(deep like a rose tall like a rose)

An example of Stephen Prina's work

For Stephen,

 

if there are any heavens my mother will(all by herself)have

one. It will not be a pansy heaven nor
a fragile heaven of lilies-of-the-valley but
it will be a heaven of blackred roses

my father will be(deep like a rose
tall like a rose)

standing near my

(swaying over her
silent)
with eyes which are really petals and see

nothing with the face of a poet really which
is a flower and not a face with
hands
which whisper
This is my beloved my

(suddenly in sunlight

he will bow,

& the whole garden will bow)

e.e. cummings

I ran into an old friend of mine the other day at an art opening. I had no idea he’d be there, and he was of the same opinion. But before I had a chance to take my first sip of wine in the plastic glass, he was at my side. I felt a warm familiar feeling, like an anchor had just been hoisted into a very shallow pond. Standing as if from the prow of a small boat, I felt reassurance, comforted, a sense of being held in a place from which I could look with a sense of safety, and feel at the same time exhilarated by.

The warm anchor at my side stood there silently, I looked over, and my eyes feasted on a person who had been, and continues to be, one of the most treasured people in my life. This person suddenly and very specifically rooted me to a very specific time in my life, a place that had been long abandoned.(?) I felt a surge of memories come forward, and a kind of being together, of talking together, easy and wonderfully exciting, but this feeling, is based upon, I believe, a mutual sense of love.

“Only a few days ago I was rereading that passage by Darwin he once showed me, describing a flock of butterflies flying uninterruptedly for several hours ten miles out from the south American coast, when even with a telescope it was impossible to find a patch of empty sky visible between their whirling wings.”(W G Sebald)

It’s a strange thing, having a dialogue with someone who is not present, for years, but knowing where he is alive, living his life, loving, teaching, and I am here in my life, living my life, changing but all the while, listening to his music, thinking about his work. There continues to be a kind of dialogue, a remembering and shuffling of ideas that continues to be vital. He remains vital to me in every way. This person, don’t get me wrong, was not ever a romantic love interest to me or me to him, although I must say that I did have a love of his ideas, his way of speaking, his way of being in the world, which moved me to no end, and he was a person who I felt that I had known in a very singular way, and that, somehow composed us in some kind unique space and time. In the days that have followed our meeting again, I think of him, almost every hour. I find myself, with blooming feelings of remembrance, wanting to reacquaint myself with him again. Now that we both are in two very different places, both of us happy, we both found the thing most important of all, we both found love.

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About Sarah Seager

I am an artist that works and lives in the wilds of Los Angeles.
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