The Prophet Motive
Prophet: The Motive
Soul, the collective angst.
Prophet, the Movie
To believe is selective.
Who do we leave out?
Prophet: The Motive
Soul, the collective angst.
Prophet, the Movie
To believe is selective.
Who do we leave out?
|
Speechless, listless, confused.
No Birdy under my desk warming herself by the baseboard. No Birdy waiting on the mat by the front door ready to inform us. No Birdy kissing, leaning, staring into our eyes. No Birdy humming every time we walk by. Birdy, our love, our big love, we are without compass to navigate this merciless road. With a heavy heart, we liberate you incapable of saying goodbye. Longing for the we of us,
inseparable, invincible and free the you of us, art and mindfulness, tender to the touch. Stronger than carbon steel, consciousness higher and deeper, always gaming the years and trading up. Visions in broad strokes from the strange to the bizarre. Visions of loveliness, delicate and perishable. Exquisite this life with you... Beauty incarnate, my love. The slide is so seductive, the feeling of movement, moving forward in control but when you realize that you are going nowhere, that movement is only measured by no movement at all, you think perhaps you have been abducted. Your mind a willing victim, your thoughts irrelevant, the feeling of power, yes, especially to the powerless. Where do you go from here?
When was the last time you looked out and there was nothing to be concerned about? Everything new and different and liquid.
One morning you walk out and there is nothing to fear.
Another, nothing more than fear itself. The steepness of the hill, the thunderheads, the ominous outlook sheltered deep inside to protect you from the worst case scenario as all life seems to be measured against. Worst to best, with nothing of consequence in between. That is our depression, our longing, our escape from the moment which seems so ordinary when it is all that we have. How did we arrive here? The photo on the wall I always wake up to never seems the same. She is still alive, my mother, with or without judgment but always wanting to explain that my life was not the first one lived, nor the last. That there is always a solution to a problem that seems so insurmountable but not always the solution I am looking for. Why after all these years am I not satisfied by this? You book, you’re always telling a story,
always characterizing, always plotting to find that part of me that may or may not exist. Love is fiction, baby. It comes and goes and grows and recedes and sometimes tells the truth. Entire worlds are crossed and uncrossed and canceled out due to marketing failures. We are human after all, and after. The most, the broadest, the widest, the largest, the ‘est’ is the problem. Nothing more. Face value, that’s what we’re afraid of. Giving is an act, treason a cause. Lying is a desperate attempt, loving a lunar landscape. Light my way, oh desperate one in the common of the more desperate among us. Designer fashion before it meant anything to me, those heels a vibrant color, a dizzying pattern, so mesmerizing. To my total naiveté I embraced my Aunt Lillian even when she banished me, implored me to take a nap when she just couldn’t take it any more. I never knew her struggle, the body she couldn’t own that owned her, a mind that tricked with sardonic humor to cover up all that she could not control. Today I bought a hat at a fancy department store, the same day I heard the news that she left this earthly plane with all of its faults and pleasures. I will miss her so.
Farewell, my beauty. You will always make me remember to laugh in spite of it all, to dress like it was the last opportunity, to love like I never loved before because you showed me change, that change can happen against all odds. My remarkable, amazing, Aunt Lillian. Reclaim the aimless, fear the aimlessness,
tear down the walls year after year, the scores of attempts, the endless failures successes all adding up to one thing. Look into your eyes but the mirror betrays because you have trained it to deceive. Kindness is something to expect but nothing to believe in. Fractious our history, is it not? Where does it begin or end? We do not live to tell. We do not live to die after all. We just live. Why is that not enough? Love love love...
You forget it because you think you have to. You remember it because you don’t. You cling to it as the last bastion of humanity, rival government, too governed or no choice. How can it be, this and that and yours and mine and lengthy and short and desperate and divine and sacred and blasphemous? How can it keep coming back like a virus? |
AuthorWriter first. Archives
February 2024
Categories
All
|
RSS Feed
