I am fragile. But I cannot admit this to you. If I paint you a picture, will you go to the dollar store to buy a frame for it and place it above your bed? Will you think of me when you look at the picture? I’m not sure what I will paint for you but it will be something fragile, like me, but since I can’t admit how fragile I am, even to you, it will be in the picture (all of me), in the picture in the frame from the dollar store, above your bed. You will own the most fragile part of me, and maybe you will see this and then again maybe not, but I will paint a picture for you and wrap it up, and place a bow on top, and I will smile when you open it, and I will watch you closely. I could frame it myself of course, which would make it easier for you to put above your bed, as in right away, but if you commit to me, to my picture, even to how fragile I am, my fragility I guess you could say, you’ll see this, or recognize this, right away. Right off I mean. I won't need to explain anything to you, and you’ll find the frame at the dollar store and you'll pound the nail and then that’s where I’ll be. Above your bed. You might forget about me later. I know this. I realize this. The picture I painted for you, I mean. Because mostly, when you hang a picture, it’s to make your walls look pretty and then you forget about it (everything blends in like everybody blends in, given enough time) unless somebody says something, like, Wow, that one is amazing, and Wow, the colors really go with the room. Who painted that? I mean, is it original or a print? It didn’t come with the frame did it? No, they wouldn’t be so crass to say that. But you, when you look at the picture later after somebody else has brought your attention to it – what do you see? What will you see? Maybe I will still live with you -- still be living with you, I mean (present tense, not the future). In your house. Then again maybe I won’t. Pictures last longer than people, and they certainly last longer than the people who paint them. Will you remember how fragile I am? Or how fragile I was, perhaps. If you even saw me at all, when I painted you the picture to begin with. I can give only so much of myself.
6 comments:
"nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals the power of your intense fragility"
e.e.cummings is certainly a favorite of Eleanor's....
so, still again, you and eleanor find your way into the dark caverns of my own heart and see and know all - all that is me - and today, me feeling more fragile than i can say - than i can even admit to myself...beautifully beautifully written, as always!
Thank you, Jenean. The fragility aside, I'm sure that -- like Eleanor -- you have an enormous amount of inner strength to pull you through anything. With fragility comes a certain amount of implied strength, yes? (As the e.e. cummings quote from Penny, above, so acutely observes.)
Oh my God! I mean, really..... How can Eleanor be such a mirror? How does she suck out my own thoughts and feelings and spill (or spit) them back at me. Fragile.... Fragile as an eggshell thin crystal vase. And who can really see the real me... I mean, the real her. Or do I?
Thank you Geoff.... As always, you so rock!
Thank you. But I give all credit to Eleanor. She feeds me the words, and in the end, they do add up to something that touches people. Eleanor and I both appreciate your words!
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