| Those of us who grudgingly gave our love to Caliban have discovered that the earth and the earth�s ancient tongue have a power far greater than even Prospero could dream. We have been granted a hard and vegetable power, like a tree stump, and like a stump it remains primarily underground hidden in the vaults and catacombs of our soil hearts It awakens in us, like spring, in slow degrees. We may have felt our roots to be a hindrance when we feel our tongues suddenly involved in a magic spell older than the light and we begin both our search, and our discovery of having already that thing for which we search, when we begin our communion with the ageless we must learn first to hear. We spend endless nights in throbbing liquid rooms we learn to feel our own beating hearts with our inner fingers We learn not to freeze, thou we sleep on walls of ice, we listen with ears of mud for the crackling or purring of Adam made of clay With our deep greengray magic we give Caliban language and hope that he curse us with it not We lie under mountains and dream complex igneous dreams, spurting steam vents and mud cauldrons, belaboring with our creative fires When we do venture into Arriels realm it is for breath, coming up breathing from our mired air, rich with humus and moldering vegetation, liquid air springing forth from primordial slime like a living thing, organic air with green shadows and deep haze |
| Those Who Love Caliban |