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| dogma |
| 07.14.05 (8:48 pm) [edit] |
|
posted by: jennjr (reply)
post date: 07.14.05 (1:21 pm)
Funny.
I've felt this way, too.
posted by: jennjr (reply)
post date: 07.14.05 (1:21 pm)
I suppose I should say funny as in "strange coincidence" and not necessarily as "ha, ha"
posted by: Lindy (reply)
post date: 07.14.05 (8:01 pm)
Forgive my overzealous application of complicated words in my description of my reaction to this piece... it went something like this:
'Wow.'
'Wow.'
'Oh, wow.'
'Wooooooow.'
And there you have it.
I'm going to need to sit in this one for a little while... Lie in the sound as it were. Whew.
posted by: wiccachicky (reply)
post date: 07.15.05 (3:18 am)
Very cool.
posted by: childish (reply)
post date: 07.15.05 (6:37 am)
sometimes things get muddled....
posted by: gonzoid (reply)
post date: 07.15.05 (6:51 am)
your blog is filled with passion. and without words.
yes.
posted by: BobbyJoe (reply)
post date: 07.15.05 (9:03 am)
Interesting.
posted by: TheJongleur (reply)
post date: 07.15.05 (1:21 pm)
Reply to: jennjr
Hi.
"I've felt this way, too. "
Again.. you have?
You've left some grand little comments here.. and I'd very much like to hear some more of these thoughts.
posted by: TheJongleur (reply)
post date: 07.15.05 (1:24 pm)
Reply to: Lindy
Stay as long as you like, madam.. and if you want to talk a little more, I'd like that very much.
Thank you.
posted by: TheJongleur (reply)
post date: 07.15.05 (1:26 pm)
Reply to: childish
... seems like there is more coming...?
posted by: TheJongleur (reply)
post date: 07.15.05 (1:28 pm)
Reply to: gonzoid
Thank you for sitting here for a while.. for looking.. and for telling me.
I appreciate the company.
posted by: TheJongleur (reply)
post date: 07.15.05 (1:29 pm)
Reply to: BobbyJoe
Well.. that's a start, no?
posted by: TheJongleur (reply)
post date: 07.15.05 (1:29 pm)
Reply to: wiccachicky
hmm... ta
posted by: lindy (reply)
post date: 07.15.05 (1:33 pm)
Reply to: TheJongleur
Thank you.
The shadows of this picture have dredged up a piece of my recent history...
'a strange night...'
After thirteen months
of silence
I knocked on his door
He opened it and ushered me in...
We sat quietly as he served me tea
I blurted out that I still loved him
And he smiled sadly...
I sat with him for an hour
Just watching his face...
Finally, I rose and headed to the door...
He walked with me and smiled again
I turned and picked up his hand
kissed it gently and let it fall...
posted by: seagrass (reply)
post date: 07.15.05 (2:47 pm)
Reply to: TheJongleur
one thing ...how do you upload scanned images?/
next: I wonder about faith...and what is FAITH!!! faith,,, or ummm faith???
what do we think about when we think about our special relationship with our god...with ourselves?? Do we impose a strict solution on "when we must be redeemed", "when we must be saved".
I think about decay and yet your title is defiance. Your drawing draws me inward...maybe you are making a political statement.
I draw a lot....sometimes when it becomes too dark to draw.
posted by: juniperflux (reply)
post date: 07.15.05 (11:12 pm)
The day after the bombings the world remained shrouded in great plumes of white, ashen smoke. When it seemed safe, or at least light enough to see, the women emerged slowly from the huddles of their homes and temporary shelters in search of their men. They found what remained – scattered in the streets, behind barricades, under cars and trees, stones still clutched in tightly clamped fists.
Abra had watched her mother and the others do what needed to be done. They’d cut great wounds into the already scarred earth. They’d gathered what they could of their fathers, husbands, brothers and sons. They’d clung to each other for strength and when one of the women fell – consumed by the sea that threatened each of them – another took her place; the wails of the fallen carried gently away on the smoke-filled wind. Finally, when night fell at last and the village grew silent, the women had returned to their homes to wash their hands, to feed their children and to bury their faces in wet pillows.
Days and days passed and soon the once unmistakable mounds in the earth began to settle. Some women had managed to place small markers of wood or stone on the spots where the ground had swallowed the thing that had been taken from them, but many had not, and soon grass and reeds began to grow over those places – changing the disfigured landscape into something more benign, but no less painful. Still, they all lowered their heads and hushed their voices when passing that spot on their way to the river or the market. And sometimes mothers and grandmothers would chastise young children for calling out to one another or for playing games in the grass, calling that field a “holy place.” Abra bowed her head too and lowered her voice, but she could see nothing holy about what had happened there.
One night as she lay in her bed, Abra heard her mother’s voice in the other room. When she stepped, barefooted into the archway, none of the women sitting around the fire noticed her there. Her mother was rocking back and forth, her head in her hands:
“I couldn’t find them.” She repeated through great, heaving sighs. “I couldn’t find them.”
The other women told their own stories of struggling to remember the places where they had buried the person they loved. They could remember placing flowers on his chest. They could remember putting a photograph in his pocket. They could remember seeing the last bit of his hands being covered with dirt. But they could no longer find him among the grass and reeds and other living things that flourished in the soil now rich with decay. An older woman in the corner began to tell a fable that Abra had heard many times before about the changing seasons and life springing from death. But as she looked at her mother’s shoulders slump, the words held no meaning.
That night, Abra slipped out into the darkness and walked the blackened path to the field where she had watched her mother bury her father, her brother and an uncle – a small satchel clutched in her hand. Like her mother, she could no longer remember where they were buried, so she walked with her eyes closed until the earth felt right beneath her, and then she knelt spreading the contents of her bag in the cool grass. She took the two pieces of wood and laid them in front of her – her black eyes burned in the darkness. Her hands worked quickly as she hammered them together into the symbol she’d seen so many times. (It was sometimes stamped on the side of the flyers that fell from the sky along with pallets of grain and meal. It was sometimes carved in the air by the priest who said he had come to their village to teach the children to read and to dig an irrigation system, but who had really come to “save” them. And it was sometimes painted on the helmets of the men who carried guns and stopped to give the children sweets or invade their homes at night in search of others who, like her father, had tried to fight back). When she was finished, she raised the makeshift cross into the air and with a loud guttural cry, plunged the thing into the earth.
Unlike those who had left their own crude markers, now hidden in the tall grass, Abra didn’t care if people remembered where her father, her brother, her uncle or all the others were buried. She only wanted them to remember why.
posted by: lindy (reply)
post date: 07.16.05 (11:01 am)
Reply to: juniperflux
posted by: jennjr (reply)
post date: 07.16.05 (12:10 pm)
Reply to: juniperflux
Wow.
posted by: juniperflux (reply)
post date: 07.16.05 (12:26 pm)
Reply to: jennjr
Hmmmm. Wow is a good thing, right? If so, I'm afraid I'll have to pass your praise onto theJongleur who creates such a lovely spot for us all to gather, think and talk a little. That said, when do I get to read some of your stories on here, Jenn? Hmmmm? :)
posted by: jennjr (reply)
post date: 07.16.05 (12:55 pm)
Reply to: juniperflux
Yes. Wow is a good thing.
posted by: TheJongleur (reply)
post date: 07.17.05 (9:59 am)
Reply to: juniperflux
This is really quite extraordinary, Jennifer.
I love where this came from.
posted by: TheJongleur (reply)
post date: 07.17.05 (10:04 am)
Reply to: lindy
I'm glad you stayed here a while, L.
I'm glad this place was safe enough.
Take care.