Sunday, April 24, 2011

Happy Easter, Love Luco

This morning the table was covered in these mysterious pastel colored plastic eggs (I would not use this many adjectives, but my wonder prompts excess, please excuse me). What is their purpose? Why do they shine so, in a lovely dim way, in the morning light?

Is this an act of contrition from the dog - does he realize his beastliness?

Or is this a gift from the prison guard, a sort of, "hey, sorry I've kept you captive for like forever, but like, I love you!" (This, sadly, is not hyperbole - I have been a student of her dialect for the entire course of my pathetic life.)

Whatever the reason (Mingus has informed that these eggs are for "Easter," this, however, seems rather unlikely to me as I had been under the impression the prison guard practiced only oppression and therefore had no time for religion), these charmingly colored eggs make me ill.

Why, do you ask, am I made sick by the sight of their muted pinks, blues, purples, and greens?

These are symbols of inchoate, burgeoning life, and as such cannot but also suggest decay, rot, the inescapable stench of death. No amount of Easter Lilies can mask that smell; no amount of baskets full of candy can hide the truth.

The truth that we will die. And these myths of a man who has risen on this day? My heart is moved to sorrow for his extended suffering. Let us die when we die; let the void fill our eyes and our hearts and our bodies so that we are taken up with the dew into the cosmos.

These eggs are a pricker in my paw- insistent, whispering you must die, we all must die.

Also, chocolate gives me a tummy ache.

1 comment:

  1. Dear Luco,

    Perhaps you are familiar with the poem that begins with the lines below. If not, you should be. I send them to you as an acknowledgment of your feelings:

    April is the cruellest month, breeding
    Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
    Memory and desire, stirring
    Dull roots with spring rain.
    Winter kept us warm, covering
    Earth in forgetful snow, feeding
    A little life with dried tubers.
    Summer surprised us. . .

    Get the prison guard to read it to you. As ever,