Pain(t)

I came by myself to a very crowded place;
I was looking for someone who had lines in her face.
I found her there but she was past all concern;
I asked her to hold me, I said, "Lady, unfold me, "
But she scorned me and she told me
I was dead and I could never return.


Dear Eugene,

Beauty.

We try so hard to write ourselves into her story.  Our story becomes one to try not to be written out from hers.

Saturday I was in downtown looking at a Tiffany billboard.  She speaks to the world what beauty should look like, how and what we should desire.  Then she scorned me for being too serious and sent me off to a midnight from which I shall wake to find myself further from her, not for anything right or wrong I've committed from dusk till dawn, but for simply emerging from darkness to another day of inevitable decay, slip sliding away, gently written off and finally whited out.

Sometimes not gently.

Last night I was at home to the hospitality of a couple of very beautiful hosts.  They brought us canvas and paint brush to write ourselves into God's story.  Giving is in their blood, to misquote the catchphrase of Canadian Blood Services.  Lines on their face speak of a graceful defiance to the twisted narrative of beauty held hostage by make-up, cover-up, trump-up, climb-up, suck-up, or just plain old-fashioned eat-it-up.

Their door was open and that's how the breeze came in.

Last night was a celebration, for a couple of young ladies reaching a milestone.  If it were a funeral for a couple of young men interrupted on their way to reach a milestone, the graceful defiance would have spoken even more forcefully, but just as softly and elegantly, easy like sun in the morning, even when bitter tears etch lines on our faces and cross our hearts.

When I was leaving their place, door closing behind me, I took a deep breath upon waking up to have seen a beautiful picture, in part thanks to the contrast in the counterfeit from the day before.

Another new morning now, for all men and women, eager to live more, anxious to die less, fighting against time, chasing beauty.  The morning speaks for itself.

I took the paint brush from last night and started painting again.

Yours, Alex

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