“If a tree falls in the forest, father..”
the beginnings of philosophy’s swirling madness
and its scholarly passivity
tho, these thoughts, these questions, not yet his own–
“Yes. There is a sound, son. The sound, tho, whether a cry for help, a lost-child’s frightened whimper, a last wish, whispered into the west winds, a soldier’s stoic silence, a mournful remorse, or a fiery tyranny of blasphemy shouted into the heavens’ seeming indifference– be it any of these things, or another thing, altogether, what is heard is yet a third thing– a sound which had not been made, words which had never been uttered, intentions which shall never be understood– this, if any sound is heard at all.”
By evening’s falling, love-promise glimmer, we walked, watching the dark-eyed people in the park. Some were talking, and some were laughing, and some were silent, and some were getting high, and some were watching us, and some were pretending not to see, and some, far away, were dancing, dancing hard and free– tho we couldn’t hear the music, we could see their shadowy silhouettes jump and writhe, fingers splayed, pushing against the dusky sky.