It's a good thing that I believe in eternal life... when my current life closes and all of my friends are forced together to eulogize me, I want to be there. I also want to be able to evaporate away from the scene at opportune moments! Why? My friends, seemingly, don't go together, so it'll be fun to watch, but also a bit scary.
I think the term eclectic would apply. There are... a Tiffany diamond; a pair of worn Birkenstocks, smelling of pot; a Bettie Page pin-up; Charlie Brown's teacher; a magnetic soccer ball strategically positioned over the gas cap; Rosie the Riveter her damn self, foie gras sauteed with cipolini onions and nashi pear; a bleached-white pure and whole sand dollar; an artist's canvas; an encyclopedia; a philosopher; a vampire; a fairy; the sweetest little girl that has ever or will ever be; a smiling family photo... The universe has blessed me with wholes of my parts. If only the uniques could look into the mirror of my soul and see that they belong together, then, THEN it could be a happy wake. Alas, not a likely scene, so I'll evaporate...
Secret Garden
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Dear Mr. Vernon,
We accept the fact that we had to sacrifice a whole Saturday in detention for whatever it was we did wrong. But we think you're crazy to make us write an essay telling you who we think we are.
You see us as you want to see us...
In the simplest terms, in the most convenient definitions.
But what we found out is that each one of us is a brain...
...and an athlete...
...and a basket case...
...a princess...
...and a criminal...
Does that answer your question?
Sincerely yours, the Breakfast Club.
Love...
Queen-Anne's Lace
William Carlos Williams (1883-1963)
Her body is not so white as anemony petals
nor so smooth --
nor so remote a thing.
It is a field of the wild carrot taking
the field by force;
the grass does not raise above it.
Here is no question of whiteness,
white as can be,
with a purple mole at the center of each flower.
Each flower is a hand's span of her whiteness.
Wherever his hand has lain there is a tiny purple blemish.
Each part is a blossom under his touch
to which the fibres of her being stem one by one,
each to its end,
until the whole field is a white desire,
empty,
a single stem,
a cluster,
flower by flower,
a pious wish to whiteness gone over --
or nothing.
xxx
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