A tribute to Walt Whitman and to the Graniet Flats TV series that made fine use of his words.
Video samples are from the TV series “Granite Flats,” 2013-2015, season 3, episode 1, “Our Rendezvous Is Fitly Appointed”
Wikipedia article: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Granite_Flats
Netflix link: http://www.netflix.com/WiMovie/80044560?trkid=13641790
“Two twins were talking in the womb…
– Tell me, do you believe in life after birth?
– Of course. After birth comes life. Perhaps we are here to prepare for what comes after birth.
– Forget it! After birth there is nothing! From there, no one has returned! And besides, what would it look like?
– I do not know exactly, but I feel that there are lights everywhere … Perhaps we walk on our own feet, and eat with our mouth.
– This is utterly stupid! Walking isn’t possible! And how can we eat with that ridiculous mouth? Can’t you see the umbilical cord? And for that matter, think about it for a second: postnatal life isn’t possible because the cord is too short.
– Yes, but I think there is definitely something, just in a different way than what we call life.
– You’re stupid. Birth is the end of life and that’s it.
– Look, I do not know exactly what will happen, but Mother will help us…
– The Mother? Do you believe in the Mother? !
– Do not be ridiculous! Have you seen the Mother anywhere? Has anyone seen her at all?
– No, but she is all around us. We live within her. And certainly, it is thanks to her that we exist.
– Well, now leave me alone with this stupidity, right? I’ll believe in Mother when I see her.
– You can not see her, but if you’re quiet, you can hear her song, you can feel her love. If you’re quiet, you can feel her caress and you will feel her protective hands.”
Source: Originally written in Hungarian by Útmutató a Léleknek, translated by Miranda Linda Weisz
It rained today, a cold gray sky. The air feels pure and clean even in the city. It also rains in Afghanistan. It rains on the terrorists and on the children bent over the Koran. I know, in time, the rain will wash away the blood. I do not know, I cannot think how they see the rain now, or if they see it. I do not think they see how much higher its origin is than books called sacred. In the West, we also bury our heads in a book; I do not know how many will lift their heads to see. God knows the gleam of rain and the drip of its voice is intense. Do they not hear its painful beauty in the dark just before sleep? I am commanded by rain and by a thousand such voices daily. I know the gleam of it must come to the most hardened and lost soul, but how many ages hence? It rained in Babylon thousands of years past, not much, but how many drops of heaven do we need? I pray for rain, and for eyes that see.