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“”Heaven” -is what I cannot reach…”

March 22, 2020

25 of 47

“Heaven” — is what I cannot reach!

The Apple on the Tree —

Provided it do hopeless — hang —

That — “Heaven” is — to Me!

We believe that the Corona Weirdness is a Hell. It is a Hell of our construction of a life that removes the one we constructed. But this new life has the force of law. “For our own good.”

But the superiority shown by texts and emails and posts giving us great good lectures on the virus shelf life and ways it should – Must – be Stopped, says that for some this is a heaven of righteousness. Well it is neither Heaven which Emily Dickinson notes (in her own sequestration) nor is it in any way a Hell of damnation by our willful acts.

To some extent, the contrary:

“The Color, on the Cruising Cloud —

The interdicted Land —

Behind the Hill — the House behind —

There — Paradise — is found!”

Our sons are untouched, but home. We had the first at home, family, meal all together last night in, well, years. I get to draw something this morning. My wife thinks of what and how she will cook. The gardens get raked out. The steps get fixed.

This is what it is. This is what we can make it to be. For some it is the End of The Presidency. For others it is the reason for this Presidency. But it is not heaven and it is not Hell.

“Her teasing Purples — Afternoons —

The credulous — decoy —

Enamored — of the Conjurer —

That spurned us — Yesterday!

My son and I dragged this year’s Christmas tree to be with about twenty years of others that have been laid to rest in a clearing in the bit of glacial moraine that I received as a fee to design the House next door.

Each dead tree has a dead heaven of it’s extreme celebration in bygone years. They were, in fact, worshipped for a month out of each twelve that we live. It’s heaven was when it was newly dead, killed to make celebration, like the fatted calf or the grain of my beloved brown alcohol.

The afterlife of these things was in their consumption, but is now in the memories that may be forgotten. But surely exist.

In this purgatory of Lent, it is not Hell, because we all will come out of our cave soon enough. We will walk away from this dead tree, no longer in our lives, hopefully in a month, probably in a season.

This spring of our purgatory was literary made by us. The death of 2,000 years ago was made by us, too. But the life after that is up to us. Some will feel noble and righteous in their Perfect Following of The Law. Others will feel lucky that they got away with their violations. Some will be the victims of either their acts or others’.

We can either see it, curse it, avoid it, or simply go on as if did not exist. Emily knew that Heaven was what we could not have, and I think Hell is what we make. 2,000 years ago, Hell was rejected, but their was no Heaven. There was no Rapture.

There was life. An undeserved, unearned, Gift. Gratitude is enough for me, and Hope.

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