Her Paris

Six years ago I was gifted the experience of art with my parents in Denver, Colorado. We saw HER PARIS during the Christmastime, just days before the vision in my right eye would go blurry for approximately 36 hours and then clear up. The doctors couldn’t find any explanation, though ischemia was likely the cause. The challenge on my heart and nervous system the last years has been challenging to say the least. Perhaps most challenging and also most healing was the demand to cultivate relationships which had the emotional and spiritual intelligence to love and offer, not judgement, but support for the discernment I lacked due to heavy reliance (and insistence) on my values for family, harmony, reconciliation, and continuation.

I rarely, ahem, never believe in the “just cut them out and move on,” or “you owe no one an explanation” attitude that reeks of unearned entitlement. Born in 1984, I’m between generations and see the slippery sides of each of the Alpine peaks our civilisation assumes to see out from. On one side we cascade back into bodied and sense driven stone age, and the other the intense abyss of utopian tyranny ameliorated from the body (ack). Pardon me while I do not cover my mouth at the disgust for the desire of plastique machine bodies over cellular intelligence being shoved down our throats by whoever can afford to ensure sincerity remains suspect and the death cult seems more cool….

Digressions make concessions to the soil benefitting from the snow melt under the sun, so they are relevant if we want to continue life here on Earth. Therefore, the woman crossing the street today, in the right of the green light telling us both it was ok to walk, was nearly run over by a damned scooter AND moped. No one else seemed to notice, but I did. And if I had to, would have chased the dude down for nearly running over her. Alas, it seemed as if no one else noticed, and she was clearly uncertain of what happened. Despite our language and age difference, I dug into my stone age spirit pocket and make some kinds of sounds and gestures to assure her I saw what happened, that it was in fact NOT ok, outrageous, and I would take the hit so she could cross the street. There is no need for thanks in this action; it is not heroism, it is basic decency. It is not courage, it is simply presence.

And yet cowardice in reality supplants the virtue signalling not only in virtual realms but in boardrooms these days. Doing the right thing when no one else is looking is not goodie-two-shoeing, it is extending a relational hand to a fellow human being that could on any day have-been or could-be-you. The golden rule is the furthest thing from tyranny or assholery, it could be the very thing tethering our eyes to work in unison together, ensuring we get to the other side of the street or circuit around the sun.

By the way; the image below is not the cross walk in question. I didn’t have my phone (or rather portable computer device) out then. Far as I can tell there were no assholes to be found at this intersection, only excessive silk flowers that boasted of their defiance of seasons to ensure the ambiance of summer no matter what the temperature.

Thank you to the Trélex Residency and for patrons making my work possible. I literally could not be as poet in residence without your support. Therefore you are invited and gratiutitiously thanked at ever corner for making the sacrifices to venture at the edge of my comfort zones possible. If you would consider donating, sharing this post with a friend or becoming a paid subscriber, I can post more frequently with the aim it helps everyone too. Merci beaucoup <3