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Knee
 
Deep
 
in
 
the
 
Mystery
 
I
 
take
 
a
 
deep
 
 breath
 
and
 
fill
 
my
 
mind
 
with
 
nothing.
 
I
 
start
 
anew.
 
Starting
 
anew!
 
Like
 
Balboa
 
knee
 
deep
 
in
 
the
 
Pacific,
 
facing
 
the
 
setting
 
sun
 
on
 
a
 
new
 
ocean—featureless,
 
vast,
 
deep!
 
An
 
ocean
 
is
 
a
 
lot
 
to
 
take
 
on.
 
I
 
yearn
 
to
 
understand
 
more
 
 but
 
am
 
overwhelmed
 
even
 
 by
 
the
 
little
 
information
 
I
 
have
 
at
 
hand.
 
What
 
would
 
I
 
do
 
with
 
it?
 
Like
 
the
 
German
 
and
 
French
 
that
 
I
 
studied
 
and
 
have
 
forgotten.
 
Like
 
the
 
Sanskrit
 
I
 
pursued
 
with
 
such
 
diligence—a
 
few
 
words
 
still
 
echo,
 
memories
 
of
 
memories.
 
In
 
youth
 
I
 
thought,
 
“a
 
lifetime
 
stretches
 
 before
 
me,”
 
like
 
the
 
newfound
 
Pacific
 
Ocean,
 
 but
 
the
 
horizon
 
has
 
crept
 
closer.
 
In
 
the
 
history
 
of
 
art
 
they
 
talk
 
about
 
perspective
 
and
 
the
 
vanishing
 
point.
 
Life
 
is
 
less
 
orderly
 
 but
 
 just
 
as
 
terrible.
 
I
 
often
 
wish
 
I
 
understood
 
more
 
science—chemistry
 
and
 
physics
 
and
 
 biology
 
and
 
electrical
 
engineering
 
and
 
astronomy—as
 
if
 
in
 
accumulating
 
the
 
knowledge
 
of
 
these
 
disciplines
 
I
 
could
 
understand
 
the
 
thing
 
that
 
lies
 
 beyond
 
them.
 
Some
 
part
 
of
 
me
 
harbors
 
the
 
notion
 
that
 
 by
 
knowing
 
more
 
I
 
could
 
make
 
things
 
whole.
 
Another
 
part
 
of
 
me
 
knows
 
that
 
 by
 
accumulating
 
knowledge
 
I
 
would
 
 be
 
no
 
closer
 
to
 
the
 
thing
 
my
 
heart
 
yearns
 
for.
 
This
 
is
 
the
 
nature
 
of
 
what
 
I
 
am.
 
If
 
not
 
a
 
 bear
 
of
 
little
 
 brains,
 
a
 
human
 
whose
 
 brain
 
is
 
capable
 
of
 
asking
 
questions
 
it
 
can’t
 
answer.
 
“I
 
am
 
what
 
I
 
am,”
 
says
 
Popeye,
 
a
 
proof
 
of
 
irrefutable
 
logic.
 
I
 
stop
 
and
 
think
 
about
 
the
 
words
 
I
 
have
 
written
 
and
 
find
 
myself
 
overpowered
 
 by
 
the
 
image
 
of
 
Balboa
 
knee
 
deep
 
in
 
the
 
ocean.
 
I
 
must
 
have
 
seen
 
a
 
picture
 
of
 
this
 
sort
 
in
 
a
 
grade
 
school
 
history
 
textbook,
 
and
 
I
 
find
 
it
 
has
 
 burrowed
 
deep
 
in
 
my
 
mind.
 
I
 
wonder
 
how
 
one
 
can
 
discover
 
an
 
ocean
 
and
 
at
 
what
 
point
 
you
 
know
 
it
 
is
 
a
 
different
 
ocean
 
and
 
what
 
an
 
ocean
 
means.
 
There
 
is
 
Balboa,
 
knee
 
deep
 
in
 
water.
 
He
 
calls
 
it
 
the
 
Pacific,
 
without
 
a
 
clue
 
about
 
its
 
size,
 
its
 
depth,
 
the
 
mystery
 
it
 
contains.
 
The
 
image
 
consumes
 
me,
 
 because
 
I
 
think
 
of
 
the
 
Pacific
 
as
 
my
 
own
 
 body
 
of
 
water,
 
the
 
ocean
 
that
 
has
 
accompanied
 
my
 
life,
 
stretching
 
to
 
the
 
west,
 
an
 
endlessly
 
shifting
 
surface
 
of 00

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METW34

I enjoyed reading this, David. The undiscovered country, with the perfect disguise above.

reply01 / 26 / 2010
Luddite

Beautiful. Brilliant. Haunting. (haven't we all felt this way, trying to contemplate God, Life, Death, the universe, our place in it all?) This captures the feeling of mystery behind all our wordfilled wonderings. Thank you for posting it.

reply01 / 26 / 2010
David Cole

Thanks for your encouraging response. BTW, I too was a fan of Hopalong Cassidy, though not of Julius La Rosa.

01 / 28 / 2010
Suzanne

"I wonder how one can discover an ocean..." Ahh....so that's the question I couldn't form! From an Atlantic-bred Easterner, Thanks.

reply01 / 26 / 2010
Helen Winslow Black

Knee deep but not floundering, David, despite your averral! P.S. I love your descr. of the formidable northern Pacific: "opaque, restless, cold, unforgiving, and awesome."

reply12 / 28 / 2009
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