Tag: Power

Here and Now

Rita Sommers-Flanagan7 Comments 





In front of me, red curtains, 47 paint brushes, and a few years.

Alongside, turquoise drapes too long for the window wells,
a boiled skull, three wishbones, a pink phone, 
and the idea that I am loved.

Behind me, a life. 

Around me, The Idea loosely wrapped, permissive.
Another fall day. Chilly. Firewood stacked, dry and reassuring,
not necessary yet because

I have added layers. A down vest. Scarves.

If you read these lines and do not take stock
I’ve not reached my intended audience.
This is not uncommon. Perhaps there are too many

double negatives.

Above me, asbestos held in place by sheetrock.
Sky held in place by rain.
Gates flung open, releasing all the promises, broken or not.

I wish them all soft landings, my lips dyed crimson for a final kiss.







			




			
				


	


					
If You Pray, Be Honest
		
				

			 Rita Sommers-Flanagan2 Comments		

			


	

		













Me: Excuse me, Outer Intuition, Inner Nagger, Origins of Love, and Source of Galactic Central Heating, I need a check-in. I suspect you’re aware that there are a lot of people who’ve decided the best way to deal with the Idea of You is to emulate Nancy Reagan: Just say no way.





Ineffable: Oh yes, that’s fine with me. Entirely understandable. Gotta love those atheists.





Me: And of course, there are other people who say the Idea of You emerges from their experience of mountains or stargazing or babies.





Ineffable: That’s nice. I like that.





Me: And some say that if by chance there is something like you, it is unknowable.





Ineffable: Well, that’s wise. In times like these, bet-hedging is the way to go.





Me: But the ones that worry me are the vast hordes of True Believers. Do you know about them?





Ineffable: Of course. That impulse emerged with human consciousness. It’s a cult-like, primitive narcissism fed by fear, avarice, and a quest for power and immortality. Long on delusion. Short on reasoning. It’s intriguing.





Me: Intriguing, my ass. It’s killing us.





Ineffable: I can see why you’d feel that way. But it’s not me. No version of me is killing you.





Me: Yeah, sure. Guns don’t kill people. People kill people. But what’s the point? Why do humans lock down on these falsely-comforting, narrow, ignorant narratives of the Idea of You that dangle formulaic salvations? Or endorse sadistic sacrifices? They don’t know the real you.





Ineffable: WHAT? THE REAL ME? Now you’re scaring me. Did you really just say that?





Me: Gotcha. Hahahahaha.





Ineffable: Very funny. Is there a real you?





Me: Ah, maybe. I don’t know. Don’t change the subject.





Ineffable: We’re more alike than you realize.





Me: Now you’re scaring ME!”





Ineffable: Why? Because there’s a lot of suffering and death inflicted in the name of the “real me”?





Me: No. I know that’s not like any version of you.





Ineffable: The real versions of me are more like the ones being killed. Especially the powerless ones.





Me: And that’s what I’m afraid of.





Ineffable: I’m a little afraid myself, honey. But mostly sad.





Me: Yeah. Mostly sad.


			




			
				


	


					
Managing Distractions
		
				

			 Rita Sommers-Flanagan7 Comments		

			


	

		

(Illustration from my book “When Baby Corporations Come To Play”)










During the next 22 minutes, I hereby resolve to sit in a soft purple chair facing out into my personal chaos and not move anything but my fingers. Warily, my body will relax; my thoughts will filter through a maze of urges, accusations, poetic phrases, and old jokes. Most likely, I will revisit yesterday’s indignations instead of remembering recent joys.





God will appear in fits and starts. She’s as subtle as the noisy microwave and the insistent hum of the cheap refrigerator I’m enduring for the sake of the planet. Or so I say.





I let myself love the pinkening of the sky, even though the pink is fleeting, and my love will go mostly unrequited. The sky does not have time to love me back for very long.





God moves freely around the room. She is interested in the ways lime green and pumpkin orange can change a life for the better. So am I. She seems fascinated with the ease and strength of torque screws, the ticking of old-fashioned clocks, the dangerous games people play in their minds, and the lyrics. And I do mean The Lyrics. The One Song. Sometimes, I sing along but I make up my own words. It’s safer that way.





At heart, God is a rapper. She claims she’s still writing relevant verses. I doubt it. What does she have to offer the gamers and the insistently ignorant? The magnificently greedy, the already generous? Or me, for that matter? And why do I think there should be a set of lines I can understand? As if that could save a single hair on my waning head.





Each minute is a minute unto itself. Round, perfect, weightless. I want to crawl into one and float away, but they burst like bubbles when I touch them. They take no prisoners, allow no passengers, and mercilessly disappear. All I can do is admire the flawless roundness, and shape myself to the circling earth, as if I, too, were a moment in time. Enough but empty. Complete but hungry. Irridescent, transparent—a shade of blue that only God can imagine.





It’s time to leave the soft purple chair and move into the falsely ordinary shards of the day. “Farewell,” I say to each of the 22 minutes, my voice tender and sad. The sky has given up on being pink, but God is still puttering around, admiring whatever she has in her hands as if nothing has slipped away. “Want to go for a walk?” she asks. I lift the skin on my face into a smile and look into her eyes. “Sure,” I say to the Eternal, the Great Intangible, the Path, the Lover, the Rapper, the Generator of the Splintered Now. “Sure,” I say, standing and ready. “Let’s walk.”


			




			
				


	


					
The God of Paunchy-Bellied Men
		
				

			 Rita Sommers-Flanagan2 Comments		

			


	

		
OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA


“Hey,” God said, all cheerful and awake, sitting cross-legged in the living room. “I’ve been writing some poetry. Want to hear it?” It was way too early.


“Uh, sure,” I said, groping my way toward coffee. I suspected I’d need my half-beer too. I brought it along and sat down, as polite and attentive as I could be. God seemed a little shy. “It’s entitled Lavender,” he said. He took a breath and read:


I am the God of paunchy-bellied men 


with emaciated butts


and their magnificent  


big-thighed women.


 I have gradually loosened my grip 


on anything 


that isn’t lavender.


God paused and looked at me. “Oh, boy,” I thought. “What do I say to that?” I waited, hoping there was more, but God sat silent, trying to hide his neediness. “Interesting,” I finally said. “Tell me about lavender.”


God crossed his arms. “It’s a poetic ploy.” He shrugged. “I like the sound of lavender…and that part about me losing my grip. Dramatic, right? Me losing my grip?”


“Hmmm. The sound of lavender,” I echoed, worried about where this could go.


“Lavender” God said in a frantic voice. “Budding lilac lavender, warm blanket lavender, baby lavender, calming lavender. Or what about acid lavender, neon lavender, dense, alarming lavender? That lavender on the edge of certain molds. So much to consider about lavender.” God’s breathing was ragged.


My therapist heart kicked in. There was something going on here that scared me, but I had to try and help. “Your grip?” I said gently. “And those paunchy-bellied men?”


Black clouds gathered and cracked. Lightning lit the bones of the room. Sadness flooded through broken windows, thin and murky. The apocryphal gruel they serve in soup lines came to mind. It was hard to think, hard to move. Something awful was afoot. I grabbed God’s hand and we fled out the back, down the alley. Hordes of paunchy-bellied men were strewn about like willow branches after a storm. We leapt over the spent carcasses, scrambling, tripping, picking each other up, laughing and crying hysterically.


The alley dead-ended, and a thousand big-thighed women were waiting, like they always wait. They took us in, no strings attached, and fed us a hearty evening meal. Nothing about any of this was lovely or right. It just was.


Utterly exhausted, I rolled myself under a lilac hedge to sleep, but God stayed up until all hours, chewing the fat with the women, reliving the glory days. Their delight disgusted me. “We’re doomed,” I thought as I dozed off. “We’re all fucking doomed.”


An eternity later, God shook me awake. “Shhh,” he said as he took me in his arms. We flew straight toward the fiery orange sun, rising hot in the delicate lavender sky.


 


			




			
				


	


					
Inviting Abuse
		
				

			 Rita Sommers-Flanagan2 Comments		

			


	

		
20141206_173303 (2)


God and I were philosophizing as we watched the snow pile up. I was wound up—as in downright nasty. “The thing about power is that it brings out the worst in everyone. Like when people weaker than I am mess up and instead of owning up and apologizing, they lash out, make excuses, lie, threaten, and offend. What is wrong with them? Don’t they know they are squishable little bugs?” God raised an eyebrow, but it didn’t phase me. I ranted on. “It’s like they’re baiting me, inviting abuse.”


God frowned and held up her hand. “Whoa there cowgirl, let’s slow down a minute. Of course it’s an invitation. But not for abuse. It’s a screamingly clear invitation for compassion. You hold the cards. I think you know that.”


I glared. The way I saw it, if anyone should be screaming, it should be me. “Yeah, fine, compassion,” I snarled. “But what about me? What about justice? It isn’t fair. People act as if I’m to blame for their bad decisions and bad luck. At least they could say they’re sorry. A lot of people deserve a good whack, they need to be served papers, they need a call from my attorney.”


“You don’t have an attorney,” God said patiently.


“Well, I could damn well get one,” I snapped.


“So could I,” God said.


Unthinkable implications flood the room. God with an attorney. I grabbed the fragments of power I thought were mine, wove them into a raft, and tried to row away. “I’m worthless,” I shouted. “Leave me alone.” I broke into a sweat as I pulled on the oars.


“Here, let me help,” God said, as she settled herself beside me on the leaky vessel. We rowed shoulder to shoulder, gliding over all the angst and blame in the world. I began to let down my guard, but then I realized that the escape route I’d chosen was circular. I panicked and hyperventilated. “We’ve gone in circles,” I yelled, humiliated and filled with dread.


God smiled. “Honey, all escape routes are circular. That’s how I laid things out. Check Google Earth sometime.” She kept rowing, maddeningly cheerful. So, I just gave up. We spent the day exploring the concentric wonderments of creation, the gravitational guidance of long-suffering servants, critical masses of insects and starlings, visions and dreams. By evening, I was completely spent. I laid my head in God’s lap and reached for her hand.


“What are you so afraid of?” God asked as she stroked my hair. I thought as hard as I could, given my exhaustion, the rocking motion of the settled sea, and the distracting brilliance of her deep black eyes. “I don’t know for sure,” I mumbled.


The last thing I heard was the gravely laughter of God playing a game of poker with a rowdy crowd of whiners. She had a royal flush. Her winnings covered a multitude of sins, imagined or otherwise. God pulled the soft flannel blanket of mortality up to my chin, and I drifted off to sleep in the orbit of a forgiving moon.