Static Flux

I thought I’d put that baby to bed.

I received a call from area code 561.  I know more than one living in that zone, but rarely speak with them, at least not on the telephone.  There is, however, a particular person, with whom I don’t speak at all.

Folding laundry, my phone rang.  I looked down and saw the dreaded 561.  My initial reaction was worry. Why?  Why would I be worried?  He’s been dead to me for years.  Figuratively speaking.

Death, figuratively speaking, is not really death though, is it?  No.  Literal death is quite different.  Something I didn’t realize until my phone rang yesterday.

Implicit in figurative death is time.  That there is still time.  Hope still dwells, where I thought there was none.

Hope, in this case, is a kind of sickness.  A kind of dementia.  Nothing really changes here, only the numbered years. Static Flux. Hope is a sad reminder of what will never be, what never was.

The baby is awake now.  …not screaming yet, but soon, unless I can lull her back to sleep.  When the real death comes.  I’m afraid.  There will be no calming her.



The Gorgon

A monster dwells inside of me.  A demon.  She cries an eye for an eye, though justice is not her name.

I have caged her.  Poured water on her head.  Tried to forget.

Still she escapes her bonds from time to time. Less often now than before.  When met with like she grows stronger.  Malevolent and wild.

Only a loving eye, like a mirror held, sends her back to her cage.

Then I am ashamed.  Left in the aftermath of her will.

“Medusa”, Caravaggio 1595