About the Author

Alister Flik


I'm currently a student at the least religious college in the nation (eat that Reed). Ironically, faith is very important to me. I'm not always constant with it, but I can concede that, even when I lack it, it is vital.

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Perfection
 
I.

I imagine God loving a blank wall--
people wiped down to that inner whiteness
Emerson's Over-soul
Melville's Sea
my blank wall

now
couldn't God love me?
couldn't He love you
as one more section,
one more brick
in our transcendent wall?

or are you afraid?

He wouldn't be
claustrophobic--
trapped in our
ever-extending whiteness,
infinite blank walls
ringing God in.
Heaven.
no, God would not
fear our perfection
looming, circling
so high up in infinity
we seem domed--
a ceiling to God.
no fear.
He would be bored.

II.

but what if the bricks
were not bricks?
what if they, each,
each brick
accumulated moments
like soil
fertile for more
each brick
mixed memories into color
and each bloom
of new moment from old
pushed each brick
out, inch
by inch
out of the wall?
what if things like story
and sadness
showered new layers
new patterns
new complexities of order,
and joy and anger
patched over like
sin and virtue?

what dimension
would be true?
what could you
hold in your hand,
no longer a brick,
what could you hold
to be you?

and what if this is real?
why be built so thick
if the end,
perfection,
is erasure?

III.

does memory mean nothing
to Heaven?
must it be removed
stripped down to one uniform
perfection?
is that salvation?

or to be made whole
must we be remembered
whole
and loved
whole;

each brick known
as past, present,
and possibility
held at once
in one great memory?

and what memory would hold all
while mine slips
like tears mixing with rain,
unable to separate the waters?

I can only imagine God knowing
each particle, each memory--
the glue that makes
each brick more.
the God that makes me
all of me
because he loves story.
"I do not think, therefore I am a mustache."
-Sartre *Nausea*

Francis Meyrick

  
Francis Meyrick

How interesting.
I have read this several times now, and for some reason the thought keeps striking me that maybe you could experiment and also write this as a story. Kind of like Kafka would have done.  Same imagery.
If you haven't read Kafka, I try and emulate his style feebly in my story "The Murderer". Your imagery is again very powerful. But it also intrigues me. I don't actually think I can follow all the allusions, there are so many of them.
This is a very particular style of writing, that appeals to a minority of folk probably. But I like it because I can sort of immerse myself in a moving picture which is full of color and contrast.

does memory mean nothing
to Heaven?
must it be removed
stripped down to one uniform
perfection?
is that salvation?

Great question. And the answer of course, from me anyway, is "no".

the God that makes me
all of me
because he loves story.

That is awesome.

Heck, there is a lot in this. Every time I read it I go off on another tangent...

Laughing

I like Happiness. There's not enough of the stuff to go around. I'm trying to make some. Will you help me?
Posted on Tuesday, June 29, 2010 at 19:25:44