I took down the large beautiful Quan Yin scrolls in my bedroom. Well, they don't belong to me. A lot around here doesn't belong to me. Maybe nothing belongs to me--Zen moment--well, hogwash. The cats are mine and the quilt and the painting of the naked lady. I finally put up the naked lady because she is, well, naked and I can look at her whenever want.
Yesterday I was in therapy, just getting revved up, kleenix in hand and my pager went off. So off I charged, calls to the momma, my student, my partner. We arrived and the mom was laughing between contractions. She actually laughed until about an hour before the birth. Beautiful boy with gobs of black hair. Sometimes I wonder at the work I do, the birth thing. Women sweat and cry and push out babies and the babies are gorgeous and they don't usually scare us by not breathing so all is well. Not your average job.
I watched 'Au Revoir les Enfants', Louis Malle, the other night. Wow. I fogot what film can look like in the hands of an artist. Beautiful and bleak, almost monchromatic, a few bits of red and blue. The children all look pinched, hungry and pale. Now I have to watch his other films. Immediately.
Art saves me. Music and art and poetry. Even though I am not writing poetry right now. I am having trouble describing love; incandescent, liminal, lingual. I don't want to explain the mad tangle. Lenticular halo.