There is a Beulah song, entitled "Calm Go the Wild Seas," that contains the lyric "My prints are unique/you've been touched time and time again."
I like to think that we all function this way, that the events that we are a part of, the actions we take to enable certain things to happen, these stick with us and change us, they shuttle us from then to now. Without them, we wouldn't be anywhen.
These thoughts come back to me in the midst of this prosaic shit and my playing out the part of the downtrodden, when no news is good news. The mail has delivered to me an envelope from Malta containing a postcard advertising the MA Art Exhibition at University of Brighton, the school where my friend Heidi was completing her MA in Fine Arts. The exhibition was entitled "Giving Birth to Monsters." It wasn't a piece of bad news. It wasn't a demand for money. It was a tendril of myself returning home to remind me of who I am and to how many people from out there in the faceless world.
Tender tendrils return to me
touching me
marking trails of toeholds
and fingertips
out in the cold
where in the world
I laid my hands
and left traces indelible
left dents and fingerprints
in my fellow man
that remain
and refuse to be lifted
Thanks for the postcard.
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