November 1, 2017. NYC. Day after a terrorist in a rented moving truck mowed down bicyclists and pedestrians on the west side highway, for chrissakes. Not unexpected in theory since 9-11 and the years past and passed. A daily thought one swallowed that occasionally surfaces into a bit of what-if fear. That is now closer to some surfaces. Here in fact. Not unexpected, along with bad government (terrible, evil head of our so-called state); tornadoes, hurricanes, floods. Biblical global warnings. Apocalyptic nightmares turning real.
This pair of Lincoln bookends came from a tag sale in Connecticut, the home of an old man who had collected Civil War memorabilia. Obviously, they were made from two different molds, and one had been dropped at one time. Like many fraternal twins, they are very different from each other.
Childhood memories and medieval time immemorial in the stone
High up in the heights of Manhattan schist, where the subway
is so far underground one takes an elevator down to it.
A castle built by the rich, the plundering the of 13th
Century, pillar by pillar, stone by stone, statue by statue. Not to mention the
tapestries to warm the walls.
The rooms feel heavy. Maybe it is the centuries of religious
prayers, guilt, hope and fears that took place around the altars and objects on
But the Merode Room, a revelation and a lightness, a spiritual experience. The Master of Flemalle, indeed. 1428 altarpiece. So so finely seen, so finely painted.
That candle, just extinguished by the angel, a wisp of smoke remaining.
Marking the moment just past the immaculate conception, forever.
Being in its presence is divine, even with the thin glass separating its soul from my breath of now.