Tuesday, June 12, 2012

In Search of Beauty

I had promised the thief that I would search for beauty. It was a homework assignment that I have not as yet been taken to task for not fulfilling. I have reported back no findings. So much pain and sadness and shit all around me, that has been what I notice. I thought when I took the assignment that the beauty was out there, eluding me only for the time being. The thief I could tell was certain of it (and that was almost beautiful in and of itself, in fact, might be - but if wrong, if beauty is but illusion, then the cruelty of that face might never be described).

And so it came to be that I stopped looking and like all things lost it was now available to be found (an aphorism! bring on those that argue!). And so it is that beauty has visited, (re?)appeared like the burst of a wave or the spastic giggle of sweet Jocelyn when she finally decides that I am worth her attention in between naps and feedings and general crankiness. The little ones beauty is so unmeasured, so inexact, so perfect (I am thinking of you Max and Sophia, trying to tackle your Uncle in tic-tac-to and hangman).

And I have seen more. I have felt new connections that are both uncertain and promising (what is more beautiful then what might yet be?)

But do not be so fast to count me a believer. I have been tricked before. But perhaps at last the game is afoot.

The Courtesan, The Goddess, The Poet, and a Thief of Kisses

It seems that there are things that show up and those one must show up for. And those that are yet to come, perhaps Now in a cosmic thread, but otherwise over there, just over there or way over there (the illusiveness in measuring exactly how far is a source of great distress for many, I suspect - myself included).

She has a PhD and looks me dead on when she corrects me. And she is correct so I nod. We have banished "I think," and so certainty is not only preferred but insisted upon. The additional rigor does tire. And I napped in the hammock by the woodpile, the book unopened in my lap.

To label it is tempting. Assign it a box to place it in, which leads to a definition - "It means this ...," will follow, and there is nothing wrong with that. Really, who doesn't like to know what things mean? Particularly if a sleight is performed, a piece of magic that surprises with its suddenness. But I am feeling compelled to resist and instead play this sudden game. It should be assumed that The Thief will again pilfer, it is a thief's nature. Then let us see how successfully, and what might follow.

I mocked her curiosity, gently. Promised a poem. That will put her back on her heels (who ever is offered poetry as either compliment or bribe or recompense?), the failure of that enterprise ending this dalliance. The pause between disappointments. She writes with a joy that would be minimized by calling it a twinkle. (she actually mentioned sealing a letter with a wax seal - I know someone who would be most enamored with that, might fall in love)

The talk of food and strangers and accents and noticing life was exactly what this outpost needed delivered. Not mentioned were the struggles and we might get to that another time when my strength is fully returned, my resolve reinforced. At present I will cherish the thoughtful gift. Pull some amusement from it. Try to keep back tears.