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Page 14 text:
“
LA SOLEDAD In Camaguey I found a Church to La Soledad, Our Lady of Solitude, a little dressed-up image up in a shadowy niche, you could hardly see her. La Soledad! One of my big devotions, and you never find her, never hear anything about her in this country, except that one of the old California missions was dedicated to her. Thomas Merton , , . I , mn, i I I v j 1 , , ,' I ,gm ' it . . I1 ,I ,, 'H 'i:':,,v ,Q , , , , iw'-.H x, ,. 1 , , , 1. 1 ,',-i,,l,,H!t,,,j,v,y, .s , ,I , . , , I . ,ti .,.i r 1 , I , , , , ,, ,.ilt,,',iW,.r.c: :E . x I ' ' in--JL.,r:r.'J2tlilfv I see you in the mind, among the many scars of the choleric sea where the squirming crab claws the salt, and gnaws slowly the waking images .... as naked in deep weeds, slight in their longing. In May the red flowers press against the window glass, at night sandelwood touches you quietly. A candle turns a fire in you that no star would even dare, nor any Autumn reach to bare the branches of your loneliness. I shall address you as sweet sister of full and yellow fields, there being something about you close to swaying wheat in the bright sun. And though you are a true daughter of desolation, you are deep, and lovely as bluegrass, leaning towards the flowers. There was a November when the rebellious, wordless quivers in the throat of the winter wind, sharp, starled the flight ofa glance which had, inevitably to rest upon your soft, grey eyes, glazed by a vapor of cold, woven air, eyes, rendering indellible the days that sang in the dust of birds, or seemed at times like heaved snow on the river's flow. You took an instant in a warmth of hand, and clasped the pulse of timelessness with a delicacy, deliberate, still unsure. And I think of the cold discs over the white eyes of the dead, lidding the deep-faced estuaries, leading down to the cobwebs which hang like blue smoke in the most secret places. Thomas Rossetti HOWARD DININ
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Page 13 text:
“
Thought is a human conspiracy. The plot is to manifest change. We don't see it or feel it consciously, because most of the time most of us are preoccupied. When we really look, the dynamism that is always there is irresistible. What the eye sees, the mind abstracts. What is seen could remain in the mind despite our humanity. We are human, so it cannot. The urge to express and to communicate must inevitably rear its lovely head, and the rest is images. The images here are signs. They are metaphors bringing to concretion what we all perceive abstractly. They attempt to record what we humans, as students, feel is true. Freshman year, it was: Be careful, the person sitting next to you could be your spouse. A scant four years later, that warning may be no less true, but love is somewhat less tremulous and evanescent. The fellow down the hall who seemed like an idiot is now in honors, and only now do you detect the sheen of intelligence in the eyes of the one who, for four years, has moronically grinned his way through the corridors. What was a disgraceful pile of bricks and the everfamiliar leavings of bulldozers has become an audacious assertion of growth. Closer to us, perhaps more chafing, though no less assertive, are the certainly more audacious student leaders. However, the occasional raucous maunderings of a few years ago have become the articulate, fervent, protestations of youths just beginning to sense their responsibilities to humanity. Because of changes, there is a surfeit of newness. The New Left, the New Right, the new student, and the new buildings have become impacted into a force which cannot be ignored. We do not ignore them for they are founded in a basis we all share. Before we are engulfed in this storm of changes and newness, we also must not ignore the mainstay which keeps us from being lost. That mainstay is tradition. At one time tradition was change. Therefore, our sense of permanence is never more than a tenuous one. Nevertheless, established thoughts and objects become cherished. They have to be recognized and are also represented here, alongside what replaces them. Their loss is painful, perhaps to offset the pleasure of change and newness. In our own way, we are all shakers and movers. The requisite strength allows us to endure the fact of losing what had become briefly imperishable. Quite literally, we are engaged in a con- stant human struggle. Changes, which displace tradition, become tradition themselves, and again must be changed. Who are the victors, who the victims? 9
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