March 17, 2011
God is in the cells and not the stories. Must we insist on some old dude with a lightning bolt for striking us down? And why must evolutionism and creationism be separate isms? Having observed nature's divine beauty, it would make sense to say the artistry works by way of the science. Nature is the great spirit, the tapestry of souls manifested in cells, God's fullest expression. Emerson rallies for this theory with “The visible creation is the terminus or the circumference of the invisible world.”
And we can do no better by emulating; “A work of art is an abstract or epitome of the world. It is the result or expression of nature, in miniature,” Emerson writes in Nature. Artists once stood at the hub of society in the form of Leonardo da Vinci and Michaelangelo; today they have been erroneously displaced in our society, scraping together change as waiters and waitresses; this is a profound wrong. Our society does not honor and reward creative prowess in small circles. Sure we have bombastic films like Avatar and the like, but in smaller circles, there is no time nor money for the creative process. We need to stop thinking widgets and start thinking invention and ingenuity. And here's a pet peeve of mine: why do I go into public places and see prints of Monet on the wall when I could see work from a local artist? We fill stadiums for football games and the North Shore Music Theatre in on its last breath. Where did this inequity begin? When was it that art starting taking the back seat? Artists are poor because society believes they have no need for their embellishments. If art was important (and people finally got it into their thick skulls it should not be marginalized because it is the language of spirit) it would be hanging in the supermarkets and malls and post offices and not just the cafes; it would hang in fucking gas stations, elevating the energy to all of these banal places. Where is the vision to our society?
March 19, 2011
Face
Not mine. Other people's.
I see them in the glass.
My grandmother in the crook of the nose
and the cheek that cascades sharply.
She is young here, buxom,
smiling confidently in a lavender bathing suit
on the beach.
The crows feet that fork at the eyes,
my father, laughing at the television.
The one yellowed tooth, his too.
My mother is in the peak of the eyebrows,
and the lips, cushioned, where I spout words.
My grandfather sleeps between the lines
across my forehead
in his tan recliner with his toes
toward the sky.
My face was once mine,
smooth like the rim of a lake
in hazy morning light,
but the eyes-
the eyes.
Time has softened them too.
March 20, 2011
Last night I had a dream I was with my mother, brother and sister and we went to a church in a northern town. We were late, as usual, and sat up in a balcony. The priest was talking at the altar and soon we were all fast asleep. The priest came up to us after mass and lifted my brother in his supine position and shook and dropped him. We woke up. Then, I am frying eggs in the rectory. Someone gave me a pan and I cracked open the egg and fried it in butter. Afterward, I cleaned the dishes in the sink because I felt guilty for falling asleep during mass.
Truth is, I can't help but fall in love with the story of Christ. I can't help but love Christ himself, fisher of men, kind eyes, solidified love. I read the words of Matthew to see if it was Magdalene who went to the tomb and witnessed the burial clothes left behind. These words bloomed in my heart like lilies, like crocuses and daffodils beneath the leaves.
Do I contradict myself?
Very well...I contradict myself
I am large...I contain multitudes
-WW
March 22, 2011
Today we woke up at 5:30 in the morning to go for the egg retrieval. I was groggy, dizzy, but I thrust myself forward to get this done. I am the blind mole nudging its way through this. We get there and I disrobe, put on the johnny, wait in a room with wires and blips and screens. The music was some pop station and it grated on my nerves. The nurse had the same name as my sister; she was compassionate which made all the difference in the world. They gave me the IV, walked me over to the operating room, placed my feet in the stirrups, and gave me oxygen and I went out. I woke up in pain, groaning and crying. Every hospital room reminds me of my father, of his death. There is always a small part of me weeping inside it.
We went home. I went to bed and did not sleep, but drifted in a dull haze. I took pain pills. I thought of the seventeen oocytes they took from me. I was hopeful in the afternoon and full of despair at night.
March 23, 2011
We wake up late at 8:30. Everything is sore. My brain is tricked into thinking I am already pregnant. Today I will be home, waiting for the fertilization results. I am being pulled into this now, no longer aloof; I want a child. I dreamt of holding my friend's children, of trying to make the baby laugh. I keep hearing the stats in my head: 1 in 3. Will I be the 1 or the 2? I sit on the mat and try to forget all this. I picture a pool of still water: this is my mind. Every last thing disturbs it. I try to eliminate the drops, the ripples, the weeds, the coagulations of dirt. Just still, just clear, just peace. But this is not what you do, you don't eliminate anything. You just wait until the water settles.
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