Look on Me, Lady. Sever Decisions of Justice From Institutions White and Be-penised.

Quito, Ecuador

A Friday morning prayer. Lady. Let me accept the low-key and blazing divinity of my art. Let me accept my nature of dualities. Give me the wisdom to know it reaches You. Teach me trust and don't let me get too huffy puffy. Let me be here and wherever I am now. Protect me at the cocktail party with the department head who ends affairs when he's bored or his wife complains. Nuzzle my useless resentments in your shawl of great colors. Let them be loved so they grow healthy and through the beauty of bosoms of wisdom and flesh, no longer angry. The street urchin of bitterness now on a feather bed. No longer resenting. Look on me, Lady. Sever decisions of justice from the egos of men and institutions white and be-penised. The flamboyant whimper in department meetings until they are tenured. But look at me, Lady. I do need a little attention. Yes, the billboard of hope is wiser than a cat at peace with the feathers dangling from her ears. I do need some attention, Lady, but mainly friendships and love. But mainly, I need to write.

[Sarah Sarai, June 7, 2013] [written because why not be honest] [written because so what if my grossly imperfect soul is revealed] []written because I ain't kidding anyone anyway] [written because writing is a pleasure]

*Street art courtesty of http://www.tooflynyc.com/life/category/ecuador/

Today You're an Angel in Space {the Third Planet Being Angel-Free}

from Lubinetski’s 1667 treatise Theatrum Cometicum (Du-uh)

Being in exile gives a girl away-time. Today I'm no saint, but an angel in space. The Third Planet is angel-free and don't we know it. Oh my hair gets frizzy in morning mist. See, motion could be stasis captured by art, still motion, my kind of motion, motion with a mug of steaming coffee - a steaming mug. When coffee's in cool-down, add ice cubes for a thick swirl of gold melting, a transit of Venus toward your heart. Those "stupid Cartesians" believe their threadbare existence proves their threadbare existence. If we are only what we are, we might as well throw ourselves onto the tracks. Whooo Whooo! The end, and if so, make it on the Q. Everything Spinoza conjectured teed off the burghers. Liberal Holland? There's no accounting except by Price Waterhouse, which must be Dutch, look at the name. I am in solidarity with his adeptness with annoying, not a thing to be changed, as innate as the heart in his breast. Sure he could have stopped writing and conversing, but theories and awarenesses like his are visitations. They emanate. All the fuel burned over quelling emotion. One quietude is enough. I wish I were brilliant.

a to wit: Hence certain theologians, perhaps the authors of the rumour, took occasion to complain of me before the prince and the magistrates; moreover, the stupid Cartesians, being suspected of favouring me, endeavoured to remove the aspersion by abusing everywhere my opinions and writings, a course which they still pursue. [from a letter Spinoza wrote to Oldenberg {who saw the rings of Saturn}]

[Sarah Sarai, June 6, 2013] [written because she sat in a chair and read D's Meditations, long ago] [written because Spinoza understood emotion] [written because Descartes didn't, that's a problem handed down] [written because it's becoming a pleasure]