10 dec notes

December 11, 2012

FRIEND |

I wrote a short story about me
It ended up being about you

THERA |

My dog is a fine animal. She is better at it than I am. Her ears are silky and brown.

GINGERBREAD HOUSES |

I’m a great pagan. I’ve never stopped worshipping.
It’s easy to love what is sacred and what is common.
Awe was a family heirloom, but wonder, a birthright.

Emmanuel is the name of our fir tree. Every winter we sacrifice a large, pungent tree so we may live even in death. He’s lit up with strings like thorns like a shawl of light. He is adorned like so many churches but uses electricity rather than wax. Probably safer. Probably wasteful.
We lay thick felt the color of blood around his ankles, where his feet would be severed.
He is the great grandfather and the little brother. Our Christmas tree, to pray to in the shadow of the sunless sky. I love him. I’m a fucking great pagan.

They were actually graham crackers. 2 and a half cartons, one cinnamon. Royal icing was substituted with frosting from a cardboard can. 3 cans, all white. As we spun our walls and mortar into little homes, I didn’t know yet who my home was for, despite our jokes about the street mice. The blank parchment paper felt empty and good. When the building began, our attempts at play became attempts at architecture then attempts at engineering, as we beaver-chewed the rectangle cookies into the correct sizes and shapes. When each of our gingerbread houses fell, we attempted surgery to sing caved-in foundations from the dead.
Now I wonder if, during our intent quiet, we sung anything else back from the dead. Jeff’s Baptist church. My fortress. Anna’s tavern. The power of a strong will and clear vision falls upon us with the ardor of the uncivilized. We can ask, but we don’t command.
I had gummy worm patrols set, with proper uniform. Ammo stores. Extra food towers and barricades. A flag. What’s a house without a flag? We were just having fun and playing crafts but now I wonder who exactly it was that so desired A LITTLE MORE LIFE that he had to make in maquette what existed elsewhere? (Elsewhen?)

It seems that when creating, if we let our ears outweigh our egos, we can finally make sense. And whose hands are our own? What force bewitches our thoughts and ambitions? It must be a very strange person who never knows who they’ve been.
We’ve giants in our blood. Humans exist to know the gods. Everything exists to know the gods. Through fervor and piety and deceit and bliss and war and sin and conscience and wit, the framework of what is sacred and what is common lend us our single difference from the other mammals.
We are not predator or prey. We’re human. Because we pray. Let us pray. Heavenly father, sweet brother Emmanuel, thank you for your sacrifice. It seems there’s room for the Christ story in Christmas after all. If the four tree stand screws that hold him upright in his death follow the imagery and so does his crown, then where’s Judas?
I think all imagery is Christlike. Because the story of sacrifice and redemption is the one we were given as first humans. And it still sings in our heads, every single day. Those archetypes you read about? The same seven stories? The gods who are God’s?
Say my name then. If you know my name, tell it to me.
If I’ve been around for millennia, why am I still here? The glory burns bright inside my eyes. The stories live in my lungs. Sometimes I feel like I suffocate because they aren’t getting out. Every person I’ve ever loved sits atop my lashes and all the strife inside my nostrils. The sorrow inside my lower lip collides with the greed in my teeth.
I’ll bite again one day. I dreamt I could run with my hands down upon the ground, like Anderson’s mermaid with her fin-becomes-two-legs. I was just an imposter, not a true four-legger. But once the rhythm set in, the rolling gait, I knew why my dogs love to run. If not for my stinging ego and mind, I would have no place in history now. Sometimes it seems a trick or mischief on some other behalf to be here. Other times it seems the best I could ever long for. And always, it is lucky. We all are. Little Mycenaean Stargazer, you will always be my friend.
stargazer

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