Joined: 02 Oct 2004
|Posted: Sat Nov 03, 2012 3:56 am Post subject: Meanderings
|glimpse at a not quite stranger's view of majesty placed into the public realm,
a friend of my blood brother, whose humor I understand even with decades of distance
and a lifetime of different families
(snapped cold from her jumbled hands)
a suicide of her father forever leaving her wheels spinning
out of control.
The link, though, is forever etched in our mitochonidria.
I glance at his friend's snapshots of W.VA., and realize he just as easily could be my friend, too.
The ingredients are there--wonder, reverence, a dash of cynicism.
A conversation across the wire earlier,
me in the city of our births,
he in the stony cliffs of Colorado.
So much so much
in the quiet juxtaposition;
remembrances of that sacred space
between us, in which our mother likely resides somewhere, there but gone
from the cancer that ravished her.
In her place I am left,
remnants of her present in me. The rounded chin,
a dalliance with words on rare occasion,
flights of fancy and
volatility of passions that sometimes leap past the standard deviation...
Delmar. God bless his soul and keep him safe.
In Marshall I see her, and also my father whom I never knew,
with the exception of a faded shapshot of a blond and bearded man sitting on a checkered couch, circa 1978.
His freckles and broad mouth,also reflected in his uncle who ran off to Colorado.
A new start.
Pantheism's cool. (Shift forward, please).
Bedtime story tonight of a river of blood and plague
to my 4-year-old. What kind of religion is this, I wonder as I watch
his furrowed eyebrows quizzically trying to make sense of the not-cotton-candy-and-teddy-bears story
I read him from Exodus,
wording kept simple to paint a picture of our previous generations' attempt to pass on the culture that he's inheriting,
like it or not,
though one that myself I have long given up believing, except on the rare occasion when I hear wisdom speak softly, only to disappear.
"God is everything" he finally says when I ask him what the brimstone means.
Good answer, my son, good answer.
Better not to draw lines in the sand,
cuz you never know what you may be keeping out,
or letting in.
Your lines will be drawn for you,
so draw your breaths with a brief hallelejuah.
Brief thought of the woman in Manhattan whose two and four-year-old boys were pulled from her hands
washed away to sea,
during the last hurricane.
Pain and suffering creep in to the sound of an amplified cello and hip beat of Radiohead.
It's there, everywhere. Behind my curtains, even
in the ragged breath of my patient, Pam, losing her memory daily in her massive house
as she chain smokes Winston's
and her husband, Kent, lives his post-Vietnam life still half-dazed, thirty-five years later.
We cope, we build towers, we take the shrapnel on occasion
and then we wake up and keep floating down the river
or fight it up stream.
After awhile the headlines become myth,
and the crucial polls and most recent findings
But for now,
the meandering's fine.
Experiencing holiness is really a matter of sanctifying the secular.