My writer friend SUSAN LANDRY (Portland, MAINE, USA) wrote the following exquisite and piercing piece in response to a New York Times article ---
"I have
remained obsessed with the news about the discovery of a fresh-water lake
beneath the ice at Vostok station, in Antarctica.
RUSSIAN SCIENTISTS BORE INTO ANCIENT ANTARCTIC LAKE
(Dr. Luckin, director of the expedition, said, ‘For me, the
discovery of this lake is comparable with the first flight into space.’ There
have been much–disputed hints that life might still exist there. New York Times
2/08/12)
We live in a
pale globe, haloed in the light of underwater moons. Like the blood of a
medusa, we are diaphanous; woven of silken threads, spun from microbial skeins,
soft as smoke. The skin of our world glows overhead, a membrane holding in
fluid and song. We have words; not to say out loud, just to look at. We press
them into shapes or memories and release them. The word called blue can be sky
or long afternoons. Brown can be sand pebbles or an empty heart. Like birds,
blue and brown can soar and glide. They can spin like star motes or flatten,
like feathers in a storm.
We dance. The
space between us is sacred. The space around us is eternity. We never ask
questions. We do not begin or end.
We are
crying. There is too much noise, a dark thrum, like music that is wrong, like
music with sharp edges.
We are afraid
to look: the words break like black ice; splinters of red pierce the grey green
sky. Our eyes hurt; we
want to shut them, lock them tight as fossils. Our ears are curling up, like
seashells. Words like drill or science or discovery pulse through the water
like words for pain. We are dying."
Susan blogs here.
