They have not Perished

(The Inhabitants of Easter Island, 2002)


And I know them also. I had seen them also. Who had never been further from their island, Easter Island than I could return by night to sleep? It was as if they had not yet even seen cellphones, like twilight itself had been frozen over that little island that didn’t hardly even show on a map, that not even 600-people out of all the world, lived, and less than 3,000-visitors came to visit a year, looking out into all directions and touching nothing for two-thousand miles, never any thing bigger, or big enough for a plane to land on—to be remembered; the place that banshees, and unfamiliar spirits have lived beyond reproach, for countless centuries—have lived in and on, and loved, whether they had anything to be remembered for. Also to point to the towering ancient statues of them with or with not, all the names that are now but shadows of the deeds that made them now silent statues, men who did the deeds, who lasted and now endure the stone and fought the battles and lost and won and fought again, because they were not even aware they lost, but in time overwhelmed by the world that surrounded them, yet still went on to shape their island, reliving, and living customs, traditions.
I knew them also—the inhabitants, still powerful in their legends, still powerful and dangerous with their unfamiliar spirits—they did visit me, talk to me, and told me what they died for, what they became, just whispers, a few words, no louder than a sun shower (we came to an understanding). It was Easter Island, and it is just a dot in the south pacific.

No: 487 (written, 10-5-2009)