Don't Kick An Empty Bucket Comments

This wry, carefully-worked-out metaphor makes me smile. As you walk down the road, you kick a bucket so there will be something to look forward to. When your toe connects satisfyingly with its center of gravity, it skitters several steps ahead, where it awaits the next kick. You wisely choose not to imitate the noise-making chimpanzee that raided Jane Goodall's camp in Gombe. He repeatedly threw a big empty oilcan to the ground, making a clattering noise that drove other chimps away, so he alone could seize Jane's bananas. Instead you choose a bucket that rattles ultrasonically, so that only pedestrians with specially sensitized ears can hear. You do not add to noise pollution. You should be proud of your SELF-MADE GIFT, and I am glad that my ears are tuned to it. Your kicking gives me reassurance in a roundabout, indirect way. I too am doing something analogous to kicking that bucket, and sometimes I feel the futility of it, as if I am headed off into a desert. But seeing your energetic kicking, I feel that the bucket is really moving forward on some kind of road. If my BUCKET will ever be heard by anyone, I hope it will be heard by someone like you, who really appreciates a good bucket and a good kick. You set a good example of paying the hope of gratification forward.// This reminds me of a few lines by my poet-friend Yan Li: WALKING DOWN THE ROAD/ IF YOU DON'T KICK SOMETHING OR OTHER/ YOU START TO LOOK EFFETE./ HE HAS EMBROIDERED THE WORD D-O-O-R ON HIS TROUSER LEG/ - THE DOOR TO A NATION. (That was written in his fiery youth when he actually hoped his surreal expressiveness could help to open up people's thinking. Your bucket kicking is like his door kicking: at least you are opening the space of your own ultrasonic, language-nation.)