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

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longing captured in a snow globe. frozen as the contents stiffen, but of salt & sadness, dissipating & cooling winter water: trine, threefold, vexing, upsetting at uncracked glass. ice forms and is expanding, extending to rupture; to break free of its crystalline prison cell.

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an orb; a distorted window; a fish bowl: if only momentary perfection; encapsulated within its prism; tiny planet; polished patiently; unholy prison. stranded atop a marble mantle in the castle of my memory. the room within my palace where I recall every essence of you, your earthy scent of virility, of indica smoke, & each number you represent to me. three. three. three. .333… repeating. irrationally.

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although life moves me forward, it will be you, my effervescent darling, who anchors me to the present. i no longer fear onsets of dementia. when the insects of age attack to decay my brain; when God and Devil battle to beguile every soul aching to be enraptured; I just want you to know:

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i still love you. you were my end and my beginning.

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and yes, maybe i am a hopeless romantic, twisted as my bed sheets. maybe all i have left to show in this cold life are our warm embraces, our hot encounters, the pointed reasons we failed each other, our muted mysteries (there are so many). but maybe, *omitted, these memories are all i’ll ever need.

six pm | *memory games