Saturday, April 7, 2012

The name of this blog is rooted in this story

Today I am reminded of artists, self-proclaimed whom I name by their actions.      

Rape is an atrocity most often committed by men.

It requires a grandiose sense of MEanness.

I have been.

The 1st time was by a door-to-door preacher.

He professed to be committed to a Universal Calling

Of Ascended Masters and the Mother Prophet. He knocked.

He locked. One hand over my mouth, the other guiding

his missile forcibly between my todays and tomorrows.

“If you are a victim of your goodness” then where

is your protector, my boyhood friend, your husband?

I knew too well if I could scream, it would become a gang coming.

The hours, days, years to follow – like a stroke of insight

they bare witness to cognitive dissonance – the left brain poking at details that the right

brain could no longer associate with life, laughter and  love. 

Rehabilitation is the work of day mares.  Numbness cloaks

secrets in would be truth. Never to be a next time, forever closed until ...

Taken with the authority of a preacher fox, counselor on family matters.  Come, give voice to loss.

Trust in the Word. And man, bearing the title husband – thrust unwanted to claim my tomorrows.

Pressed against the headboard – colorful words filled my pages. Disconnected like the pornography

that overlay an ethics video. *   This story told once in private to a fox and the other day someone who could believe.

No youthful beauty remains.  Numbness defeats the possibilities.

Yet some days I trust in serendipity and the right brain seeks light and images and music. The art comes.

Words try to protect – cautioning no full disclosure.

* 300 hour linear editing project with footage from Ethics Lectures at Yale that was copied over with the excess of a life of depravity @ 1986. 

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