Tag: Justice

Staring into the Fire

Rita Sommers-Flanagan8 Comments

The singular life you’re living is an astonishment. A statistical improbability. And yet, here you are, doing what you’re doing. People are goose-stepping in a military parade in North Korea, singing alto in a choir in Kenya, or smoking weed in a field of daisies in the Alps. Someone is starving in Cuba, bombed out in Lebanon, or issuing psychotic threats designed to make the ultimate deal.

       “We like to think of y’all as one seething miracle,” God chuckles.
       “And I like to think of this hot mess as a rotting pile of shit. With the occasional shiny moment.”
       This cracks God up. After they catch their breath, they tell me, “It’ll all come out in the wash.”
       “What wash?” I ask.
       “The Wash of the Ages. The Blazing Baptism of Infinity.”
       “No one likes the sound of that,” I say. 
       “Listen anyway. And look directly at the fire.”

This particular moment, shiny or otherwise, is yours. It, too, is an astonishment. Lift your eyes from these words slowly. Stare straight into the void that is your future. Settle. Don’t cry. Don’t scream. Don’t laugh. Do nothing but warm your hands and be honest.
       “I’ve got four horsemen fleeing, three gods in waiting, two doves turned away at an artificial border, and one faithful moon reflecting every bloody thing.” God shrugs as if this is all passé. 
       “You’re being difficult this morning,” I complain. “Where’s your downy underbelly?”
       “You’re my downy underbelly.”
       “No. I want to be greatness and glory,” I protest. “Not soft.”
        “Everyone softens over time. But you must also be steady and brave.”

You’ve been sworn to a secrecy so wild and profound that it is beyond memory. Laced with magic, ladened with love. You once were and will again be a swirl of sparks and pigments. But for now, nothing has ever mattered so much as justice and mercy. Welcome your longings and ignorance, your power and fear. Tend to the prairies and the oceans. Temper your greed with compassion. Admire the mountains and the sun. Circle the moon. And wear your courage like armor over your tender heart.

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Seven Versions of the Same Old Thing

Rita Sommers-Flanagan5 Comments

I


“You again?” The eyebrows of the Infinite Sky are knit above me. I am small. Of little consequence. 
Another chicken has disappeared, but there are more where she came from.
“Yeah,” I admit. “Me again. I’m thirsty.” 
There are record highs and no rain. The heat has withered the emerging greens, 
and my succulent ideas are shriveling. 
These are dangerous times.

II

The tall walls I’ve built accuse me. They’re a dull off-white, marred with holes and history. 
Unclean. Cloying.
“Back off,” I tell them. “You know I’m well-intended.” 
I glance away because this isn’t always the case.

III

Each morning, there are crates of hours stacked in front of me. 
Some filled with false alarms. Some leaking impossible promises. The expiration dates are meaningless.

       The aroma of bacon. 
       The sizzle of eggs. 
       The sorrowful slaughter. 
       The entitled theft. 

These are the harvests required to feed the hungry. To feed us all.

IV

“Let’s get physical,” my smoldering creativity suggests in a husky whisper. 
My balance is precarious. Not to be trusted entirely.
“Nothing is to be trusted entirely,” the Singed Earth shrugs. “So what?”
“Could you help me get the ladder, then?” I ask. “Most of the rungs are imaginary.”

V

We step outside. The Wind is ferocious. Stones are rolling away. 
“Is this chaos by design?” I ask. My eyes sting as I peer through dust and ashes.
"It’s complicated,” The Wind answers. “What we once designed is now designing us."
“I understand,” I nod, leaning into each consecration, my shroud wound around me. 
If I loosened it, I could fly. But I stand firm, surveying the damage.

VI

The chaff has blown away, revealing a gash in the Beating Heart. 
A shimmering stream of violet flows toward the River.
Violet is the most intense color on the visual spectrum. I wish I were blind.
“Where should I put the tourniquet?” I ask the First Responders, thinking myself a reluctant hero.
"Not your job, sweetheart,” they laugh. “We do our own repairs. But your old walls could use some color.” 
We locate the ladder and drag it in.

VII

A wall at a time, I mutter as I put drop-cloths down. My brush is worn, hands unsteady. 
Straight lines are no longer an option, and violet cannot be created by mixing old paint. 
I find refuge in curves and purple, rowdy resurrections, 
and all those Nascent Invisibilities yet to come.




*****

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That Which You Do Not Need Anymore

Rita Sommers-Flanagan7 Comments 

I decided I had to tell you something. At first, only 31 words agreed to cooperate, so I lined them up, hoping you’d understand. Here they are:

This is yours.
A day.
Awake.

Sunrise.
Shoes. 
Jacket, scarf. 

Eyes.

Food. 
Teeth.
Mountain.
Music.

Ears.

Lyrics.
Regrets.
Tyranny
of the ordinary.
Sinking
of dreams.

And it’s over.

Sleep. 
Resolve.
Rekindle.

Then I built a fire and baked a distracting dessert. The Coauthors snapped to attention. They stopped their ritual sacrificing, paid the sunk costs of screen time, lifted themselves out of the slung mud, and lined up for cookies. I was generous. In return, they shook loose a few more words. Too late, I told them. Never, they replied. So I accepted the dubious gift.

What We Must Assemble

A coffin, a stuffed animal from the glove box,
the rule of law. A fair trial.

Air. Transfusions. A Dashboard Jesus
assuring us that swords and deadly force are
toxic. Forbidden temptations.

Fresh strawberries from Mexico. Free speech.
Milk and honey for the penetrated little ones.

Hands. Feet clad in good news. Blue
sky. Small gifts. Rare spices. Oil
for the anointing of bodies.

Friends with tears and toast. Gentle
rain to fall on us all. It will fall

on us all. Barns to fill with bitter harvest.
Barns to fill with bones and lies. Barns
where we can hide until they find us.

Wine, cheese, friendly dogs, and laughter.
Thin suits of armor. Small stones.

And that was it. I’ve stuffed my message in a bottle. It’s floating its way to you. There are no angry gods to speak of. Only the still small voices in our heads that plead for mercy and politely ask for shelter and crumbs. You can use all the words you want, the kinder voices tell us. But edit. Remember to edit and then give away that which you don’t need anymore.

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Angles of Repose and Other Non Sequiturs

Rita Sommers-Flanagan4 Comments

What do you suppose the angle of repose would be for those pyramids of dead bodies we’ve seen in the news over the years? (The angle of repose is the steepest angle at which a sloping surface formed of a particular loose material is stable.)

Syria. Tuam. Viet Nam. The Sudan. Gaza. The victims of Covid in Brazil. In these places, they would know.

Mass graves are frowned upon here in our modern and stolen country, so most of us will not witness haphazard heaps of people firsthand. We have refrigeration and waiting lists. We prefer to deport or enslave rather than outright slaughter.

Most mornings, I either cry or paint something. Some days, it’s yellow. Others, dark blue. Or a swirling medley of colors interacting aggressively with each other. Sometimes, I glue broken bits of mirror into new shapes. It can get messy.

“What would you like to cover today?” I ask Royal Blue. Before Royal Blue can respond, Blood Red shoves Royal Blue aside, and a firing squad tosses the sanctity of life into the air and takes aim.

“Knock it off right now,” I yell at Blood Red. “I MEAN IT.”

Blood Red shrugs. “Fine. But you know I’ll be back.”

Something ends. Something begins. Breakage and destruction are part of rebirth. A long time ago, at the end of an especially magical youth camp, I considered smashing my guitar so I could give everyone a splinter. I had the odd notion that this would keep us together. But smashing my guitar seemed a bit extreme. Instead, I pulled apart a pheasant feather that had traveled in my guitar case for years and handed the astonished circle bits of pheasant down.

 Now, most days, I wonder if I have something I could dismember to express my outrage and despair. To break hope open. To keep us together.

“Heroics come in many guises,” the Paint Brush whispers. “You do you. No need to come apart just yet.”

“That’s nice of you to say, Paint Brush,” I shake my head. “But I’m no longer flexible enough to kick myself in the butt.”

“Who cares?” Paint Brush scoffs. “Bruises aren’t the best motivators. How about a cookie?”

“Not hungry,” I mumble.

“Oh, honey,” Paint Brush says gently. “You have no idea how hungry you are.”

Eyes For Eyes

Rita Sommers-Flanagan6 Comments

We shall require a substantially new manner of thinking if mankind is to survive. –Albert Einstein

Little Ralphie slugged Little Lana in the stomach, and she fell. He punched her in the face and broke her nose. Blood spurted. She curled inward. He kicked and stomped on her leg. She screamed.

Adult responses:

  1. Yank Little Ralphie up and commence beating him.
  2. Drag Little Ralphie to the edge of town and stone him.
  3. Castrate Little Ralphie so he cannot reproduce his own kind.
  4. Let Little Lana do to Ralphie what was done unto her.
  5. Lock Little Ralphie up and while starving him to death, fine his parents, and give the money to Little Lana.

But wait. Little Ralphie had found Little Lana using a cattle prod on his beloved grandfather. Little Lana was howling with laughter as the grandfather twitched in his wheelchair and cried out for help. While torturing him, Little Lana taunted the grandfather. “You’re a worthless, helpless pile of shit. Pathetic. I hate you.”

Adult responses:

  1. Grab the cattle prod and begin shocking Little Lana.
  2. Cage Little Lana up.
  3. Sterilize Little Lana so she cannot produce children like herself.
  4. Roll the grandfather to a safe place and then shake Little Lana to death.
  5. Rape Little Lana to put her in her place.

But wait. Little Lana has already been raped. Repeatedly. By the grandfather, of course. And he’d just tried to pull her onto his lap, calling her his favorite slut, whispering that he was going to sell her to his neighbor. He said he had pictures of her woo-woo and she’d bring a decent price.

Adult responses:

Make a violent, erotic movie about the whole sequence. Wring hands. Donate to a charity. Introduce tariffs on pornography, fentanyl, and wheelchairs. Sell more guns. Fantasize living on another planet. Rape the grandfather.

Bam

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you this whacked out,” my Coauthor observes.

“Is extermination the correct adult response to our species?” I snarl.

“Maybe yes. Maybe no. Remember, you’re just illusions of organized molecules,” Coauthor smiles.

“And sometimes, you’re just a Bad Idea.” I turn away. “This illusion of molecules is going to distract herself with something beautiful.”

“Excellent!” Bad Idea exclaims. “I’ll come with you.”

We kneel in the garden where a tulip has bloomed blood red and watch molecules shaped like Little Ralphie and Little Lana care for their offspring. I scream the names of the Baby Gods dead in Gaza and dread the adulthood of those who survive.

Methane continues to escape from the warming permafrost. Bullets fly. Bombs drop. Idiots rule. I dissipate into a momentary dream of justice. My Coauthor dissipates with me. Therein lies my only hope.

Delusions to Die By

Rita Sommers-Flanagan2 Comments

Though historians may beg to differ, it seems that humans have never been this close to self-annihilation. While wars rage and the earth gets trashed, the most pressing moral inquiry of the masses is this: “How can I get a better deal?”

A derisive snort and mocking applause announces The Presence in the corner.

“Hello, Holy Contradictions,” I mumble.

What I tease into words in the murky dawn might be the wind or a mouse scratching in the wall, but I feel certain something beyond is lurking in the cosmos. I offer greetings most mornings.

“Good day,” HC says, emerging from chimera to full status as a citizen unto itself. It has wings. It has legs. It has a beating, bleeding heart. “You aren’t wrong,” it adds from a perfectly formed mouth.

“You mean my sarcastic comment about the morality of acquisition? The Art of the Deal? Or the nearness of extinction?”

“It’s all rooted in selfish genes and the wrong-headed notion of survival of the fittest,” HC says with scorn. “You think you want fat lives, herd immunity, and evidence of superiority as indicated by possessions and an address on Easy Street.”

“True,” I admit. “That does sound good. Makes me want to be the fittest.”

HC snorts again. “Have you thought that through? C’mon. You’ve got the brain power to get beyond your genes. In the end, the Fittest will stand armed, paranoid, and alone. The winner of the rat race is a rat.”

“Nice platitudes,” I say. “Got a better way?”

HC shrugs. “Stop deluding yourself. No one survives. It’s Now that counts.”

“Thanks,” I snap. “I feel so much better.”

“The ultimate measure of fitness is how you love and protect the unfit. It’s time to break the light into itself, hold the Face of Anger in your hands, and let her bite you.”

My hands are fisted. “You are certifiably nuts,” I say in a low, edgy voice.

“And you are certifiably angry,” HC says with authority.

“Yeah. So, I’m supposed to bite myself?”

HC nods. “And hold the Faces of Joy and Justice but be careful. They’re elusive and explosive.”

“You’re seriously insane,” I say. “I can’t do any of this.”

“Oh, but you can,” HC insists, not at all sympathetic. “Hold all the Faces of Insanity in your hands and let them bite the hell out of you.”

I stare at my weathered hands. The biting has begun.

“I’d rather hold your face,” I plead, frightened.

“Oh, my little mosquito!” HC says gently. “What do you think you’re doing?”

A grim hilarity takes hold. I slap myself silly, and for now, we get on with it.

If There’s A God

Rita Sommers-Flanagan2 Comments

If, in our little fraction of Vastness, there’s a god who demands we worship him above all other gods, I think, well, how about those other gods? What do they have to say for themselves?

And if we continue to destroy our fragile home spinning in the Vastness and end up extinct, I think, well, that’s not very nice, is it? And not at all wise.

And if there are universal laws or holy suggestions about how best to live, I think, well, such guidance should be readily apparent, right? Who would design the creatures of Vastness and hide the best ways?

Then I think, well, the best ways aren’t hidden. We just don’t want to love our neighbors, let alone our enemies. We convolute and complicate to disguise our greed and justify our cruelty. This has been going on for a long, long time. We borrow other people’s sacrifices to quell our fears.

Apparently on crack, the Apostle Paul wrote Oh death, where is thy sting? Well, Paul, I’ll tell you where it is. It’s wrapped in a shroud at the border between the haves and the have-nots. It’s screaming in civilians blown to smithereens by war machines. It’s plastic in the bellies of hungry, hungry children. In fact, Paul, death stings like hell down here most of the time.

And then I think, well, who’s fault is that?

The Silences parade by. Hear no evil, see no evil, speak no evil. The Excuses slither by. Phony, ignorant, gluttonous. The Hierarchies hail themselves. The Meek stand at attention. The Humble avert their eyes and bow their heads.

“Hey, Happy New Year!” Big God bounds into my consciousness like an exuberant dog.

“Hello, God,” I nod.

“What’s shakin’ baby?” God jiggles her large bottom. “Got some money? I have a few charities in mind.”

“It’s not that easy,” I protest.

“Ain’t that the truth!” God exclaims, rubbing my head with affection. “Who’s a good monkey, huh? Who’s a good monkey?”

 “Stop it!” I laugh. “No one’s a good monkey.”

“You got that right!” God proclaims. “But get out there and do something nice anyway. Eat some greens. Time’s a-wastin’.”

I shake my head. “I’m tired of greens. And besides, money and time are just abstractions. They’re not real.”

Big God raises an enormous eyebrow. “Hmmm. Let’s see how that works out after you’ve ordered your ice cream. It’s warm today.”

Coins jingle in my pocket as the blazing sun drags my remaining hours across the southern sky.

“Okay,” I admit. “I see your point.”

“I’d like a scoop of salted caramel,” she grins. “And two of coconut crunch.”

Don’t Listen to the Wind

Rita Sommers-Flanagan2 Comments

“How old do you think I am?” the wind asked as she whined by.

“Older than those hills you’re blowing away.” I smiled.

“And twice as dusty,” God added, chuckling.

The wind shrugged and continued on her way, but I kept up the banter. I love it when God is amused.

“Hey, speaking of old, how about that 300-cubit ark they built in Kentucky? Or that dinosaur museum in Montana where they claim that homo sapiens co-existed with the T-Rex?” I grinned.

The literalist take things to such absurd levels, I assume the Creator thinks it’s funny.

“Don’t,” God said with a catch in his voice. “Don’t.”

I did a doubletake. God wiped his eyes and dropped his head into his hands. “I never dreamed humans would devolve like this,” he said, his voice heavy. “Of course, it’s inspired. It’s poetry, analogy, history, myth. It’s best guesses, confessions, and cautionary tales.”

I put my arm over God’s shoulder. Handed him a hanky. We sat in the garden with our backs to the wind.

“Talk to me,” I said. God blew his nose and grabbed a handful of rotting leaves.

“Do you know who I am?” he asked.

“Not for sure,” I admitted. “But I suspect you’re The Source. The Artist. Most of the time, you seem nice. Maybe a little lonely.”

God threw the leaves in the air, and we watched the wind take them.

“Do you know where I live?” he asked.

“Um, I guess I’d say everywhere,” I said.

“So why don’t you visit more often?” God asked like a sidelined elder.

“Sorry,” I mumbled. “It’s harder than you think.”

“Oh, don’t I know!” God leaped up and began pacing the perimeter of the space-time continuum. “Don’t I know!”

“You’re upset,” I reflected in my best therapist voice.

“Ya think?” God snapped. “I’m plagued by deluded fundamentalist folly; people frightened by mercy, blinded to my magnitude. Vast cults, twisting beautiful literatures into false guarantees, justifying murder, mayhem, war, and extinction. Yeah. I’m upset.”

“But we’re not all like that,” I protested. “There are scientists! And activists! Truth-tellers, artists, and public servants…”

“Burned at the stake,” God interrupted, glaring.

Wow. God was as grim as I’d seen him for a while. I took a deep breath. Sometimes, dark humor helps. “Well, everyone enjoys a good barbeque,” I said.

“Don’t bother,” the wind snorted. “I’ve tried everything. He’s got to deal with this on his own. It’s beyond you.”

“No, it’s not,” God whispered in a voice so low the wind stopped to listen. “Sometimes, she makes me laugh. I like that.”

Being the Cozy One

Rita Sommers-Flanagan5 Comments

There’s much to be said for a Cozy God. Not just passive cozy. No. I mean assertive, smother-hugger, cheek-pincher, aren’t-you-just-adorable, big-lapped cozy.

But today’s version is sharp-tongued and angular. Her purple hat is cockeyed and her cloak of many colors drenched from flying through the freezing rain. She’s shivering and disoriented. Thus, I’m forced to be the cozy one.

“Here. Drink this.” I offer a cup of hot chocolate laced with peppermint schnapps and replace her cloak with a down comforter. She lifts the mug to her bluish lips, sips, sighs, and settles near the fire.

I let her warm up in silence. Mostly I’m happy when any version of God drops by, but as she curls her tired body and nods off, I realize some visitations are less pleasant than others. I consider hiding the refreshments and putting out the fire.

Where’s Cozy God? I complain to myself.

Witchy God yawns, stretches her thin arms above her head and says, “She’s busy. I’m subbing for her today.”

“What’s she up to?” I ask, interested despite my disappointment. If I’m hosting Witchy God, then maybe somewhere, someone is being cuddled and fed by a cozy, affectionate God.

“Doesn’t work that way,” Witchy God says. “The manifestations are interactive. You get what you give. You get what you need. But luckily, you never get what you deserve.”

 “Why not?” I ask, peevish and disappointed. “I try to be thoughtful. I share my stuff…” My voice trails off. “Well. Most of it. Some of it. Sometimes.”

I’m suddenly uncomfortable claiming I deserve a visit from Cozy God. The equations are slippery, comparisons fraught with subjectivity, tinged with envy.

“So what’s your cozy quotient, my pretty?” Witchy God asks in her witchy voice.

“You mean how much cozy do I need?” I ask, ever hopeful.

“No. How much cozy are you putting out there?”

And there it is. The eternal question. Witchy God begins whirling like a dervish, and the remaining October leaves let go.  Every limb is bare. Winter has arrived. The wars rage on. Witchy God is preparing to do whatever it is she does. Her cloak has dried, and her thermos is filled with my cocoa and schnapps.

“I’ll ride shotgun for as long as I can,” I say reluctanly. I swing my leg over the broom, but her take-off velocity leaves me flat on my back in front of my toasty fire.

“Not every battle is yours,” Warm Room whispers. “With that bad hip, you could be a bit more cautious.”

“No way,” I say.

Warm Room gives me a knowing smile and hands me a broom of my own.

Keeping the Beat

Rita Sommers-Flanagan2 Comments

“Rough night?” God asks gently from deep within the wee hours.

“You know it was,” I say with some desperation.

“Yeah, I guess I do.” God looks haggard. “Thanks for not pelting me with your anxieties. I needed the rest.”

Though it may be blasphemous to report this, I’ve lost track of the number of times I’ve glimpsed God limping across my consciousness, disillusioned, tired, and sad.

The act of construing (or being) God beyond the guarantees and constraints of our limited vision is sometimes labeled blasphemy by those with frightened rigid streaks. And it can be dangerous. There are still people defending God by killing other people.

We sit. The day lumbers forward.

I have a gallon of forest green paint and an array of possible surfaces. God has a universe in mortal pain. Is it blasphemous to pity God? If I forget the dance steps, is it heretical if I just move in a way that meshes with the music and the tempo?

“Funny you mention tempo,” God says. “I could use a new set of drums. Mine’ve been beat to hell.”

“No surprise there,” I sigh. “Everything about you has been beat to hell.”

“And back?” God asks with a hopeful tilt of the head.

“And back.” I nod. “Maybe that’s why you get so wiped out. Hell and back is a rugged journey to make over and over.”

We sit. Afternoon has somehow arrived.

“You’ve made that trip for me a few times, haven’t you?” I don’t have to ask; I was along for the ride.

“It was worth it.” God ruffles my hair, looking a little perkier.

“Want some pasta?” I offer a plate of leftovers I’ve warmed up. “Happy to share.”

“That’s kind of you,” God says. “But I think you better eat it yourself. And open the paint. And get on with what’s left of the day. There’s another night coming.”

“I know,” I say.  “And I’ll do my best.”

An army of motley angels is marching by.

“What do we want?”

“Justice.”

“When do we want it?”

“Now.”

“Gotta go,” God says, and begins to parade down the hall, a whole battery of raucous and enthusiastic drummers. I want to cling or march along, but God waves and shouts, “Baby, open the paint. And even if it gets crazy dark, try to keep the beat.”