Impression № 012: L’art du camouflage

Belgian artist Gaëtan Vanparijs brings us this moment of levity.

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The tedium of disbelief

The tedium of disbelief
can be eased by a drink,
or  a chicken wing
marinated in ancestral wisdom;
Plato, Aquinas, even Wordsworth!

Suddenly the fever and fret dissolve;
leaves begin to dance on fiddler’s winds,
while bees are seduced by entangling blooms
intoxicated by nectar
from sun-blessed cups.

Others seek wisdom in opiates
or prompt disciples to declare their love.

I drink deeply from this garden,
grasp tender saplings,
toast brazen roses,
lean into creative intercourse
and ascend my stairway to ecstasy.

Moon-Dyed Bubbles

he last moon-dyed bubble burst atop the surface of the dark, boggy pond.  A graceful New England summer breeze licked the black surface sending ripples crawling towards the lush ferns that lined the banks.  The midnight moon smiled piously, perched high upon an altar of stars like some sort of celestial priest.  Jackson could not help but sigh at the beauty that surrounded him, knowing all to well that this would be his last trip to the secret pond.

Standing at the water’s edge, ankles bound and weighted, he removed a pack of Camels from his tuxedo breast pocket.  He perched a cigarette between his dry lips and lit it, exhaling a satisfying plume of blue smoke into the atmosphere.  As Jackson watched the carcinogenic cloud entwine itself with the beams of moonlight dripping from above, memories of the first time he brought Celia to his secret pond flooded his brain.

A lilac-soaked springtime wind has swirled around his teenage lover causing her strawberry-blonde hair to dance about her soft cheeks, as if the locks were enchanted under one of Mother Nature’s spells.  Bright, majestic sunshine glimmered in her deep brown eyes, reflecting the warmth she had felt for him at the time.  It had been the first and only occasion that he had cared for anyone enough to reveal his hidden pond.  They spent that whole day basking in each other’s radiance, making love on its banks with true passion.  As if alone in a universe created solely for their pleasure, they had watched the sun melt its hues across sky, some cosmic artist spreading his oils upon the great blue dome of canvas for their eyes only.  That had been their sunset.  Their love had forged it.  Jackson could still hear Celia’s voice proclaim that they would share a thousand more sunsets, pledging her soul unto him forever.  Forever.  Jackson had to laugh.

That perfect day had been six years ago when the two were still juniors in high school.  Up until this morning, Jackson and Celia hadn’t even spoken for a year.  So much had changed since that mystical day.  The undying love they had shared at the pond had only kept them together for another three months when Celia had decided that seniors in high school were more mature, and could better provide the “emotional needs” a sixteen-year-old girl required.  Through the course of the following years, their traveled paths had forked and they had grown distant.  Jackson, still very much in love, had done all he could to keep informed about his dear Celia, prodding mutual friends for any news they would offer.  Usually the information about her recent whereabouts filled him with even more desire, seeing as he had always harbored the notion that one day the two would reunite.  That is, until he found out about her upcoming wedding.

xpelling another blue cloud into a midair waltz, Jackson recalled the nausea and terror he had felt when the horrible realization had befallen him.  For the first time in six years, he had had to embrace the fact that Celia would never again be his.  From nowhere, Fate appeared with her unforgiving claws to rip into his ribcage, tearing out his heart to be smashed into a black, useless paste.  Jackson was convinced that on some karmic level this was a great romantic injustice, and that it was up to him to remedy Cupid’s misguided arrow and regain Celia’s love for all eternity.

He had spent the last few days preparing the romantic extravaganza, and had set the wheels of his plan in motion that morning with a phone call to Celia.  Jackson was still inflated with the bravery it had required to make that first leap.  Dialing those seven digits had stirred the current…that lifted the swell…that created the wave that had carried Celia back into his loving arms.

Jackson puffed out a perfect smoke-ring and recalled the two sitting at the park, drinking coffee earlier that afternoon.  His: cream, two sugars.  Hers: cream, two sugars and enough sedatives to relax a small pony.  Before Celia nodded off, they had discussed the strange flowing river of life and how the other was maintaining afloat within it, and promised to speak to each other more often.  Celia had even mentioned her upcoming wedding.  Jackson’s stellar performance of surprise and congratulations had been worthy of an Oscar.

She had probably been stoned from the downers, but Jackson could not get the joyful, loving face Celia had worn at the park out of his head.  It had been much more soothing than the one she wore when she woke up at the pond bound, gagged and wearing the wedding dress Jackson had rented.

Jackson had watched tears, which could only have been of  joy, slip down her cheeks as he told her how the two were destined to inflame the cosmos with their passion, and that they would burn on together for all eternity, inextinguishable and infinite.  In silence, he had held her trembling body for hours, breaking the hush only once to say, “Wasn’t that a beautiful sunset, dear?”  And with the sinking of the great yellow sphere, only but the last stage of Jackson’s plan had remained unaccomplished.

Jackson looked down at his hands and saw the smoke circling his fingers.  Those hands, just moments before, had thrown his bride to her watery grave.  He knew that it had been for the best though.  A love such as theirs comes along once a millennium and he was not about to live the tragedy of unrequited true love.

The fiery ring at the tip of his cigarette had found its way to the speckled filter, signaling the time for Jackson to proclaim his never-ending vow of love as well.  He flicked the butt into the cool thick grass, watching the orange trail it left in its flight.  Jackson then reverently peered at the moon, awaiting his cue.

“I do,” he whispered.  Then Jackson jumped into the pond.

The devoted groom sank to the bottom and felt around for his anchored bride.  Finding her slowly swaying body in the dark depths, he locked his with his soul mate’s arms, and was filled with no emotion but pure love.

A few moments later, the last moon-dyed bubble burst atop the surface of the dark, boggy pond.

Dr. Hurley’s Digest: Week Twelve

This week, we published our 100th post! Who’d have thought that Dr. Hurley’s cure for tedium and its related ills would be so popular.

Thanks to this week’s contributors, we’ve had some brilliant fiction, art, photography, and poetry, and we want you to keep sending us your work! We’ve been amazed at how many brilliant creative types there are out there. But for this long weekend, here’s a rundown of Week 12 at Dr. H’s S-O C.

Visual

Poetical

Fictional

As you can see, we’ve had a very visual week, but complemented by some great fiction and poetry. But, if you’re of the non-fictional or multimedia bent, please send us your submissions! We want to keep Dr. H as interested as possible!

London Lane

ommuters were filing obediently from the exit of Hackney Central Station down towards Mare Street and home. On London Lane, Ron was admiring the flittering birds around the balcony, choosing where to land and depart, swooping in carefully for crumbs and leaving for nests. In the yard, the shots and shocks of sunset were starting.

Susan was in the middle of the placid catastrophe of a flaccid afternoon. She had done nothing all day, nothing. Pots won’t make themselves, she said to herself, pots won’t make themselves and neither will money. She sighed and looked out of her window at a maudlin sky and the iridescent white vans moving along Lower Clapton Road. A maudlin sky. Quelle cliché. Les idées reçue sont affreuse, she said out loud. Les idées re: Sue. Les pensées de moi. She laughed to herself. Maybe she could paint that on her next vase and explain it to people who asked her what it meant at the craft market on Saturday.

Simon was still in the middle of leaving work. The receptionist was trying to make him laugh with racist jokes and he was trying to find his swipe card to get out. It was in his lunch box. Leaving the building, he looked over to a gleaming regal Canary Wharf, the cosseted world where all needs are catered for. The office drones over there could get their upmarket takeaway sandwiches and eat them in the closely tailored grounds if it was sunny or, if raining, buy a few comestibles and get their shoes shined in the weatherproof environs of the tower’s ground floor. Everything was neat and organised, like proto-Communism. He walked around Canada Water. There were dead stars in the lake. He looked again. They were red leaves. Teenagers, smelling of lard and bubblegum and biscuits, parading putrid pitbulls passed him. He got on the heat-infested tube, which had the odour of epidemics about it. It was that time of the year.

Pina coladas in Colindale, thought Jolene. Or was that tomorrow? No, it was definitely this evening. With Kyle and Thomas. Or was it Kyle and Tim now? She could never remember other people’s boyfriends’ names, she had enough trouble remembering her own. It was all a nebulous jelly. She breathed in as she locked her front door, the smell of pollen falling and dope rising in the west evening air.

At the bus-stop, Lisa, beautiful in hairspray and cigarettes. Michael says: “The worst pain is the emotional pain”. Stephen, drunk, falls in love.

Yonis was trying to find the perfect place to tie his shoe lace as Halima tugged on his arm. Her Ridley road shopping banged against his legs. She put one of the bags through the bus door but the driver snapped it shut and she had to yank the bag out again. Bananas and potatoes tumbled into the gutter. She cursed the bus driver in Arabic and Somali and English.

Stephen squished on the seat next to Michael even though he knew Mike would rather sit next to Lisa. Michael wanted Lisa to stop smoking, stop working and have his baby. Lisa wanted to be a model. She was talking to Jolene who had the bad feeling that she was on the wrong bus.

Jolene looked out of the window but couldn’t see any buildings or roads she recognised, only the evening lights shining on the traffic light leaves.

Simon, sat behind them, wished the black girl would stop chattering and the white one would stop fidgeting. His head hurt. The books didn’t balance, the budget was overspent, there was a huge black hole where profit should be. He could get rid of the receptionist, he thought. Staff could answer their own phones. Yes, he smiled to himself. He would tell her on Monday.

Susan had abandoned her work room for the lounge and was watching the news, feeling pleased that everyone in the world was suffering more than her, except the government who were doing well in the polls. They seemed happy. There’s always someone better off than you, she thought. The sun had set. She looked out at the moon hanging low and false, trapeze-like against a starless backdrop and wondered if she should go to the pub.

Ron shut his door against the night and turned to the minutes of the last Tenants Association meeting. No. 4 had come round earlier complaining that their water wasn’t working. Ring the water board, he had advised her. I don’t work here. I’m not paid. He wondered if he was getting too old to do this anymore. No. 13 wanted to stand against him in the next election, he knew that. Maybe he should let her. Bit of new blood and all that. He listened to the electrical sound of rain starting to fizz on the roof. He hoped no. 20’s roof had been fixed otherwise there’d be puddles in the kitchen again.

At Hackney Central station, a lone commuter travelling south strolled up to the platform. He had just missed the train. He sat down on the cold bench and waited, as he had done many many times before. He was Ok. Familiarity breeds content.

Exposure № 013: Point and Shoot at 70mph

Photographer Ellen Jantzen tells us about her work:

I took a series of photos out of the passenger window while on a 6,000 mile road trip with my husband this spring from Missouri to California and back using a point and shoot camera. I used this type of camera deliberately to capture images in a very spontaneous way. Many times we passed so quickly (at 70 MPH) I missed shots, but other times I was able to anticipate and shoot before I really saw and was surprised by the captured image.

I was mesmerized by the changing landscape and, since this was April, we also encountered vast seasonal changes, from the dark gray sky and flat leafless planes of Nebraska, to snow closing the freeway in Wyoming. Once over the Donner Pass, the brilliant green of early spring in Northern California was almost blinding.

Upon return, I set about to sort through my 4,000 photos and pick those that best captured the feeling of motion and change. I took these base images and manipulated them to heighten the motion and the emotional attachment I have to this vast land.

Farewell

Raindrops pellet the pavement
so you can’t see whether they fall down
or jump up.
The puddles, with heavy clouds caught in them,
are windows into the sky
that perches above like a lid
that must not be uncovered for fear
of spilling the essence.
Wet, sticky leaves on the black branches
burden my grave
heart
as I watch you
in your resplendent red dress
under the black umbrella
that you nicked from the rack in the hall
with the same ease you nicked my devotion.
Your shameless eyes look at me
and smile and then you turn away
in the red fog of billowing skirts
and I know I will never see
the umbrella again.

A Stranger in the Garden

Easter Sunday, 1890


n the early light of dawn, Joseph Merrick was already awake
and excited. All through the dark days of Lent and Holy Week, he’d been looking forward to this day. While he loved Christmas most of all, nothing held more promise of eternal joy than Easter.

In his short years on earth, Joseph had already suffered more than most had in an entire lifetime. Jeering derision and cruel mockery had dogged his steps all through childhood. Then there were the years of horror in the workhouse, and traveling in the sideshows, baring his twisted body to gawking audiences as the Elephant Man. That had been tolerable, as he had been able to save a good bit in hopes of buying his own little house someday. Then a cruel manager had taken Joseph to Belgium and stolen every penny he had after their exhibit was closed by the police. Penniless and starving, Joseph had made his way back to London. His only hope was to find Dr. Frederick Treves, whose card he had after being exhibited to a group of anatomists two years before. Treves had rescued Joseph from a raging mob at Liverpool Street Station and had taken him in at the London Hospital.

Sheltered in his comfortable rooms here at the London, visited by royalty and lesser known friends, Joseph had learned to fit into his new life. There were times when he yearned for the old life on the road, especially with Tom Norman, the “Silver King.” Tom had watched over him like a father and treated him as a friend. Joseph missed that independence and wished he didn’t have to live on charity, but times had changed. He needed constant physical care now and he was growing weaker with each passing day.

These days, Joseph was always weary and perpetually in need of rest. Some days he was tempted to go to his eternal rest. It would be so easy. All he would need to do was lie flat on his back. The weight of his head would most likely snap his neck, and God would take him home.

Meanwhile, today was a day of celebration. Joseph turned back the covers and carefully maneuvered his bulky feet onto the floor. He reached for his walking stick and slowly stood up. His huge head lolled to the right and nearly threw him off balance. Lately it had felt so heavy he could barely walk straight. Everything was a struggle nowadays.
Eating, dressing, even walking in the little hospital garden took a supreme effort.

The floorboards felt chilly as he hobbled to the washstand. Splashing cold water on his face made him gasp but thoroughly woke him up. He made little wheezing noises that passed for chuckles. For the thousandth time, he wished he could laugh and smile like other people. It was so hard to show his pleasure because of his constricted jaw and mouth. He had to convey his feelings through his eyes and voice.

Someone knocked at the door, and he called as clearly as he could, “Come in.”

Nurse Ireland came in with a breakfast tray, neat in her cap and apron. She was his favorite nurse, for she took the time to talk to him and didn’t scurry off as soon as possible.

“Good morning, Mr. Merrick. How are you?” Her kindly blue eyes smiled at him as she set down the tray on his table.

“I’m still here, Miss Ireland.”

She laughed. It was his usual response. “Yes, I can see that. I’m glad, to  be sure.”

As Joseph ate his bland hospital porridge, the nurse prepared his  morning bath. When he had first arrived, baths were a terrifying and embarrassing ordeal. He had struggled against being handled so  intimately by women. It was even more humiliating because his flesh gave off a revolting stench. But the nurses’ calm, efficient ministrations had settled him down and the frequent baths themselves had  miraculously rid him of the terrible odor.

Now he looked forward to the warm, soothing water. The nurse helped him climb into the wooden tub and sluiced the water down his back. As she ministered to him with deft hands, he closed his eyes. He never told her that sometimes he would imagine she was his wife, tenderly massaging his tortured skin and whispering words of comfort in his ear…

The bubble always burst when she handed him the brush and said  politely, “I’ll see to your linens now, Mr. Merrick.”

As he finished washing, he could hear the nurse moving about, changing the sheets and piling up the pillows he needed to prop himself up at night. She called, “I expect you’ll want your Sunday best suit.”

“Oh yes!” With a sloshing of water he stood up and laboriously dried off. Piece by piece, Nurse Ireland helped him don the specially tailored suit he was so proud of. Trousers, white starched shirt, vest, coat, tie, and to top it off, a spotless handkerchief in the left breast pocket. She stood back to admire her handiwork.

“You’re quite the gentleman, Mr. Merrick. I wish I could escort you to the services today.”

“Not today?” he asked in dismay.

She shook her head. “No, today I’m going home to spend the holiday with my family.”

“Oh. Well, I daresay I can’t blame you. I would too.”

The nurse looked at him closely. She had learnt his speech almost as well as Mr. Treves, but lately it had grown harder to push the sounds out of his distorted mouth. Joseph tried again.

“I can’t blame you, Nurse.” He tried to keep the disappointment from his voice but she heard it anyway.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Merrick. I promise I’ll take you next Sunday.”

The words rose to the tip of his tongue. I may not be here by then. But  she was his good friend, and he didn’t want to upset her.

Nurse Ireland gave his tie one last tweak. “You’ll hardly miss me, not  with all those other lovely ladies.”

“You’re right.” Joseph went along with the joke for her sake.

The nurse held out her left hand. “Good-day, Mr. Merrick. Have a very Happy Easter!”

They shook hands warmly, and he said, “Thank you, Miss Ireland. Happy Easter to you too.” Then she was gone.

Joseph sat down in his special armchair and opened his Bible. In the pink light from the window, the words glowed like a medieval manuscript.

After the Sabbath, as the first day of the week was dawning,
Mary Magdalene and the other Mary went to see the tomb.
And suddenly an angel of the Lord…came and rolled away the stone.
Do not be afraid; I know you are looking for Jesus who was crucified.
He is not here, for he has been raised, as he said.

Suffering and death. The glory of the risen Christ. Memories of Eastertide in his mother’s humble church came back to Joseph. Despite the stares as he limped in with the family, he was always blissfully happy there. The peaceful hour seated next to his mother, her familiar scent filling his nostrils. The hymns of celebration rising to the rafters. His favorite one was “Christ the Lord is Risen Today.”

Lives again our glorious King
Where, O death is now thy sting?
Made like Him, like Him we rise
Ours the cross, the grave, the skies. Alleluia!

A gentle knock at the door brought Joseph back to the present, and he called, “Come in.”

A young man in a crisp tan porter’s uniform stepped into the small room. Joseph didn’t recognize this one, but that wasn’t unusual. They came and went more quickly than the nurses. Some were rogues and drunks, but most were decent.

“Good morning, ah…Mr. Merrick?” He spoke with a faint accent that Joseph couldn’t quite identify. “I’m to take you to Easter services this morning. Will that be all right?”

Joseph nodded. His visitor had gentle brown eyes, not unlike his own, and dark curly hair. With steady hands he helped Joseph don the  voluminous black cloak and mask he must always wear to protect the world from his deformed features.

“Shall we?” The porter’s speech was surprisingly refined for someone of his station. He held out his arm.

They went outside and made their way up the steep steps to the  courtyard known as Bedstead Square. Here the hospital stored its broken beds that needed cleaning and refurbishing. It was not the most direct route to the chapel but it kept Joseph from view of the other patients.

“Beautiful morning, isn’t it?” remarked the porter. “The rains let up just in time.”

Joseph felt too shy to speak, so he nodded agreement. They made their way towards the back wing of the hospital, but instead of going indoors, the porter paused.

“It’s early yet,” he said. “Would you like to walk in the garden?”

“In the daytime?” Joseph had never been allowed to go outside by day. Mr. Treves was afraid he would cause a riot similar to the one at Liverpool Street Station all those years ago.

“Why not?” The stranger smiled. “I’m with you today.”

He steered Joseph onto the path towards the back garden. As they passed under the windows of the patients’ wards, Joseph shook with  apprehension, feeling as exposed as a crab on an empty shore. He could almost feel the horrified stares cutting into him like daggers.

They made it to the garden successfully and Joseph allowed himself to savor the dewy air. A faint hint of green along the box hedges made his heart beat faster with joy. Every winter he wondered if he would ever see spring again, and here it was.

Along the path, the first crocuses were poking up, but Joseph’s favorites were the fragrant yellow daffodils. They could be beaten down by a fierce storm but they always clung to life and bravely bloomed.

The porter followed his gaze. “Nice little flowers, daffodils. You can tell spring is really here when they come up.”

“Yes.”

“You know, I’ve heard good things about you, Mr. Merrick.”

“Oh?”

His companion smiled. “Folks say it cheers them up just to be around you.”

Joseph shook his head in disbelief. “How?”

“You’re so well-read and have such interesting things to say. Must be all the books you read.”

With a hint of irony, Joseph answered, “I have all the time in the world.” The porter nodded, though Joseph couldn’t tell whether he had understood or was merely being polite.

Instead, he remarked, “There’s more to it than that. You’re a special person.”

Joseph thought, That’s one way of putting it. He’d had enough of being ‘special’ when it came to people screaming and running away at the sight of him.

As if reading his thoughts, the porter went on. “Oh, I don’t mean because of your— well, your condition. It’s more like a light of goodness in you that touches people—“ he tapped his chest. “Right here.”

Astonished and a bit embarrassed, Joseph stammered, “I try my best.”

“Listen to me rambling on,” the stranger said. “Sometimes I don’t know when to stop.” He chuckled.

They walked slowly in silence. Joseph had never seen the garden by daylight before. The tapestry of colors dazzled his wondering eyes. He felt like a newborn babe seeing the world for the first time.

As they reached the outer border of the garden, Joseph grew nervous. He’d never gone this far before. Weariness crept through his twisted limbs and he wasn’t sure he could walk much further. He turned to the porter.

“Please take me back,” he enunciated carefully.

“Feeling tired, sir? Whatever you wish.”

They turned their steps homeward. The porter offered his arm again and Joseph gratefully accepted it. Usually he treasured his independence, but something about this young man made him want to lean upon his strong arm for support and even comfort. How could it be? Most of the porters treated him with friendly boredom or bored friendliness, not tender concern.

The chapel bells rang out through the crystal-clear air as they drew close to the hospital walls again. By now, the sun was high enough to bath the flowers and grass in golden light. They could have been in Eden.

“Who are you?” Joseph asked his companion. “I’ve never seen you  before.”

“Oh no? I’ve been here all along.” The young man smiled.

As they approached the entrance to the hospital, Joseph’s cane slipped in a patch of mud and he lost his balance. He teetered precariously,  terrified. One fall could snap his neck and be the end of him.

In a flash, the young porter caught him in a strong grip and steadied him. “Easy, Mr. Merrick. I’m here for you.”

Joseph stammered, “Th-thank you.” As he drew deep sobbing breaths, it came to him that he wasn’t ready to die just yet. There was God’s blue sky above him, the promise of the new flowers around him. There were all those loved him, and especially Mr. Treves.

They managed to get to the chapel without further incident, though Joseph’s knees were weak and shaky and his steps were halting. The porter said patiently, “You take as long as you need, sir.”

At the door, Pastor Valentine met them, resplendent in his white robes. “Good morning, Mr. Merrick,” he said heartily. “A very Happy Easter to you!”

“And to you, Reverend.”
The minister said, “I’m delighted you’re here for our early service. But  how did you come here alone?”

Puzzled, Joseph said, “I didn’t.”

His spiritual mentor was usually adept at understanding him, but today his brow furrowed with equal puzzlement. “I see no one with you, Joseph.”

Joseph turned to the young man who had guided him safely to God’s house.

He was gone.

All through the Easter service, as Joseph sat unseen by the others in the vestry, he tried to make sense of what had happened. Someone had brought him to the garden and caught him when he fell. As the beloved hymns of praise filled the chapel and Reverend Valentine’s sonorous voice proclaimed the glory of Christ’s resurrection, Joseph kept hearing
the mysterious young man’s words.

“I’ve been here all along. I’m here for you.”

During the Benediction, Joseph bowed his great head in prayer. A sudden chill ran down his spine. Could it be? Impossible! And yet…he could still feel the stranger’s strong arms steadying him and that calm Presence around him. Tears began to stream down his cheeks.

No matter what befell in the days ahead, he would never be alone.

Impression № 010: Jumping off Point

Justin Miller tells us a little about his art and the inspiration for this beautiful piece:


was raised in Western Kansas, and love the open prairie. My childhood memories are filled with visions of vacant horizons dotted with grain elevators, oil tanks and farm equipment. These structures still influence my work as I deal visually with the coexistence of nature and industry. Each of my pieces illustrates a portion of my spiritual journey to discover how my experience is connected to transcendent Truth.

I was trained in intaglio and stone lithography, but my professional artwork has developed mainly in the area of linoleum relief printmaking. I usually compose my images directly on the linoleum block in pencil, then define my sketches with a sharpie marker. Once inked, I plan for 20-40 hours of carving, then its off to the press. I have a variety of printing presses at my disposal including etching presses, proof presses, and even a 3000 lb. floor model letterpress. It seems I may have some issues with hoarding equipment. Each press has quirks that make it preferable for certain types of images. I bought the large letterpress because of its ability to print large areas and register multiple colors. In fact, I had already cut the blocks for the print entitled “Jumping Off Point,” then acquired and restored a press so that I could print it.

umping Off Point” was inspired by the death of my Aunt Emiko. She met and married my uncle when he was stationed in Japan with the Navy. They lived on the West coast, and rarely visited Kansas when I was young. As a result of distance, and our cultural differences, I feel like I barely knew Emiko.
About the time I entered Middle School, my Uncle Jim retired from the Navy, and moved with his family to Bazine, KS. I was awkward, but Emiko was always kind to me. She and Jim reached out to me, planning for my visits, taking me fishing, opening their home to me when the adults gathered some place else.
Emiko struggled with cancer for the past few years. Her life had become less than comfortable, and ended unexpectedly in relation to a surgery. With Emiko’s fragility, and my small children, we had not made contact in quite some time. With her passing, I was suddenly aware of how often I had passed up opportunities to get to know her better, or even to stop and say hi. I know I am not alone in feeling this way after a death, but that doesn’t change my hopelessness.
This print is in response to Emiko’s passing. I borrowed some waves from traditional ukiyo-e prints, and used a Japanese fishing boat. The transcending ladder and abandoned ribbon are my own symbols.

With a Raised Fist

My will cannot be broken,
at least not any more than it already is.
I have the strength of grape soda,
and nearly twice the fizz.
I shall rot your teeth and stain your clothing,
but I shall never yield.
I shall remain forever angry
and yelling at the moon.