The wedding is to take place in my father's church.
The view is from the back balcony, looking on the whole sanctuary.
The floor is not visible, being covered in a thick blanket of white roses and chrysanthemums, orchids, albino palm leaves. The flowers emanate a kind of heat that makes them glow and appear to flicker.
{Reminiscent of watching a blizzard through a wall of glass, wishing there were a way to make snow warm.}
I know that outside it is cold, so this white heat is a kind of miracle.
I'm to be married, but the church is empty of people besides myself.
My dress is one I've been saving for years. Antique heavy silk, pearled.
There is a whole satisfaction with this moment.
At some point later, I am slowly waking. Memories of the wedding party coming to me even as I see that the whole wedding party has passed out on the ballroom floor. Yes, I married Him (thank god it's Him and not Him), yes my mom and dad were actually speaking to one another, yes, the walls were covered with champagne. Yes, we had sneaked off to get silk-less in the water. I want everyone to remain asleep so that I can keep drinking in the moment.
A girl wakes up loudly next to me; young bride, can't find her bra. She complains that her wedding was freezing. I chuckle silently. ha ha. I won!
Friday, November 16, 2007
Sunday, October 28, 2007
Forgotten Lovers & Shimmering Orchestra
Digging in a closet, through old tea sets and strange looking antique objects.
I find a forgotten lover in a shoebox. He unfolds to man-size.
Our backstory: A plane crashes, kills his first wife and son. We have a short carribean affair, the heat of which returns to us in this moment. in a sensation that can be compared to a fresh burn.
Something very big that I'd erased from my memory after we'd split.
He seemed particularly distraught about his son, even years later. He's aged. But he's got a new wife now.
Still with that eye that is half twisted metal, half satyr-winking to doe, “You know, we could have been found if we’d wanted to. But we two are are far too elegant.”
~
Exiting a school of some sort, an unrecognizable man sitting on a rock whips around to address me, 'Well, if it's not too much trouble, would you marry me?'
'Sure, I need a husband to cheat on.' my mind is disembowling itself with laughter.
( I vaguely remember I'd dated him once as a teenage expirement. He's rather preppy in appearance; not my type at the time.)
What I really said to him was 'Yeah, sure.'
After all, he's not bad looking, and is clearly very formal and stable. This could come in handy one day, and I'm so tired of trying to find the difference between all the others.
I sit down with him and a crowd quickly gathers around us. They are trying to tell him what to do, how to propose, how to tie his shoes, what color the grass is.
'No', he stops them, 'Listen to what THEY are saying.' Points to our left.
To our left is a band of string musicians. Fiddlers with no bridges, sawing an uneven tremolo that, when shared with the other instruments (guitars? lyres? dulcimer?), creates the most shimmering euphoric music.
I am delighted and because of his gentle attention to the music, decide to abandon that guttural sarcasm with which I accepted the proposal.
I find a forgotten lover in a shoebox. He unfolds to man-size.
Our backstory: A plane crashes, kills his first wife and son. We have a short carribean affair, the heat of which returns to us in this moment. in a sensation that can be compared to a fresh burn.
Something very big that I'd erased from my memory after we'd split.
He seemed particularly distraught about his son, even years later. He's aged. But he's got a new wife now.
Still with that eye that is half twisted metal, half satyr-winking to doe, “You know, we could have been found if we’d wanted to. But we two are are far too elegant.”
~
Exiting a school of some sort, an unrecognizable man sitting on a rock whips around to address me, 'Well, if it's not too much trouble, would you marry me?'
'Sure, I need a husband to cheat on.' my mind is disembowling itself with laughter.
( I vaguely remember I'd dated him once as a teenage expirement. He's rather preppy in appearance; not my type at the time.)
What I really said to him was 'Yeah, sure.'
After all, he's not bad looking, and is clearly very formal and stable. This could come in handy one day, and I'm so tired of trying to find the difference between all the others.
I sit down with him and a crowd quickly gathers around us. They are trying to tell him what to do, how to propose, how to tie his shoes, what color the grass is.
'No', he stops them, 'Listen to what THEY are saying.' Points to our left.
To our left is a band of string musicians. Fiddlers with no bridges, sawing an uneven tremolo that, when shared with the other instruments (guitars? lyres? dulcimer?), creates the most shimmering euphoric music.
I am delighted and because of his gentle attention to the music, decide to abandon that guttural sarcasm with which I accepted the proposal.
Tuesday, October 23, 2007
Cemetery Lovers
my lover and I havabsconded from a wild party to the gentle sanctitude of an old old cemetery.
colors are distinct and in three. the glossy green of grass, kelly green, irish ghost green.
the white of marble, spotlit as if by theatre footlight. the definite black edges that begin as moldy fingers on the statues and plaques of the tombs and extend to the whole night nothing sky.
we are playing, we are rolling, we are making love. i am posing, i am upside-down, i am hanging from a white cross.
no names on the tombstones, and no names on our lips. just laughs and the lucid thrill of love.
i tell my mom about it. she says 'outdoors? well, at least you didn't make a mess.'
'no, it wasn't like that' i try to explain without getting explicit.
she reminds me that the dead are there; i can only feel the living.
Friday, October 19, 2007
Wet Grizzly
In a circle of friends, in a circus of beasts. On a trek, a caravan, safari.
A costumed Rose shows me her lion, then a man holding a lamb whose fleece shines black and copper. Every person seems to have their signature animal... not like a pet, like a partner.
Monstrous grizzly, the river stinking precedes him. Others shrink back in a mixture of fear and repulsion. The bear graciously hauls his body and his pounds of dripping fur toward me, holding his arms out to embrace. I see his belly, rubber white, dripping.
Although I was somewhat turned off by this bloated humanoid belly, I let him take me in, holding for a long time, sopping and bonding.
A costumed Rose shows me her lion, then a man holding a lamb whose fleece shines black and copper. Every person seems to have their signature animal... not like a pet, like a partner.
Monstrous grizzly, the river stinking precedes him. Others shrink back in a mixture of fear and repulsion. The bear graciously hauls his body and his pounds of dripping fur toward me, holding his arms out to embrace. I see his belly, rubber white, dripping.
Although I was somewhat turned off by this bloated humanoid belly, I let him take me in, holding for a long time, sopping and bonding.
Wednesday, October 10, 2007
Joke on a Cliff & Porcelain Squirming
My brother and I exit a garage on fancy road bicycles. We see identical twin blonde ladies take off in identical sports cars. The cars are painted in the gawdy style of energy drinks, yellow and blue zigzagging lines. They each have a bed of sorts attached to the back with 2 mini-swimming pools inside. We laugh and ride away.
Down the street, a butch's bright blue Evil Kneivel styled motorcycle has broken down in a smokey mess. We stop to help her, but attention is diverted when she points to the enormous canyon 'over there'.
'Over there' is a music festival that has located its main stage at the very edge of the canyon's cliff. There's an oldtime band playing. Some of the members include the requisite bearded guitar player, an Asian fiddle prodigy or three, a cool cat rockabilly with a gleaming white upright bass, and a Tibetan monk playing the ukelele and tambourine.
An unplayed banjo catches fire and slowly tips itself off the cliff, followed by each member of the band.
We laugh some more, and ride off.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
In my apartment, but within an imaginary apartment building.
Men have broken into my aparment while I'm asleep. I'm too tired to deal with them, so I take my blankets and curl up on the smoothed marble stairs that lead to my landlord's flat. I'll alert him later.
His friends file past, up and down the stairs, and invite me to brunch. Once again, I'm too sleepy to move, so I just drift off while they go about their business.
When I finally rise, I enter his apartment. He's not there, but his darling roommates are. They are a hip boy-girl couple and I like them immediately. We talk about art (Early Christian, Symbolist, Modern) and pets (kittens, iguanas, boys). The girl says she wanted a dog, but the landlord won't allow it.
'So I got this', and she puts something in my hand that feels both cold, dish-like, and alive. I open my hands. The pet is a human figurine made of blue-glazed porcelain. Like the figurines you used to get in the 100-packs of Red Rose tea bags. He's hard on one side, more gummy on the other. The posture is a yogic contortion. One leg is completely behind the shoulder and head, while the other is stretched out. It's the latter leg that can wiggle. He makes a kind of high pitched giggle/coo.
'How very charming!' I say, 'Where did you get him?'
She's not telling.
Down the street, a butch's bright blue Evil Kneivel styled motorcycle has broken down in a smokey mess. We stop to help her, but attention is diverted when she points to the enormous canyon 'over there'.
'Over there' is a music festival that has located its main stage at the very edge of the canyon's cliff. There's an oldtime band playing. Some of the members include the requisite bearded guitar player, an Asian fiddle prodigy or three, a cool cat rockabilly with a gleaming white upright bass, and a Tibetan monk playing the ukelele and tambourine.
An unplayed banjo catches fire and slowly tips itself off the cliff, followed by each member of the band.
We laugh some more, and ride off.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
In my apartment, but within an imaginary apartment building.
Men have broken into my aparment while I'm asleep. I'm too tired to deal with them, so I take my blankets and curl up on the smoothed marble stairs that lead to my landlord's flat. I'll alert him later.
His friends file past, up and down the stairs, and invite me to brunch. Once again, I'm too sleepy to move, so I just drift off while they go about their business.
When I finally rise, I enter his apartment. He's not there, but his darling roommates are. They are a hip boy-girl couple and I like them immediately. We talk about art (Early Christian, Symbolist, Modern) and pets (kittens, iguanas, boys). The girl says she wanted a dog, but the landlord won't allow it.
'So I got this', and she puts something in my hand that feels both cold, dish-like, and alive. I open my hands. The pet is a human figurine made of blue-glazed porcelain. Like the figurines you used to get in the 100-packs of Red Rose tea bags. He's hard on one side, more gummy on the other. The posture is a yogic contortion. One leg is completely behind the shoulder and head, while the other is stretched out. It's the latter leg that can wiggle. He makes a kind of high pitched giggle/coo.
'How very charming!' I say, 'Where did you get him?'
She's not telling.
Tuesday, October 9, 2007
Corpse and Family Things
I’m examining my own corpse, from the back. The skin’s been removed and the flesh is partly carved off, the remaining muscle is dry and yellowed. I trace up the spine with my fingers, looking for proof of the pain I had when alive.
It's not clear whether the 'me' who is touching the dead 'me' is dead, too. I could be an afterlife, angel sort of creature, removed from my earthly woes, or it could just be my consciousness, with a sensitive finger....
By the neck, I can see my main injury. The vertebrae are thin, and set crooked at a point marked by a flat red line.
‘There it is,’ I say out loud, satisfied.
-------------------------------------------
In the old apartment on Central Ave. (where we lived after the divorce).
I’ve returned home after a very long absence. The house is kind of dark, as it always was to avoid mom’s migraines. We’re preparing for a move of some kind, but not moving together. I live far away and have left behind all that is here. Similarly, my mother is about to give up this stockpile of memory and antique.
The heap of treasures looks nicer than I remember. The dining room has a chandelier, the sideboards are old and elegant, there are amazing tablecloths, dresses, pops’ medals and souvenirs and other richly meaningful items as well as pure luxury items.
Justin’s old room seems to be the only space that is comfortably lived in. (It is worth mentioning that in real life, this room is 10’x8’ with a very low ceiling. We could never understand how he handled it.)
He’s taken his bed out, and the little wood-panelled closet is now a little den to sit and smoke in. Candles are lit and music is playing.
I get the feeling that the move we're preparing for has something to do with San Francisco and perhaps a lover. A stipulation of this move is that she can’t take anything with her. This angers me, that she would leave her family history behind for a whim. Why can’t we just set up our things in the new place and live fabulously, not having to deny the past?
I become angry with her for not taking care of the things properly. They’re just sitting here neglected in this dark place. Why don’t we ever hang out here? Why don’t we turn this space into a warm inviting place for family to interact like family?
She points out that I was the one to leave the house. In essence, it’s my fault that these things are here, unused. It’s my fault that the family is ambivalent about one another.
We go into my old room, which is also stockpiled with items from my youth and more things that used to belong to pops. Blue cameo, old poems, donated designer dresses. I cry, grieving the realiziation that I’ve missed out on our family because I wasn’t present to it in my youth. Too busy running away from our problems, trying to be somewhere else.
Some dogs come up to greet me. They don’t touch me right away. They each have placards around their neck with instructions on how to meet them without getting bit. ('Call me Iz, and don't come too close. I'll come to you.' says one.) I’m afraid of their paranoid maneuvers, but pet and love them anyway.
It's not clear whether the 'me' who is touching the dead 'me' is dead, too. I could be an afterlife, angel sort of creature, removed from my earthly woes, or it could just be my consciousness, with a sensitive finger....
By the neck, I can see my main injury. The vertebrae are thin, and set crooked at a point marked by a flat red line.
‘There it is,’ I say out loud, satisfied.
-------------------------------------------
In the old apartment on Central Ave. (where we lived after the divorce).
I’ve returned home after a very long absence. The house is kind of dark, as it always was to avoid mom’s migraines. We’re preparing for a move of some kind, but not moving together. I live far away and have left behind all that is here. Similarly, my mother is about to give up this stockpile of memory and antique.
The heap of treasures looks nicer than I remember. The dining room has a chandelier, the sideboards are old and elegant, there are amazing tablecloths, dresses, pops’ medals and souvenirs and other richly meaningful items as well as pure luxury items.
Justin’s old room seems to be the only space that is comfortably lived in. (It is worth mentioning that in real life, this room is 10’x8’ with a very low ceiling. We could never understand how he handled it.)
He’s taken his bed out, and the little wood-panelled closet is now a little den to sit and smoke in. Candles are lit and music is playing.
I get the feeling that the move we're preparing for has something to do with San Francisco and perhaps a lover. A stipulation of this move is that she can’t take anything with her. This angers me, that she would leave her family history behind for a whim. Why can’t we just set up our things in the new place and live fabulously, not having to deny the past?
I become angry with her for not taking care of the things properly. They’re just sitting here neglected in this dark place. Why don’t we ever hang out here? Why don’t we turn this space into a warm inviting place for family to interact like family?
She points out that I was the one to leave the house. In essence, it’s my fault that these things are here, unused. It’s my fault that the family is ambivalent about one another.
We go into my old room, which is also stockpiled with items from my youth and more things that used to belong to pops. Blue cameo, old poems, donated designer dresses. I cry, grieving the realiziation that I’ve missed out on our family because I wasn’t present to it in my youth. Too busy running away from our problems, trying to be somewhere else.
Some dogs come up to greet me. They don’t touch me right away. They each have placards around their neck with instructions on how to meet them without getting bit. ('Call me Iz, and don't come too close. I'll come to you.' says one.) I’m afraid of their paranoid maneuvers, but pet and love them anyway.
Monday, October 8, 2007
Fishtown Hooker
Early 1940's. On a darkened street full of litter. Warm night, especially when wearing a suit and bow tie. I've been conversing with a harlot whose face reminds me a lot of a cheap Anna Pavlova. That kind of thin cupid's bow mouth, twisting offers for sex into presidential portaits. Crooked tongues and a kiss I think might be worth the danger.
I offer to take her away in my car, and lead her into a black automobile. As soon as we slip into the backseat, I reveal my true identity as a cop. I pull my badge on her, and arrest her on the spot. Jor's driving. He's my partner. Between the two of us, the hooking beat is hot. Prostitutes of both sexes are shit out of luck, and we've got no sympathy.
Coming from a moralistic standpoint, this is very interesting. We are using our success in the police force to cover up a highly illegal interest of our own. It's not clear exactly what this is, but i'm sure that opium and puppy trafficking are probably involved. Our own queerness is seamlessly integrated in this mess; invisible in fact, against the dizzying contradictions of law and order.
I offer to take her away in my car, and lead her into a black automobile. As soon as we slip into the backseat, I reveal my true identity as a cop. I pull my badge on her, and arrest her on the spot. Jor's driving. He's my partner. Between the two of us, the hooking beat is hot. Prostitutes of both sexes are shit out of luck, and we've got no sympathy.
Coming from a moralistic standpoint, this is very interesting. We are using our success in the police force to cover up a highly illegal interest of our own. It's not clear exactly what this is, but i'm sure that opium and puppy trafficking are probably involved. Our own queerness is seamlessly integrated in this mess; invisible in fact, against the dizzying contradictions of law and order.
Friday, October 5, 2007
Dark Eyes and a Skeleton
Digging around in my father's house for treasures. He has objects stockpiled. Gifts from parishioners, useless trash, and things recognizable from my girlhood.
I sneakily try to make off with a nice blue porcelain gongfu set, a jar of chutney, and some parts from a sparkly mobile. He's so stingy, I have to be careful. He'd rather throw something away than give it. contrary to this assumption, he's actually quite open about everything, ready to get rid of everything he has and make a new start with his new house/object collection.
My brother is there, too, and it seems were are in a rush to leave the old house. I don't want to make him uncomfortable by forcing him to be alone with dad, but I simply must retrieve my bicycle from a girl's house that I was friends with at age 12. I go to her house to find not only my bike, but a dashing gaunt Ukranian pop singer in need of a fiddle lesson.
Of course it makes me nervous to give a lesson to someone so attractive, foreign, and relaxed. So I feign a familiarity and tell him all about how i'm feeling at the moment: Missing my hometown, nostalgic thanks to the visit with my dad, excited for the music of the future, etc. then suddenly 'let's get down to business. play something for me.'
He takes out his violin and bows a sobbing 'otchi chernye' with all the emotional prowess of ... well, a Ukranian pop singer. I fear for a moment that I have nothing to teach him. I pull out my fiddle, and the tuning is stubborn and strange. It is fixed after some manipulations, and I dazzle my student with a flashy Hungarian number. 'you can learn it in to time, you're a natural. only thing is, it's mostly in third position.'
'Whaat ees theyrd pozishen?'
Sigh.
I draw him a chart of the strings of the violin and ask him to fill in the notes on each string. He writes in complicated jazz chords, and I realize that this will take a very long time and my brother is waiting... so, I must go. Goodbye, cute Ukranian! Hello, tiny bicycle!
Returning to my father's house, my brother has collected his stockpile. Dad's old purple Harley, the skeleton of his long lost newt, his geode collection and some family photo albums. Diego, my old chihuahua, is there too, having been graciously returned to me from an ex-lover. It seems all the dear things of the past have been obscured from us until now. Although it is nice to have the things back, it is clear that we are both on a new path and that the journey along it cannot be begun soon enough.
In a rare display of generosity, dad suggests that we all go get last minute chiropractic adjustments. We consider it for a moment, but turn him down. We're eager to get on the road, plus there's nothing he can really do to fix the spine of our family anyway.
I sneakily try to make off with a nice blue porcelain gongfu set, a jar of chutney, and some parts from a sparkly mobile. He's so stingy, I have to be careful. He'd rather throw something away than give it. contrary to this assumption, he's actually quite open about everything, ready to get rid of everything he has and make a new start with his new house/object collection.
My brother is there, too, and it seems were are in a rush to leave the old house. I don't want to make him uncomfortable by forcing him to be alone with dad, but I simply must retrieve my bicycle from a girl's house that I was friends with at age 12. I go to her house to find not only my bike, but a dashing gaunt Ukranian pop singer in need of a fiddle lesson.
Of course it makes me nervous to give a lesson to someone so attractive, foreign, and relaxed. So I feign a familiarity and tell him all about how i'm feeling at the moment: Missing my hometown, nostalgic thanks to the visit with my dad, excited for the music of the future, etc. then suddenly 'let's get down to business. play something for me.'
He takes out his violin and bows a sobbing 'otchi chernye' with all the emotional prowess of ... well, a Ukranian pop singer. I fear for a moment that I have nothing to teach him. I pull out my fiddle, and the tuning is stubborn and strange. It is fixed after some manipulations, and I dazzle my student with a flashy Hungarian number. 'you can learn it in to time, you're a natural. only thing is, it's mostly in third position.'
'Whaat ees theyrd pozishen?'
Sigh.
I draw him a chart of the strings of the violin and ask him to fill in the notes on each string. He writes in complicated jazz chords, and I realize that this will take a very long time and my brother is waiting... so, I must go. Goodbye, cute Ukranian! Hello, tiny bicycle!
Returning to my father's house, my brother has collected his stockpile. Dad's old purple Harley, the skeleton of his long lost newt, his geode collection and some family photo albums. Diego, my old chihuahua, is there too, having been graciously returned to me from an ex-lover. It seems all the dear things of the past have been obscured from us until now. Although it is nice to have the things back, it is clear that we are both on a new path and that the journey along it cannot be begun soon enough.
In a rare display of generosity, dad suggests that we all go get last minute chiropractic adjustments. We consider it for a moment, but turn him down. We're eager to get on the road, plus there's nothing he can really do to fix the spine of our family anyway.
Thursday, October 4, 2007
liederhosen and teenagers
My sister is trying to escape high school with her girlfriend stuffed into her book bag. "Hi!", Candance says as she pops her head out of the bag, with the friendly excitement of a newly adopted kitten. I give them my blessing and make G promise to text message once in a while.
~
Getting ready for the Symphony concert, I can't seem to find anything to wear. I dig through my roommate's many boxes of unforgivable fashion, finally coming up with a pair of handmade liederhosen. PERFECT! But a little short for me. Does it make my thighs look too big? No matter, they're the ultimate statement for October ... and stuffy classical audiences.
~
~
Getting ready for the Symphony concert, I can't seem to find anything to wear. I dig through my roommate's many boxes of unforgivable fashion, finally coming up with a pair of handmade liederhosen. PERFECT! But a little short for me. Does it make my thighs look too big? No matter, they're the ultimate statement for October ... and stuffy classical audiences.
~
Tuesday, October 2, 2007
The Piano House and the Dagger
In a Museum, or Palace, or a palace that is a museum.
A blurry figure gifts me with this weapon 'for protection'. it’s just the heel, the blade’s been broken off. The protection mentioned is of a magical sort. The dagger dates from 1792 but the crystal into which that number is carved is movable, and changes the numbers from 1792 to 1892 to 1756 to 1792. The maker and city of origin is also inscribed, but the letters keep scrolling as you hold it up to the light. Antonius become Anatoli, Tivoli turns to Turkmenistan. The rest of the object is beautiful mahogany, rosewood and ebony with an inlaid eagle fluffing its feathers. I keep it in my hand as I stroll through the living museum.
The next room contains a parlor with a piano slated to be from the 16th century (although, little brain, the modern piano hadn't been invented by that time. In any case...).
At first the piano appeared to be just a beautiful keyboard set up like a box grand. Heavy ornamentation all wrapping around the legs, inset keys, a lustre to the ancient wood body.
I walked around the back of it and entered the piano as one would enter a house. It was not of house size, but of the size made for a child or gnome. The house is still considered to be part of the instrument. The walls are covered in yellow brocaded silk, it has windows and a staircase.
I wish I could play the outside while still being inside.
At this moment, the piano is played by someone...
The piano's curator/security guard enters and instead of kicking me out, drops his duties and lays down on the miniature stairs.
We talk about listening to the piano as if listening to the dancing leaves of autumn. Look out the window, you can see them, he says.
I feel that i am inhabiting the thing i love most. Every sound and sensation is beautiful, rich, delicious, and somehow, wonderfully mine.
A blurry figure gifts me with this weapon 'for protection'. it’s just the heel, the blade’s been broken off. The protection mentioned is of a magical sort. The dagger dates from 1792 but the crystal into which that number is carved is movable, and changes the numbers from 1792 to 1892 to 1756 to 1792. The maker and city of origin is also inscribed, but the letters keep scrolling as you hold it up to the light. Antonius become Anatoli, Tivoli turns to Turkmenistan. The rest of the object is beautiful mahogany, rosewood and ebony with an inlaid eagle fluffing its feathers. I keep it in my hand as I stroll through the living museum.
The next room contains a parlor with a piano slated to be from the 16th century (although, little brain, the modern piano hadn't been invented by that time. In any case...).
At first the piano appeared to be just a beautiful keyboard set up like a box grand. Heavy ornamentation all wrapping around the legs, inset keys, a lustre to the ancient wood body.
I walked around the back of it and entered the piano as one would enter a house. It was not of house size, but of the size made for a child or gnome. The house is still considered to be part of the instrument. The walls are covered in yellow brocaded silk, it has windows and a staircase.
I wish I could play the outside while still being inside.
At this moment, the piano is played by someone...
The piano's curator/security guard enters and instead of kicking me out, drops his duties and lays down on the miniature stairs.
We talk about listening to the piano as if listening to the dancing leaves of autumn. Look out the window, you can see them, he says.
I feel that i am inhabiting the thing i love most. Every sound and sensation is beautiful, rich, delicious, and somehow, wonderfully mine.
The Black Bull
I am with a group, visiting some indoor establishment that has something to do with care for large animals. We observe a healthy horse and it's keeper, showing off the success of this place. The
The group is led elsewhere just as I see a bull being walked into the center of the space on its hind legs and hooked up to expose its throat. A man stands behind it and as he prepares to cut the jugular.The slaughterer seems to have a ritualistic purpose, but the setting is so utilitarian that the overall effect is one of blasé Satanism. I cannot tell for the long black hair whether this is a goat or a bull.
The man begins to weakly saw into the throat of the beast, and I immediately start chanting silently ‘om mani padme hum’, and raise my gaze to meet the bull’s.
he stares back angrily.
We communicated with our eyes and thoughts. ‘you can’t help, why are you doing this?’
'om mani padme hum. I’m trying to let you know that you’re not dying alone. I'm here to comfort you.'
He still is restless and fights with himself as the inept butcher unsuccessfully slices through the neck. I keep my eyes fixed to the bull’s eyes, he doesn’t look away.
As I continue to send loving kindness to him, he finally recognizes and says to me, ‘there’s nothing left to do but die’. I tell him, ‘that’s right. You’re dying. Relax and let it happen.’
The vein is opened in a gymnastic arch, his black body painted wet. I turn away before witnessing the soul leave his great body.
The group is led elsewhere just as I see a bull being walked into the center of the space on its hind legs and hooked up to expose its throat. A man stands behind it and as he prepares to cut the jugular.The slaughterer seems to have a ritualistic purpose, but the setting is so utilitarian that the overall effect is one of blasé Satanism. I cannot tell for the long black hair whether this is a goat or a bull.
The man begins to weakly saw into the throat of the beast, and I immediately start chanting silently ‘om mani padme hum’, and raise my gaze to meet the bull’s.
he stares back angrily.
We communicated with our eyes and thoughts. ‘you can’t help, why are you doing this?’
'om mani padme hum. I’m trying to let you know that you’re not dying alone. I'm here to comfort you.'
He still is restless and fights with himself as the inept butcher unsuccessfully slices through the neck. I keep my eyes fixed to the bull’s eyes, he doesn’t look away.
As I continue to send loving kindness to him, he finally recognizes and says to me, ‘there’s nothing left to do but die’. I tell him, ‘that’s right. You’re dying. Relax and let it happen.’
The vein is opened in a gymnastic arch, his black body painted wet. I turn away before witnessing the soul leave his great body.
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