Blessed are those who have no clothes,
for sunlight is their fashion,
Blessed is he who sleeps on the streets,
for his roof is the sheltering sky,
Blessed be the broken one,
for whom grace daily unfolds.
Seattle has brought its true colors again gray, gray, and maybe a little, ah yes, grey. Dalorean has brought enrapturing sunlight, in which I ache for and I have brought my painting, one that bore a hallowed evening. All three of these heartbeats, Seattle, Dalorean’s words, and my painting make the act of mourning like a cool sunrise walk through nostalgic terrain. The coolness gives way to a stunning and surprising awakening, where my stagnant blood begins to flow deep into my innermost parts to keep myself warm. The beauty in a disturbingly quiet sunrise is deafening, merely because the oddity of peace has coyly invaded the earth and yet will seemingly leave with haste. Then, the nostalgia of grounds that have been traversed long ago call from below, inducing time as illogical and groundless and memory as queen. Ergo, ergo, ergo THAT’S when mourning breaks through for me.
Last night left a mark of sorrow on my life as I (and my kind and insightful lover) walked, no I crawled through certain memories of my past and saw the framework that I’ve hired to guide me into hiding, compromise, and loss, such harrowing loss. Here I sit, oscillating between fury and tears as the countless stories of my choice and flight surface. The catch of compromise or condemnation snagged me more than once in my past. One or the other reigned…but what about bringing honesty regardless of the bullets, the sneers, the mockery, the utter disappointment? What about honesty? The internal dislocation of myself is present and familiar as honesty is abandoned. What about honesty being the enduring cloak as the world attempts to dislocate what they don’t know or care to know? There’s such beautiful integrity within bearing honesty that demands no payment from the other, but kindly invites the world to the innermost parts of one’s self, one’s blood flow if you will. My fury and tears arouse hope in imagining a different framework, a richer experience, and a more dignified stance. So I leave with words that came to me as my canvas and colors were the conduits for something greater at hand…
( ) has become the object
of our affection
and the movement that keeps us there
until the stark reality of morning
we stand impregnated with desire
to be loved
to be loved