The Mighty Sea of Duck Soup

I was born in chains but I was taken out of Egypt
I was bound to a burden, but the burden it was raised
Oh Lord I can no longer keep this secret
Blessed is the name, the name be praised.

I fled to the edge of the mighty sea of sorrow
Pursued by the armies of a cruel and dark regime
But the waters parted and my soul crossed over
Out of Egypt, out of Pharaoh's dream.

Word of words and the measure of all measures
Blessed is the name, the name be blessed
Written on my heart in burning letters
That's all I know, I do not know the rest

I was idled with my soul, when I heard that you could use me
I followed very closely, but my life remained the same
But then you showed me where you had been wounded
In every atom broken is the name

I was alone on the road, your love was so confusing
And all the teachers told me that I had myself to blame
But in the grip of sensual illusion
The sweet unknowing unifies the name

Word of words, and the measure of all measures
Blessed is the name, the name be blessed
Written on my heart in burning letters
That's all I know, I cannot read the rest

I heard the soul unfolds in the chambers of this longing
And the bitter liquor sweetens in the hammered cup
But all the ladders of the night have fallen
Only darkness now, to lift the longing up.

Word of words and measure of all measures
Blessed is the name, the name be blessed
Written on my heart in burning letters
That's all I know, I cannot read the rest

*********

Dear Kate,

Nothing changes.  Deep down we must know.

Last night came, a year ago it was, and now a new day, a new year, with nothing new about it.

"Back to normal!"  If we could have it our way, we would want a repeat of everything good and repudiation of everything bad from before.

"No news is good news."  "Another day another dollar."  With our cold feet and colder shoulder carrying slough of despond, we shall continue our waiting game of smooth sailing, enough to cook duck soup on board and pass it around.

I don't know how many words I've written to you in 2021; I can only wish I didn't serve you no duck soup and my grammar was by and large alright.

You came to Vancouver this Christmas and left behind a collection of Gabriel García Márquez, five books I asked you to order for me at a moment of strange despair in 2021: strange for it being no despair at all, nothing more than life humdruming along and with it my expedient aspirations and necessary exasperations; despairing for how strangely dead everything was for the lack of a good word.

A good word: what could it possibly do?  God might have spoken the world into existence and continued to make good his creation with his Word, but we can't quite figure out what he is saying.  "Back to Egypt!" if we could have it our way.

Someone told me just now 2022 is pronounced "2020 too."

Yours, Alex