W E L C O M E

On one day of the year the high priest of the Children of Israel would enter the Holy of Holies, the inner sanctum of the great Temple in Jerusalem. Folklore tells that a gold chord was tied around the High Priest's leg, for only one deserving of the honor to represent the people in beseeching God could safely carry out this task. If undeserving and lacking in righteousness, his lifeless body would have to be pulled out.

 

The act of creating art elicits this scenario. The fear that I won't return from the inner sanctum- an astronaut weightless spinning in space. Ground Control to Major Tom, life sustaining umbilical chord, severed.

 

Finn sits at the cafe to my left, or sometimes to the right, back or in front of me- like Archangels in all directions, composing music or editing film, while I write. In this confluence of cause and effect, comfort and umbrage, a muse.

 

Because I want to believe it is so, that he has my back, that I may bravely go enter the holy of holies, or out into the sea, to return with treasures, if only a pearl.

 

'Yes, you can do it! Just keep letting the thoughts come through.' He emails me, hearing me sigh and watching me struggle with the birthing process.

 

But, he tells me he doesn't want my back, or any part of me to sit close to him while he works, creating any acknowledgment of a connection between us.

 

Well I said, 'Lily, oh Lily I don't feel safe I feel that life has blown a great big hole through me' And she said 'Child, you must protect yourself, You can protect yourself I'll show you how with fire'. Gabriel before me Raphael behind me, Michael to my right Uriel on my left side In the circle of fire.   ~Kate Bush

                                                                                

Either way,  I'm going in.

 

And I do.

 

And inside I wrestle with versions of real, the true color of things, that I might emerge with a story to tell myself, to tell him, or anyone who will listen.

 

But, like Monet's Rouen Cathedral paintings, dependent on the time of day, the whether or season, the church facade can appear as pink or blue, in gold or grays. Truth comes in a varied palette.

 

Maybe I am periwinkle, a violet blue, Jacaranda blossoms in spring,

properties of warm or cool-silvery elusive moon cool, or warm violet.

 

Perhaps Finn is burgundy. Cabernet sauvignon, Redwood for building a boat or the well varnished wood bar in a cozy pub, strength, courage and corporal pleasure.

 

Together we make the Vesper.

The darkening sky, preparing for its celestial pageantry.

Portal into night.

Or the color of the first lights of day, primordial hope where optimism is born from Darkness.

 

Or, maybe he is eternal electric indigo, or sting ray metallic, like the mineral osmiridium, used for tips of pen nibs, surgical needles, and sparking points in engines, or, lion’s mane gold.

 

Perhaps I am dank forest moss. Or ocean mist.

 

Really we too are the cathedrals changing from one moment to the next. The opportunity to express and create infinite combinations, prisms of possibility.

 

These are only the romantic tendencies of a periwinkle poet,

because with every flush and flutter,

I will be reminded to adjust my eyesight, afflicted by the condition of rose-colored retinas.

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