The Light of the World
And so i write to fix him in place, to pass time in his company, to make sure I remember, even though I know I will never forget.
Art replaces the light that is lost when the day fades, the moment passes, the evanescent extraordinary makes its quicksilver. Art tries to capture that which we know leaves us, as we move in and out of each others lives, as we all must eventually leave this earth. Great artists know that shadow, work always against the dying light, but always knowing that the day brings new light and that the ocean which washes away all traces on the sand leaves us a new canvas with each wave.
Each of us made it possible for the other. We got something done. Each believed in the other unsurpassingly.
Each of us made it possible for the other. We got something done. Each believed in the other unsurpassingly. In all marriages there is struggle and ours was no different in that regard. But we always came to the other shore, dusted off, and said, There you are, my love.
every shut eye aint asleep, every goodbye aint gone.
Everything was told! Then we could begin something new.
Half of the things are as they seem. The other half, who knows. This has always been true.
Henry Ford believed the soul of a person is located in their last breath and so captured the last breath of his best friend Thomas Edison in a test tube and kept it evermore.
Henry Ford believed the soul of a person is located in their last breath and so captured the last breath of his best friend Thomas Edison in a test tube and kept it evermore. It is on display at the Henry Ford Museum outside Detroit, like Galileos finger in the church of Santa Croce, but Edisons last breath is an invisible relic.
I been in sorrows kitchen and done licked out all the pots. Nobody knows the trouble I seen. Steal away to Jesus. I aint got long to stay here.
I have not yet learned to use our television DVR. One of the points of marriage is that you split labor. In the olden days that meant one hunted and one gathered; now it means one knows where the tea-towels are kept and the other knows how to program the DVR, for why should we both have to know?
In the absence of organized religion, faith abounds, in the form of song and art and food and strong arms.
It happened; it is part of who we are; it is our beauty and our terror. We must be gleaners from what life has set before us.
Its a fact: black people in this country die more easily, at all ages, across genders. Look at how young black men die, and how middle-aged black men drop dead, and how black women are ravaged by HIV/AIDS. The numbers graft to poverty but they also graph to stresses known and invisible. How did we come here, after all? Not with upturned chins and bright eyes but rather in chains, across a chasm. But what did we do? We built a nation, and we built its art.
I wake up grateful, for life is a gift.
Let everything happen to you: beauty and terror. Just keep going. No feeling is final. Dont let yourself lose me. Nearby is the country they call life. You will know it by its seriousness. Give me your hand.
Loss is not felt in the absence of love.
My mother-in-laws last night on earth, a fox crossed our path in Branford, Connecticut, as we left the hospice. We knew somehow that it was her, as I now know the ravenous hawk came to take Ficre. Do I believe that? Yes, I do. Poetic logic is my logic. I do not believe she was a fox. But I believe the fox was a harbinger. I believe that it was a strange enough occurrence that it should be heeded. Zememesh Berhe, the quick, red fox, soon passed from this life to the next.
Now I know for sure the soul is an evanescent thing and the body is its temporary container, because I saw it. I saw the body with the soul in it, I saw the body with the soul leaving, and I saw the body with the soul gone.
Soon the two children will walk down Edgehill Road from the bus stop like burros under their knapsacks,
The basket of remembrance has three sides; one is open, can it tilt and spill out?
The days are long but the years are short," some say, about the early years of child rearing
The story seems to begin with catastrophe but in fact began earlier and is not a tragedy but rather a love story. Perhaps tragedies are only tragedies in the presence of love, which confers meaning to loss. Loss is not felt in the absence of love.
They shared an unshakeable belief in beauty, in overflow, in everythingness, the bursting, indelible beauty in a world where there is so much suffering and wounding and pain.
To live in memory and in dreams is a cruel comfort.