Beautiful Cynicism III

Sun streaming in through the slats in the blinds; snow and ice lightly caked on the windows; a rush of warm air pushed through the ancient iron grating on the floor, mere steps away; his chest rising and falling to a gentle rhythm under my arm: these are the sights and sounds greeting me as I wake on a lazy Saturday morning.

Upon waking, the day stretches before us, arms wide open and inviting. Will there be a walk in a park or on a frozen river, the hardened snow crunching loudly beneath our feet? Will there be an undiscovered diner or hole-in-the-wall eatery serving up exotic fare? Will there be a road trip, car full of out-of-town baking and empty coffee cups? Will there be coffeehouses and fountain pens, zombies and go-karts, or cocktails in the evening?

Below, I’m excerpting an excellent article from Pandagon.net. It so clearly encapsulates not only my bafflement in the face of rabid anti-choicers, but also articulates better than I ever could my reasons for identifying with the pro-choice movement.

Perversely, I think that the anti-choice hatred of living is also based in a fear of death. Really living also provokes reminders of mortality. Roeder’s obsession with decay really shows how it works. Living means dying, getting closer to it every day. The expression we use to remind ourselves to really live our lives is “carpe diem”—”seize the day”. Unspoken, because you don’t have to speak it, is that you should seize today because tomorrow will not come. Not literally (for most of us), but the sense is that you cannot put off living your life until the future, because the future gets ever-briefer. Most of us are able to understand this, and we make our choices accordingly. We try to get our work done. We don’t stay in on Friday night. We figure we’ll take that chance on falling in love. There isn’t going to be an infinite amount of time to do these things, might as well start living now. Sometimes I think anti-choicers skip that step of understanding, and instead stave off fear of death by dwelling on the hope that not living will keep it away, that you can somehow purify yourself until death stops knocking. Not consciously, but subconsciously, it seems clear. Death is so scary, and so hopefully by denying living, death can be safely ignored.

between light and dark
     sun and wind
     word and deed
like hoarfrost on a winter’s morning
like a heart hardened one time too many
firm, yet so delicate
     suspended in time
     and cold to the touch

It never happens in one fell swoop.
Goodness slowly chipped away
     one molecule at a time.
Units of trust and respect, expressed in
     smiles
     laughs
     sighs
     and gentle moans.
Can we ever be aware, truly?
Can we ever comprehend the loss of something
we never knew existed?
That delicate balance of trust and respect,
of hidden and visible,
of knowledge and fears.

Operant conditioning of the soul
Am I so used to the shock
as to have rendered it no longer shocking?

I wade knee-deep into memories
the scent of cilantro
    warmed by afternoon sun
the song of the wind in treetops
    dancing in Mount Arrowsmith’s shadow
A sign of strength, or a sign of
    weakness?
And what if I cannot tell the two apart?
And what if they are one and the same?

My heart aches, my blood boils
my breath catches in my throat
    that familiar feeling of
    hitting my head against a brick wall
    again and again

The moutain, bathed in the
mauvish hues of a sunset,
my curves, soft and supple,
bathed in pleasant but ancient history,
my cloak of bubbles a message
from another time,
    of Molotov cocktails and
    love in every room

I bear witness and feel… nothing.
Well, something.
I can’t forget, as was sung
and, equally,
I forgot to remember to forget
as heard on my mother’s stereo
so many moons ago.
Why does the wisdom of our elders
not prevent us from repeating our mistakes?

Pensive? Perhaps,
and why not?
Have I not lifetimes to conjure,
    memories to deconstruct,
    hopes to nurture?
    … or was that the other way round?

Perhaps I have grown used to the treachery
Perhaps I have grown tired of it all
Perhaps I have grown
    Or
perhaps it matters not, simply because
he is here and so am I