Sacred Love Versus Profane Love
Painting by Giovanni Baglione

My husband told me that once he knows the right decision has been made he closes the door to the past. I couldn’t be more opposite, truth be told. I think that if I have a destiny it’s to be a star-crossed lover wandering the corridors of the endless past’s could-have-been. And this is why I write poetry so effortlessly—not good poetry effortlessly, but to say that poems flow out of me as small stories, but I can never find it in me to map out a book. I can’t narrow down quite what I’d have wanted it all to be. I think I like the murky waters, the crabs that burrow and wait for a toe to snap. The snakes and the algae making microscopic nets to feed the plentiful small the creates a ‘whole’. I think we’re so arrogant to call what we have within the range of human grasp ‘whole’. We’re no different from cladophora’s long green hairs matting the floor of a clear water pond until it is a marsh, meadow, forest floor.

We are all dust, and we are all something more and something less before that. Isn’t it beautiful? This is the story I tell when I write a poem. I tell the story of how I should have been a better mother, how I was the best mother I knew how to be. How I loved what was never mine, how I long for what is lost to me. I write about my fortune, how the broken pieces always fall into place like autumn leaves cover the floor and protect the sleeping earthen soil, all her yellow, purple, and especially green. I write the emotional alchemy of existing in a moment and how the true-self betrays the same self. How I try to wrangle what is changing and alive in me. How I try to chase the moments worth living with a pencil and how I bleed all over the page how the moments that almost killed me could have saved my life had the star’s aligned… or rather more likely had I said the wrong thing just right.

I fall to the ground a seed, just like any of you. And I grow into something that is to blossom, to bloom, to be consumed and to become something else, metaphorically and physically. I age with grace because these seasons are mine to admire. One Spring will be my last and I might not make it to the Winter to bloom once more as witch hazel medicine that tends to Summer’s burns with psalm balms in the shape and sound of a poem vibration from my limbic soul out my lips to the ears of whoever chooses to listen. No, I too will have my curtain close. And from there no matter how my poems are received, regardless of if they are cherished or perish along side me—no matter how many children I have to live on and remember me—I will be gone. From then until the end of time. And from the edge of time, who knows? I don’t. -Paige

Photographer: Paige Six

I watched Grave of the Fireflies this morning and hate how I can’t suspend my belief enough to imagine there’s a life after death. I’m stuck on how depressing and terrible the life the main character lived was, and no reassurance of heaven from any book or mouth can quell the nausea. Maybe I’ve spent too many years in foster care to enjoy these kinds of films, despite how much I truly appreciate them.

I think about the things we carry, the way Seita carried his mother’s ashes and his father’s photograph only to lose them, to die in squalor with nothing more than a tin of his sister’s ashes on his person. To live a lonely life where possessions are truly meaningless in comparison to the loss. Seita was berated by disdain from his family and at large society since the day his mother passed on throughout the film. It was hard to watch.

I think about what I carry with me. My mother wrote me a beautiful card that I’d thought I’d lost. In it she told me how truly happy she was that I was near her. Yet while she was still alive I saw her infrequently, despite the short distance. I know this was because of her addiction, but it was also because I had grown used to being alone. Now I am alone. When I found the card preserved perfectly in a notebook sleeve I broke down and cried from relief. However upon reading, the card did little more than riddle me with guilt.

Still, like her ashes I can’t ever imagine leaving it behind. For all the faults of my mother’s choices, and for all the luxury she discarded in her drug addiction, there’s still a hole where her presence filled in my heart. I carry with me the burden, the memory, and her ashes. I regret that she never separated herself from the things that tore her down. I am possessed by unseasonable rage that our family chose their own luxuries and turned blind eyes while she disintegrated, and I wish I had gotten my act together sooner joined the military and got her the hell out of there. I have so many regrets.

What I don’t regret is being there. Which when I’d first came back to that old town I thought I would. Life has a funny way of always making me eat my own words. I had quiet, I had fire flies to catch before they disappear, as did my daughter. I had my own home, I had holidays with my mother, I had a career that made me happy and the freedom to explore while my mother had time at home with her granddaughter. I’m sure if we could go back there would be things we’d both change, but there is no going back and I cherish the good parts that I did grab. I cherish even more the good parts that came upon me by way of fortune, like having the mother I had. So many people lose their warmth in the rapture of addiction and she never did. In a world where I had no one my mother was a beacon to call me home and hold me up. She prevented me from ever spiraling out of control and for that I am a better woman. She made me a better woman.


I don’t know what fate and circumstance will allow me to further embark upon down the road. I don’t know if I’ll live to see my daughter turn 30 as my mother did not. I do not know if I’ll ever be old. If I am given the gift of a comfortable life I am sure I’ll never forget what it was like to be a beggar. I’ll surely judge less harshly, I’ll attempt to tread more humbly. And of course I’ll attempt to become a better mother with every day, and hope my daughter can forgive me for my faults as I have learned to forgive my own mother for hers.

Paige Six | January 12, 2021

Aladdin 1992

Dear 6,

     I write you to allow myself closure. The truth I’ve never revealed to you is how after years of atheism and searching for answers it was only upon meeting you that I almost believed in God.

     I’d spent my young years with my nose to the grindstone and had very little time for fun and frolic. I have always been restless, a wild-child in my soul diving into fiction to suppress these desires. I’d sacrificed education for hourly wages necessary to keep the roof over my head. I exposed these truths to you in shame to be comforted by the thick tusk of your shoulder.

      The musk of your natural body still intoxicates my senses. The deep sienna of your skin against the champagne color of my wrists trembling as you placed upon its thin wafer layer a first kiss. Where did it all go wrong? Was it how our bodies didn’t quite fit the way our minds melted like wax and our conversation flowed like wine? The awkward communion of the first sacrament of our union…

     This I won’t forget: your deception and how its reveal decapitated the holy body of our bond at the slender curve of its neck.

     There are two instances in my life that are traumatic blessings: the birth of my child at the age of 18 and the loss of you at 28. To the other side of this continent you reside with a whole fraction of my soul. I write you this letter in hopes you might know. But I send nothing to you, our communication will remain cold.

Save you discover this letters, until which no bars will I hold.

Yours,

3.14

*For him whose name meaning is heart, and the associated lucky number is 6.

*six pm | 2021 {notes on poems

Photographer: Paige Six

At the wake of 2021 I would like to share with you one of my favorite poems. It’s helped me to reflect upon my life and motivations time and time again since the young age of 18 when a stranger shared it with me. I hope that as you continue to grow, as you learn to form better habits, and as you take time each new year to reflect on your life that you find this poem an appropriate companion piece. Personally I find it rings true in 2021 as ever it did in 2008, as ever it did in 1927 when it was written.

Desiderata: Words for Life by Max Enhrmann:

Go placidly amid the noise and haste,
and remember what peace there may be in silence.
As far as possible without surrender
be on good terms with all persons.
Speak your truth quietly and clearly;
and listen to others,
even the dull and the ignorant;
they too have their story.

Avoid loud and aggressive persons,
they are vexations to the spirit.
If you compare yourself with others,
you may become vain and bitter;
for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself.
Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans.

Keep interested in your own career, however humble;
it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time.
Exercise caution in your business affairs;
for the world is full of trickery.
But let this not blind you to what virtue there is;
many persons strive for high ideals;
and everywhere life is full of heroism.

Be yourself.
Especially, do not feign affection.
Neither be cynical about love;
for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment
it is as perennial as the grass.

Take kindly the counsel of the years,
gracefully surrendering the things of youth.
Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune.
But do not distress yourself with dark imaginings.
Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness.
Beyond a wholesome discipline,
be gentle with yourself.

You are a child of the universe,
no less than the trees and the stars;
you have a right to be here.
And whether or not it is clear to you,
no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.

Therefore be at peace with God,
whatever you conceive Him to be,
and whatever your labors and aspirations,
in the noisy confusion of life keep peace with your soul.

With all its sham, drudgery, and broken dreams,
it is still a beautiful world.
Be cheerful.
Strive to be happy.

Happy New Year!

Paige Six | January 3, 2021

Photographer: Paige Six

*a poem I fashioned after a particularly poetic comment I’d read on YouTube:

This beat takes me straight
to another time and space,

hiking high through
the north of Norway.

Over jagged mountains
across the strange valley,

where trees were twisting
aspiring ballerinas dancing,

held still by cement
of frozen ground.

There’d been a fire here years ago,
however we’d have never known

had we not felt its heat,
a tangle of limbs contorting,

hot breath whispering in
willow circles escaping.

We spent three nights hunkered
down in a hut tucked between

the heartbeat beneath a clavicle
and a cascade of icicles,

surrounded by silence and snow,
it felt like finally reaching my home.

-six pm (and Kris Wagner)

In case you’re interested, this is the video to the song that inspired the note where the comment was found:

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Photographer: Paige Six

You having sex in the morning, your love was foreign to me

It made me think, maybe human 

not such a bad thing to be…’

But I just laid there in protest, entirely fucked….

it’s such a stubborn reminder; one perfect night ‘s not enough

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(𝙳𝚎𝚊𝚛 *darling,

𝙸’𝚖 𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚜𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚗 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚔 𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚢𝚕, 𝚒𝚝 𝚛𝚎𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚜 𝚖𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚢𝚎𝚊𝚛 𝚠𝚎 𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚝𝚘̇𝚐𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚞𝚙 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚕𝚘𝚜𝚝 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎 — 𝚘𝚗 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚘𝚏𝚏 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚊 𝚌𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚕𝚎.

𝙷𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚞𝚌𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚊 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚟𝚊𝚜𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚕𝚘𝚟𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚎𝚡𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚜 𝚒𝚗 𝚌𝚊𝚌𝚘𝚙𝚑𝚘𝚗𝚘𝚞𝚜 𝚜𝚑𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚙𝚞𝚛𝚙𝚕𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚐𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚗, 𝚊𝚗 𝚘𝚙𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚕 𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚛𝚞𝚖 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚘𝚕𝚘𝚏𝚒𝚕𝚖 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚖𝚎𝚕𝚎𝚘𝚗 𝚌𝚘𝚕𝚘𝚛𝚜 𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚔 𝚒𝚗 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚎 𝚊𝚜 𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚌𝚔𝚕𝚢 𝚊𝚜 𝚒𝚝 𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚗𝚜 𝚋𝚕𝚞𝚎.

𝙸𝚝 𝚛𝚎𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚜 𝚖𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚞𝚝𝚎𝚜 𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚔𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚜 𝚠𝚑𝚎n 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚎𝚢𝚎𝚜 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚐𝚛𝚘𝚠 𝚋𝚒𝚐𝚐𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚊𝚍𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚎. 

𝙸𝚝 𝚛𝚎𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚜̣ 𝚖𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚕𝚊𝚔𝚎𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚐𝚘𝚕𝚍𝚎𝚗 𝚑𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚢 𝚍𝚛𝚒𝚙𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚑𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚢 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚒𝚙𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚘𝚏 𝚋𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚔𝚏𝚊𝚜𝚝; 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚒𝚝𝚜̣ 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚛 𝚢𝚘𝚞, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚊𝚞𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚌 𝚢𝚘𝚞, 𝚢𝚘𝚞’𝚟𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚊𝚐𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚘̇𝚕𝚍 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚘 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚛𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚊𝚙𝚘𝚕𝚘𝚐𝚒𝚣𝚒𝚗𝚐 —

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— 𝚏𝚕𝚘𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚝𝚖𝚘̣𝚜̣𝚙𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎

𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚜𝚑𝚖𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚘𝚠𝚜 𝚒𝚗 𝚖𝚢 𝚌𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕.

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𝚃𝚑𝚎 ‘if‘ 𝚋𝚎𝚝𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚕𝚍𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚖𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚋𝚎. 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚛𝚞𝚎 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚋𝚎𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚖𝚢 𝚘𝚋𝚜𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚌𝚘̇𝚜𝚖𝚒𝚌 𝚛𝚊𝚢𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚌𝚒𝚊𝚕 𝚛𝚎𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚟𝚒𝚝𝚢:

𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚎𝚜 𝚜𝚞𝚗𝚔𝚎𝚗 𝚒𝚗 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍𝚕𝚎𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚠𝚊𝚖𝚙𝚢 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚝—

—𝚎𝚗𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚝𝚘 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚕𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚘𝚕𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚕𝚍.

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𝚃𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚊 𝚋𝚘𝚝𝚝𝚕𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚊 𝚋𝚘𝚝𝚝𝚕𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚝𝚎. 𝙸’𝚟𝚎 𝚖𝚎𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚒𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚣𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚋𝚞𝚛𝚐𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚢 𝚐𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚜. 𝙸 𝚋𝚞𝚛𝚗 𝚌𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚕𝚎𝚜 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚖𝚜 𝚎𝚊𝚌𝚑 𝚠𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝙸 𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖 𝚊𝚜 𝚟𝚊𝚜𝚎𝚜 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚙𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚜. 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚕 𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚢  𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚟𝚎𝚜 𝚖𝚎 𝚚𝚞𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚞𝚖𝚕𝚢 𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚐𝚑𝚘𝚜𝚝 —

—𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚠. 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚖𝚎𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚢.

𝙱𝚎𝚌𝚊𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝚊𝚜 𝚋𝚎𝚊𝚞𝚝𝚒𝚏𝚞𝚕 𝚒𝚜 𝚒𝚝 𝚖𝚊𝚢 𝚋𝚎 𝙸 𝚍𝚘 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚋𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚎𝚟𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚘𝚛𝚖𝚊𝚕 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎. 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚗𝚕𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚑𝚊𝚞𝚗𝚝𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚑𝚘̇𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝚒𝚜 𝚖𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚐𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚒𝚎𝚜 𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚢 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚢𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐. 𝙸 𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚍 𝚖𝚢 𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚜 𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚕𝚢 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚜̣𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚎𝚔𝚜 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚘𝚛𝚕 𝚘𝚏 𝚖𝚢 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚛𝚝𝚒𝚙𝚜. 

𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚜, 𝚋𝚘𝚔𝚎𝚑 𝚑𝚊𝚕𝚘𝚜, 𝚜𝚖𝚞𝚍𝚐𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚜𝚖𝚒𝚕𝚎. 

æ𝚜𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚝𝚒𝚌 𝚋𝚕𝚞𝚛𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐—

—𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚏𝚞𝚕 𝚖𝚘̣𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚜 

𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚏𝚘𝚌𝚞𝚜̣.

𝚃𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎’𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚢𝚘𝚞, 𝚊𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚖𝚎, 𝚊𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚎, 𝚖𝚊𝚢𝚋𝚎, 𝚍𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚒𝚜 𝚎𝚗𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚝𝚘 𝚔𝚎𝚎𝚙 𝚖𝚎 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚜𝚕𝚎𝚎𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚝 𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝. 𝙸 𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚖𝚢𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏 𝙸 𝚜𝚒𝚖𝚙𝚕𝚢 𝚕𝚘̣𝚟𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚞𝚗𝚛𝚒𝚜𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚊𝚖 𝚘𝚋𝚜𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚖𝚢 𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚌𝚘𝚙𝚎, 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝙸 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚖𝚢𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏 𝚘𝚏 𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐.

𝙸 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍𝚗’𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚎 𝚖𝚢 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚠𝚊𝚢 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝙸’𝚖 𝚌𝚎𝚛𝚝𝚊𝚒𝚗 𝚋𝚢 𝚠𝚊𝚢 𝚘𝚏 𝚎𝚚𝚞𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜—

*

—𝚋𝚎𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚞𝚛𝚝𝚊𝚒𝚗 𝚘𝚏 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚜 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎’𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚖𝚎, 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎’𝚜 𝚊 𝚗𝚎𝚠 𝚢𝚘𝚞.

𝙸 𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚖𝚢𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚞𝚗 𝚒𝚜𝚗’𝚝 𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚎𝚕𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚖𝚎 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚕𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚗𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚢 𝚋𝚎𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚋𝚕𝚊𝚣𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚏𝚊𝚌𝚊𝚍𝚎. 𝚃𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚏 𝚕𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍𝚗’𝚝 𝚑𝚒𝚍𝚎 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚘𝚛𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚊𝚒𝚛 𝚘𝚏 𝚞𝚜 𝚠𝚑𝚘 𝚕𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚒𝚕𝚢. 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛. 𝚊𝚏𝚝𝚎𝚛. 𝚒𝚗 𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚝𝚛𝚞𝚝𝚑.

*

— 𝚃𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝙸 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍𝚗’𝚝 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚜𝚎 𝚏𝚞𝚕𝚕 𝚎𝚌𝚕𝚒𝚙𝚜̣𝚎𝚜 𝚝𝚘̣ 𝚜𝚎𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚌𝚑 𝚋𝚞𝚛𝚗

𝚛𝚎𝚍, 𝚢𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚘𝚠, 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚋𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚋𝚕𝚞𝚎.

𝙿𝚎𝚛𝚖𝚎𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚜𝚢𝚕𝚕𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎𝚜 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚖𝚢 𝚕𝚢𝚖𝚙𝚑𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚌 𝚝𝚒𝚜𝚜𝚞𝚎. 𝙰𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚙𝚘̣𝚎𝚖 𝚝𝚘 𝚠𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚎 𝚑𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚘. 𝙸𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚑𝚊𝚍𝚘𝚠 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝙼𝚘𝚘𝚗 𝚖𝚢 𝚜𝚘𝚞𝚕 𝚜𝚒𝚝𝚜 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚒𝚝𝚜 𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚜. 𝙸𝚝’𝚜 𝚗𝚘 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚌𝚘𝚙𝚎𝚜 𝚊𝚝 𝚊𝚕𝚕. 𝙸 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚎𝚖𝚘𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚕; “𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚝𝚛𝚞𝚝𝚑”. 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚛𝚞𝚝𝚑? 𝙸𝚝’𝚜 𝚝𝚠𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚜 𝚊 𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚔𝚜𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚠—

—𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚛𝚞𝚝𝚑 𝚒𝚜 𝚠𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚒𝚝 𝚊𝚕𝚕, *darling,

𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚠𝚎 𝚕𝚎𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚔𝚢 𝚏𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑.

six pm)

*

“But I’m a constant headache, a tooth out of line.

They try to make you regret it, 

you tell them, ‘no, not this time.’

It’s just a constant headache, a dead-pet device.

You hang me up unfinished, with the better part of me 

no longer mine…”

*

*

 –six pm *3:15

(Song Credit: Joyce Manor)

Photograhy: Paige Six | 2017

I don’t do drugs very often, but I smoked the other day for my birthday and totally had a philosophical and maybe even religious level of an experience. I’m mourning my mother and I think I’m trying to connect with her particles here in spacetime. I was meditating on religious art, and iconography, and how we inherit these beliefs which are all that stands between us and insanity when we’re approaching moments of *true fear. I was just about to read her prayer for the first time, and my sister called (she was the only person to call for my birthday) telling me that she was planning on making me this pie that I’d be craving all week. Life is strange, and I can totally appreciate those elements as poetic inspiration. How else do we explain them?

I had a religious experience once, when I was 14. I started to question it when I started to understand how the brain works. I don’t know what the answers are, but I do think I’m starting to understand the difference between faith and reasoning, and I hope to find that there is a way to have both. Because I find true solace in the imagery of my mother’s prayer cards. I think it’s important for people who are at the mercy of forces well beyond them to have something sacred in which they can lean on when faced with truly harrowing experiences. I don’t think we need proof of God for that to be important to many people. I also don’t think you need to believe in God to find solace in iconography, or any beautiful art, place, or person. I miss my mother dearly, and I would give anything to commune with her again.

And finally in lighter news, Abraxis Nothing who’s a fellow and talented poet over on Poetizer shared his feedback with me on *ad nauseum, “[…]to paraphrase (rip off? riff off?) Claude Shannon – ‘information is surprise.'[…]”. I have never received higher praise. I did post the poem here in my Poetry segment, however I played around with the fonts on Poetizer and I think I like that version more. I’m not sure yet.

Paige Six | 11.24.20