farmers, and,
c) the father of hunters.
Demons misbehaved in their dealings with this earthly triad in
primordial times before all the natural laws had been demonstrated.
Thusly did demons get off to a bad start in the world, a fact which has
un-nerved demons to this very day.
Stratafications were what Creation used to pile things on top of things,
such as might be seen today in Arizona, New Mexico and Utah. It is no
secret that when Creation got through creating the whole world it took
all the un-used parts and pieces that were left over, all the scraps which
would not fit properly in Kansas or Alabama or anywhere else, and
dumped them in Arizona, New Mexico, and Utah, in hopes they might
not be noticed.
Anyway, primordial waters got a kick out of sizzling demon skins, and
anytime they saw a demon on a stratum they would hurriedly try to
rain on him.
To do this, they found by experience that they had a friend and
accomplice in “gravity”. Gravity was a law which, as waters discovered,
dwelt in the earth. Airborne waters used gravity to mark their aim from
the clouds. The shortest point from launch to target for a raindrop was
a straight line called a gravity.
Now as things invariably do, especially when dealing with demons,
variations quickly emerged.
The demons would huff all up when their fiery skins got steamed, and
would bellow and blow about. That created winds. Winds were invisible
forces in the air which could blow a raindrop off its course. After
enough waters were blown off-target and landed in sticker bushes,
they discovered through experience the laws of “elevation and
windage”, which is a popular NRA formula for adjusting the projected
trajectory of a missile to conditions of distance and winds. Thus
primordial waters created the natural law that gravity intersects the
horizon at right angles except when it is windy outside.
But in primordial times there were many other agents of the discovery
of natural laws. The father-of-farmers was one such agent. He quickly
surmised that he was in a primordial world where savagery was an
inherent property of existence. This noble ancestor was observant
enough to distinguish four separate seasons which followed each other
round-robin through time.
He discovered that his crops liked certain seasons better than other
seasons. This was profound. There was absolutely nothing whimsical
about it. And each season was possessed of its own brand of primordial
savagery and pristine destruction. He started out initially planting
crops all over the place, and at all times, in any season.
He soon discovered that one doesn’t plant cotton in December. But
when he had mastered the knowledge that cotton is not a winter crop,
and subsequently planted it in springtime, he discovered that spring
creates boll weevils. Likewise, summer creates cockle-burrs. And
autumn creates rabbits. What could a father-of-farmers do, short of
moving to southern California?
So he learned that the seasons don’t care if they produce crops or not,
and this destructive indifference became a natural law, because his
angry state of mind immortalized it by virtue of occupation.
As an aside, the father-of-farmers also went down in history as the man
who invented the “year”. It happened during a conversation with the
father-of-hunters. It went like this –
The father-of-hunters was an acceptable figure in the primordial triad,
because when the father-of-fishermen or the father-of-farmers failed in
their efforts to provide food, the father-of-hunters always came
through.
But he wasn’t liked or admired, generally speaking, because he killed
nice beautiful deer, and the father-of-fishermen and the father-of-
farmers thought that deer had big, innocent, beautiful dark eyes. They
couldn’t see how the father-of-hunters could kill something as harmless
and beautiful as a deer. Not only that, but the father-of-hunters seldom
bathed, and often smelled worse than the animals he hunted.
One primordial afternoon, it was autumn if I recall correctly, the father-
of-farmers was picking muscadines off the forest floor for the making of
muscadine wine. As he bent down to pick up a fat purple muscadine, he
heard an arrow fly past his head and thawunk itself into the bark of a
nearby persimmon tree. This upset him, seeing as how his having bent
down just at the right moment was the only thing to save his neck from
the errant arrow.
He rose and bellowed – “Damn you hunter, and all your hairy children!
You nearly killed me!”
The startled father-of-hunters had not known that the father-of-
farmers was in the forest, and had not feared to fling his arrow at a
bobcat, which incidentally dodged the arrow while leaping at a rabbit
whose eyes were incidentally closed tight owing to the fact that he had
just bit into a green persimmon. The bobcat got the puckered-up
rabbit, but the father-of-hunters did not get another shot at the bobcat
because just at that instant the father-of-farmers had unloosed his
angry curse and startled the bobcat away.
This in turn angered the father-of-hunters, and he strode over to where
the angry father-of-farmers was breaking the arrow out of the
persimmon tree and muttering something about a tomato stake.
“What are you doing with my arrow?” he demanded.
“I’m turning it into a tomato stake, you careless scoundrel. Why did you
shoot in my direction? Have you no need for next year’s crop of corn
with which to bait fields for doves? Are you tired of eating potatoes in
your venison stew? Can’t you be mindful of where you point your
crookedest of all arrows?”
“Aw, stick it in y’ ear”, the angry father-of-hunters recommended.
“Y’ear, huh?” the father-of-farmers mimicked. He was just going to say
there was a more appropriate part of the father-of-hunter’s anatomy
for the implantation of an arrow when it occurred to him that this
apostrophized phrase would be better used to imply the collection of
four seasons, which at that point in primordial times had not yet been
named. He sorta liked the ring of the new word, and, owing to the need
to name the cycle of the seasons anyway, which had nagged him since
the first time he had noticed the recurrent pattern of the seasons, he
immediately felt inspired to use the “y’ear” word to name the
procession of the seasons.
His face suddenly warmed, and looking somewhat bemused, he looked
full into the face of the father-of-hunters and retorted, “Oh father-of-hunters, the mis-aimed flight of your arrow and your hurried abuse of our primitive language has frightened me into a discovery! From this time forward, the fulfillment of the four seasons shall be termed a “year”. Too bad for you – you lost your quarry and I conquered time.”
A direct result of that incident is today’s Farmers’ Almanac, a book the
father-of-farmers had been wanting to write for many seasons, but
from which he had been blocked until his coining of the word y’ear.
From such humble origins hath great languages emerged, yes?
—
Heirs to self knowledge shed gently their fears.