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Sunday, February 28, 2010

A Little Doll

I hold in my hand high-waisted Hattie, hairless as an egg, slightly knock-kneed. Her unfortunately placed arms grow not from her shoulders, which apparently don't exist, but from the sides of her head. She's not only high-waisted but high-armed. Her clothing is scanty, but what there is of it is exquisite. Broderie anglaise for the bodice, and sheer, pale purple metallic ribbon gathered in for a skirt. The skirt, tellingly, barely reaches her crotch.


Even more embarrassing, her skirt doesn't go all the way around her body; it starts and ends at the side seams. Little Hattie is bare-arsed. Her broderie anglaise bodice does go all the way around her, so one has to wonder about the skirt.


Whim of the creator, I reckon.


Are we all whims of the creator? My short waist, your thick hair, my nose, your eyes—have we no way to account for these except as whims of the creator? Well, of course we do: those things are all genetic. Just look at the family pictures and you'll see more than a creator's whim. You are a direct copy of your father, aren't you? And all your siblings look just like your mother. So much for the whim of the creator.


Hattie, to her sorrow, has no siblings. Hattie was a prototype who failed the test. She came out wrong and she took too long to make. A creator who needed to make dozens of little dolls in a hurry would not choose Hattie as the model. So she sits alone, permanently pinned to a cork-board of ideas, while her totally different, quickly made little sisters have scurried off on their various adventures. Poor hairless, high-waisted Hattie, pinned to this corkboard for life.


Copyright 2010 Ann Tudor

Sunday, February 21, 2010

One Bright Point

one point, bright or dull,

is not sufficient

bring back the all-seeing gaze

do not adjust

do not go gentle

do not accept

keep those eyes peeled for the more

that's out there

seen or not

peeled eyes can see farther


fix your gaze on one bright spot

if you can find one


the bright spot must be inward

let those orbs roll back


into the cave of the cranium

let the bright seraphim

of the mind

be the focal point of your

otherwise unseeing eyes

fix them on one bright point

which surely you'll come across

as you swivel those eyes through the mists


and if you find no bright point,

then I guess you'll have to create one

all by yourself

bold creator that you are


Copyright 2010 Ann Tudor

Sunday, February 14, 2010

On seeing a watercolour of a fish in water, after reading a poem by Galway Kinnell

Fishie fishie in a brook, daddy catch him with a hook, mommy fry him in a pan, baby eat him like a man.  This fishie is not in a brook. Perhaps he is in the deep deep ocean itself, where you can swim like Galway Kinnell on the very top surface while beneath you are legions of unimaginable living things. Bright shiny fishies whose lives remain a mystery to us, swimming back and forth and back and forth.


What is the life of a fish in a tank? Is it at all different from the way we float through our own lives, looking for exits, looking for--ah, now we're at the heart of it! Looking for what?   Some look for security, some for love, some for the deep sense of oneness that they know they're on the verge of finding if they could just get their heart/mind/soul around the feeling.


"I want to feel that oneness on a cellular level," a friend said to me. Sounds good to me. Now where do I start?


Okay, too hard. Another lifetime, perhaps, will give me whatever it is I need in order to find that oneness on a cellular level. In the meantime I'll just swim back and forth, back and forth, like these little fishies, in my bright-colored raiment, preening (do fishies preen?), being aware of my separateness and my difference and me, me, me.


What was I saying about oneness? But if I feel that oneness, then what happens to me, me, me? I've spent all this time and money trying to identify "me", and now I'd have to let it go (well, I'd have to, if experiencing oneness on a cellular level were actually my goal. It's my friend's goal. Doesn't make it mine. But admirable, isn't it?).


Let's just look at this pretty blue, green, purple water and be glad we can swim in these depths with the fishies. But, like Galway Kinnell, I'm frightened of being on top of that unknown water. It's so deep, so very deep . . .


Copyright 2010 Ann Tudor

Sunday, February 7, 2010

A Decorated Mandala

I made a mandala and I decorated it with sequins. Are sequins appropriate for a mandala? Isn't a mandala sacred? Are sequins sacred?


Let's discuss the sanctity of glitz. Let's talk about saints wearing lame and form-fitting Spandex that shows the body. Who are these saints? You think you are better than they are, don't you? Because you dress so tastefully? You thought glitz was trashy. Well, maybe God likes trashy. Maybe She's dying to wear a jeweled tank top that screams "girl power!" Maybe She bleaches her hair and pulls it all over to one side with a sparkly comb.


You hadn't thought about that, had you? You hadn't thought that God might not look anything at all like what you had in mind.


God is glitz and glitter when and if She wants to be. So perhaps She likes to see sequins on a mandala and She wishes there were more. She wants me to add some of that glitter-glue that I first thought was too tacky for a mandala. Guess I was wrong.


God is in the details, and today the details are flashy. Here's what I'll add to this mandala: more beads, glittery glue, a sequin star sewn to the page with an antique gold bead. And where's the gold thread on this one? Oh yes, I see it--a fine line of gold thread. So tasteful, isn't it? Obviously I need to add a lot more gold thread.


"Don't hold back!" says God. God likes us to let loose and to let go. You know the phrase "Let go & let God"? Well, I think if we will all just let go, God will sprinkle us with the grace of joyful glitz.


Copyright 2010 Ann Tudor