OKC recap--from the paper journal
“Metaphors are not to be trifled with. A single metaphor can give birth to love.”
-Milan Kundera, in The Unbearable Lightness of Being
And what metaphor shall I use to give weight and context to this unexpected weekend of death and family? Medea? Saturn? For surely if ever there was a devourer of children, it was Suzanne. Bald and brutal in her lies, exquisite in their efficiency-like a scalpel. Like a mace. As though self-confidence never laid eyes on the strange land of her daughters’ tender minds.
It is a most retched thing, to make a child feel unwanted. Forever reaching, forever drawing back rebuke and guilt. To ask for water and receive only sand.
And though she now lies mute and still some six feet beneath the Midwestern soil, those words, those shining daggers remain lodged in the backs and hearts of two dark-haired beauties who never asked admission to this Punch and Judy show. Tragōidia, where all the attendees have come armed with their most rotten fruits. My god, all for the insult of taking breath.
I could… what? Nothing more than be there and be different. Better. Above the cold cruelty of the last generation. Can love extinguish flames? Clear smoke? Sooth burns? Seed trees? We have to try.
-Milan Kundera, in The Unbearable Lightness of Being
And what metaphor shall I use to give weight and context to this unexpected weekend of death and family? Medea? Saturn? For surely if ever there was a devourer of children, it was Suzanne. Bald and brutal in her lies, exquisite in their efficiency-like a scalpel. Like a mace. As though self-confidence never laid eyes on the strange land of her daughters’ tender minds.
It is a most retched thing, to make a child feel unwanted. Forever reaching, forever drawing back rebuke and guilt. To ask for water and receive only sand.
And though she now lies mute and still some six feet beneath the Midwestern soil, those words, those shining daggers remain lodged in the backs and hearts of two dark-haired beauties who never asked admission to this Punch and Judy show. Tragōidia, where all the attendees have come armed with their most rotten fruits. My god, all for the insult of taking breath.
I could… what? Nothing more than be there and be different. Better. Above the cold cruelty of the last generation. Can love extinguish flames? Clear smoke? Sooth burns? Seed trees? We have to try.