I hadn’t played with a set of watercolors since I was in elementary school. Lots of the usual demons came out to play along with me: the “I don’t know how to do this” demon, the “Hers is better than mine” demon, the “I don’t want to do this if I don’t make something good” demon. Ah, demons. Always around, wanting attention. I try and think of them as small, hyperactive pets, or ill-behaved but basically decent children.
Also, the desire for conversation and community in the social spaces where ‘everybody’ hangs out seems at odds with the unshakeable belief in the need for an online space that is purely my own, but which no one might ever visit.
We are not emotionally or neurologically equipped to process the bad news of the whole world every day.
From flask’s comment at the cassandra pages.
Exxon is allowed to control the media coverage, as well as the air 1,000 feet above the site. They have done their best to keep reporters and concerned citizens entirely out of their spill site. I have, however, on more than one occasion, entered the site carefully and without incident through the woods to the north of the site and gotten into position to photograph and video these events as they unfold. I have seen tremendous devastation and a company hard at work removing hundreds of tons of plant life & soil from the site.
From Sam (praxymetry).
She was such a dogmatic atheist, she didn’t even believe in the heart. It’s just a pump, she said. The skin is the only truly romantic organ, and it doesn’t need to hide in a cage. You can tell at a glance whether a scar has healed. I was heating a razor with a cigarette lighter to sterilize the blade; she needed some blood for an art project.
From Via Negativa.
I lay flat down on my belly because it is my favorite position although it makes it difficult to access fresh air and I wake with a kink in my neck and into my shoulder. Who said fresh air was free? Who suggested sleep should bring rest?
From the rain in my purse.
Perhaps my Holy Week came earlier in the month, when I was in the cathedral and smaller shrines and churches of Mexico City, astounded by a much more visceral and literal expression of faith and of Christ’s agony: in every one of those churches there is a lifesize, lifelike Christ, beautifully carved and painted, with open eyes that look at you, and wounds that drip with blood: He is Everyman, your son – father – lover – husband – who was killed, and who now gazes at you with sadness and compassion.
From the cassandra pages.
In song words unfurl and with them meaning unspools like a dropped bobbin, rolling away to echo ping against the floor. And still the single voice holds tenuous but holds. Flicker. Shadows: tenebrae. This is love. This is not love.
Perhaps the greatest shock of grief isn’t that human life is fragile, but that survivors are so resilient, and a cruel world is somehow so beautiful. Perhaps the greatest shock of grief isn’t that human bodies pass away but that love never dies.
From Hoarded Ordinaries.
I am thinking about my long betrayal of beauty, and wondering if I can ever reach forgiveness. I have spent a lifetime in Tarshish; I have friends and family there; the call has faded to the faint twittering of birds; and as long as I carefully avoid crossing water, I should make it to the end of my days.