Yom Kippur, atonement, and packing

"You're an excellent packer."

That was first full sentence I spoke today, after awakening.

Every person in our queer and trans communities would have laughed, at my manner of clumsy expression. 

Not Michael MacFeat—one of my few straight, white, male friends. 

In today's mail, I'd received an original print of a photo I love. Clever knife work and a good deal of wrangling was required to access the thing. 

"I'm trained to do that," is all Michael said, words in gravel and phlegm, as always. 

MacFeat is something of a legend, for his gravel and phlegm charm in the sculptural and political arts, around the Philadelphia area.

These days, he's knocking the hell out of Flickr, with various computer graphic series on arcane philosophical notions: Savoir Brut; Lies and The Truth; and, one of my personal favorites, the investigative Trading Card Series.

I strongly suggest you have a free Flickr account, set to moderate, to view these works.

For those with a strong mind for the absurd wrapped in eiderdown nostalgia, in a bit of beer haze, there's MacFeat's blog, which asserts History Will Absolve Mike.

That which has been afflicting the soul may have been released, for some of us, during last weekend's solemn rituals of Yom Kippur.

Personally, I was off my meds. No kidding.

Lyssie said she was going down to the shore, to throw her sins in the sea. I found that a lovely image, and was drifting toward her, spiritually, when she added she would bring me some sand—from the . . . whatever shore is two blocks from her house.

I had such a fit, then, telling her, in no uncertain terms, I've had it, with people bringing me sand or sending me shells . . . and don't people realize I came up in San Diego, so all that tourist crap encrusted with sand and shells is anathema to me?

She said she was just kidding. She said she was sorry. It was too late. I'd have to do my atonement on my own. And off my pinche meds.

It was a hard weekend, gente.

Y, tú sabes, we're taught, as indigenous peoples, our actions affect the coming seven generations. 

Still, I believe the most difficult absolution is not from history, but from ourselves, no?

That's not egocentricity. It's what I know to be true: our egos tend to stand in the way of our abilities to heal, to release and go on with the business of atonement.

Just sayin'.

The package I received this morning contained an artwork my friend Michael produced, emblematizing a serious condition that nearly caused his death.

And it's a thing of beauty.

Thank you again, mister *s

Survival. Movement. Getting beyond ourselves.

I'm for it.

~Emmanuela