SFUMATO
SFUMATO OR THE SLIGHT SOFTENING OF THE EDGES
Sfumato me (+while you’re at it unfuckthisworld) On 2nd thought perhaps I
best not be sfumato-ed With too soft edges you will no longer be able to count
on me to bring you the unabridged dirt as I endeavour to morph into Joan Didion
Of whom it is said: stunning candour piercing details electric honesty I cannot
imagine dying without reading The Year Of Magical Thinking (New York Times)
In this book Joan writes about losing her husband of 40+ yrs +her 20 something
daughter within 9 mths Abruptly Unexpectedly She is likely still in shock well
into her 80’s Joan admonishes us not to speak of: recovery but instead to dwell on
magical occurrences within the the first year after
Today I will walk you through the first 6 months after losing a father Some of you
may want to hit unfollow NOW
early mornings coming to consciousness +within seconds of gluey eyes opening
remembering he is dead all over again +reliving in those seconds the long scar from
ankle to breastbone from breastbone to ankle his courage the rocky balboa of the
quadruple bypass his breathlessness for years before the fucking doctor saying: you
could live 10 years more! he was 63 +still unsqualid i’ll take it he cried
He died in 5 +there was little quality Doctor forgot to mention blunt force brain
trauma from heart/lung machine during 13 hour surgery
Then one day at the 4 month mark I saw him in his wheelchair at the Landsdowne
subway stop Dishevelled with sores but smiling Had I been braver +not bolted we
might have gone for coffee and those early morning awakenings might have ceased
gluey eyes open grey light walls of books hulking boyfriend in comes the reaper +
his people and it starts all over again
Good news though! 28 yrs. later awakenings are fairly regular Hulking husband
looms walls lined with books Now edges sfumato-ed with scar tissue + 60 yrs. of
ego-deaths But there in the corner of mind’s eye I play a game with said Reaper:
Come on present him again In any form Anywhere Anytime You wily bastard
Today will be the day I set him free Rocky Balboa of my dreams
__
You will stay on, restive, serene The soul is captive treated humanely
kept in suspension unable to advance much farther than your look longing
to be free (John Ashbery 1975 Pulitzer Prize for Poetry)
*(Some who have suffered a loss report actual sightings, what Freud described as:
a clinging to the object through the medium of hallucinatory wishful psychosis.)
FALL 2017
