Shakesepare on Love

When I saw you I fell in love, and you smiled because you knew.

Love is a smoked raised with the fume of sighs,
Being purged, a fire sparkling in lovers' eyes,
Being vexed, a sea nourished with lovers' tears.
What is it else? A madness most discreet,
A choking gall and a preserving sweet.

Pilot ... Frizzy misses you, lots.

Je t'embrace ~ partout.

Bells

~written Wednesday August 6th, 2008 ~

I had a tooth extracted today. And then I went to the devout part of town ... St. Boniface, to see to the basilica there. I walked through the most ugly, despairing and violent part of town, after having a molar pulled from my right upper jaw at the Mount Carmel Clinic.

I bit down on the gauze ... for comfort as well as for habit. I do not realize how much I comfort myself of my inner anxieties through teeth-clenching, unless I reflect upon the matter. I could taste the blood in the cavity where that molar once rooted itself. A sign that the freezing had begun fading, and with it the effects of the epinephrine.


This time I missed having my heart of hearts hold my hand ... offer it for my squeezing. So instead, while I watched the needle enter my mouth, and later when I felt the dental pliers pulling on my dying molar, instead I gripped the arms of the dental chair.

I saw the tooth ~ the dentist showed it to me upon succeeding in its difficult extraction. She marvelled at the dead tooth's apex ~ a large, pointy thing, that looked like a demon's sharp fingernail. I truly thought of asking her if she would put it in a vial for me, so I could take it home and slip it under my pillow.

'Maybe the tooth fairy would give me 25 cents for this?' I spoke that thought out loud, but stopped short of asking for my tooth. I wanted to, though. Really did. I suppose I secretly told myself to stop clinging to the death and loss that cast shadows upon my soul, and begin vigourously embracing life and the living.


And so, I walked through the most wretched part of town, teeth clenched tightly upon the gauze. And I walked. And walked. And then took the free bus ~ yes, this city still offers fare-free service on one line that goes to The Forks ~ a stone's throw from the basilica.

I walked through the hallowed ground of the cemetary there, armed with a cell phone camera. And then I walked into the open court yard of the basilica. Standing right underneath the belfry, studying the stone work and the tiny spiral staircases long condemned for use, I heard them. The bells. And ... ~ now you can hear them too ~ bells of st. boniface basilica.

That Condor Spirit

The Condor was seen by the Pueblo Indians as a sign of purification, while the Greeks considered it a symbol of transformation. The Condor, resourceful and patient, has the ability to stay focused on its goal despite outside influences that try to distract it.

Condor can see beyond earthly laws or limitations and reach the strengths necessary for life enrichment. She also has a most stubborn persistence and an unconquerable will.

My great-grandmother was nick-named Condor; she possessed a most indomitable spirit, came to Canada at the age of 95 and died at the age of 101. Dear reader, until she drew her very last breath, she possessed all her faculties ~ i.e she was 'all there upstairs.'

I needn't say, do I, that she possessed a most stubborn streak, and unlike the women of her time and culture, did not submit? I suppose today we would call that 'attitude' ... well folks then I got lots of it ... and, well, its in the genes. So there.

I feel like, as I grow older, her spirit grows stronger, inside me ... her condor spirit.


psst ~ if you come back Sunday morning, you will get to hear the bells of the basilica.