The Illumination of Beatrice in the Glass cube

Town Hall meeting in ZoralinQ NH 1864

Moderator has yielded to an open floor:

Young Woman (who taunted Beatrice) rose and walked to the center of the assembly in the Middle aisle:

Thank you Moderator for allowing me to speak on behalf of my acknowledgment— that I will  never be friends with Beatrice nor will anyone else in this settlement.

            Pain in harmony with joy— is in the world we choose. One cannot be without the other. However, the joys of love without the souls acceptance, made Beatrice seem shallow, mired in the misunderstanding that settled in her heart.

            Laugher’s joy was often at her expense; causing confusion— what laughter was, or, for that matter, for her, what it really meant. Beatrice learned to be silent, as everything in her life was her fault, always her accident. Reprimanded, then silenced.

            Assembly, I am not here to fill in all the details I found within her copious notes, but I do want to read for you—  from the small piece of white cardboard that Beatrice wrote. (Looking at the moderator as he nods approval).  I believe she left this behind for me. To help me understand what I had seen, all of us watching her leave—  in a Royal Carriage, fit for a Queen.   

Young Woman holding a white piece of cardboard begins to read:

            “Every evening just after dusk, I prepared myself for bed. Knowing I would sleep, again, in a mysterious space hidden only in my head; unable to be found during the light of day. Not that I was afraid, it had been repetitious for some time. The mounting source of my anxiety was waiting for what I had to accept, when and how it ended.

                                    Sleep would capture me in a glass cube. At first, it would hold me a short time then melt away during my sleep leaving me with pleasant memories, of myself in a glass cube. Each night however, I was held in that glass tube longer and longer until I was released just before daybreak. Each time, as always, I remained silent, though this time I awoke with a gasp.

                                    A few nights ago, the moment I fell to sleep, I found myself already captured, in the floating glass cube. But, this time at the bottom, water was starting to trickle in. I assumed it was a stream of illusion from another dream.

                                   As the night wore on, the water was filling the square of the cube unable to speak or scream I began hitting the glass with my feet and hands trying to break the glass. As the water continued to rise by feet broken and my hands bloody with muscle and flesh showing— I saw a bright light, so blinding I thought it was the light of eternity. I still do not know if I was in the water or above the water when the light began to dim, fading; it illuminated the cube as it shattered, and drained.

                                    I awoke unscathed to an open window with the breeze blowing the curtains, creating a strobe that flashed a soft incoming new day’s sun. I went to my desk and wrote you this note wishing you a better life and a peace sublime”.

~Beatrice~

Young Woman, as she returned to her seat, several other young people stood up, one at a time, each repeating :

           “I believe she left that behind— for ME. To help me understand what I had seen, watching her leave— in a Royal Carriage, fit for a Queen”.           

 

The Tale of Angelica’s Bull Fight

“Within its small circle one finds life, death, ambition, despair, success, failure, faith, desperation, valor, cowardliness, generosity, and meanness—all condensed into the actions of a single afternoon or even a single moment.”   Conchita Cintrón, (matadora)

She climbed out of bed, shook her head, and stood steady.

Twisting her torso, tipping on her tippy toes,

Selecting her most colorful clothes,

She smiled at the sunlight through wide-open windows.

    Yesterday in school, never expecting her path to be blocked  by a very, very, large un-reeling bull, snorting words in puffs of curses and personal innuendos; of her color, her religion, her weight, her choice of clothes, her friends, and the painful statements of her heritage, mother, father, stepfather, stepbrother, uncles, and aunts.

    The bull pushed her mentally and physically with such ignorance and arrogance of stampeding shame, Angelica relinquished.

Feeling demeaned, gouged, her heart bleeding and sore

By the misunderstanding,

The miss-handling of life that allowed itself to snort,

To spit, to bare its teeth, and then, become completely,

Unbelievably cruel with pain.

    Rushing home, closing the door to her room, her head buried in a tear-dampened pillow, no longer able to cry, she fell asleep. On a small table by her bed, laid a dry red carnation taken down from above her headboard’s framed poster of “Conchita”

In her dreams, sitting in a wicker chair

Between the bed and her clothes, left on the floor,

Appeared Conchita “matadora.” Visibly aching, poked by a mean bull

They called “Chiclanero.”

    From situations to experiences, from the offensive to the pervasive, to mistakes made and recapturing sensibility, their stories and Conchita’s occasional swishing animations of a flowing red muleta, filled the room in the spirit of lifting anger and disappointment in gestures without conciliation, with the tip of her fingers, closing the door, revealing her struggling life, as a perfect Matadora. No, as a perfect matador.

Softly ending into dawn.

Their conversation subsided

In a night filled with excitement and adventure.

Conchita, whispered why they met

And what to forget, in a kiss good-bye;

Saying “what makes bleeding stop is within the strength of gentleness, perseverance and dignity, in one stroke of a kind, brave, and… in an unimaginable act”.

 

[A Historical Note About Conchita Cintrón:

     She intended the final corrida of the 1949 season, in Jaén, Spain, to be the last of her career. She appeared in the ring together with the matadors Manolo Vázquez and Antonio Ordóñez. After performing on horseback with the bull, Cintrón rode to the box of the presidente and asked for permission to dismount for the kill. Permission was denied. This was her signal to leave the arena, and leave the killing of the bull to the novillero assigned to her for that task. Instead, she dismounted, grabbed his sword and muleta, caped the bull and prepared it for the kill. She actually went in for the kill and then dramatically let the sword drop to the sand. The bull charged. Cintrón stepped from his path and simulated the kill by touching his shoulders with her fingers as he rushed by. Pandemonium erupted in the stands and the audience threw hats and red carnations at her feet. ]

 

 

Angelica climbed out of bed, shook her head, and stood steady

Twisting her torso, tipped on her tippy toes,

And smiled at the bright sunlight through wide-open windows.

 She stepped out of her room in her most colorful clothes;

(Dressed with the sword of precision “La Diosa de Oro” left behind.

Rushing to school, that morning, she knew

Her famous day had just begun.

[Rev 14]

 

 

I need to take this call: on Bullying at all levels

“I want to be judged by the innocent.” ~Note Found On The Refrigerator~

 

It is a source of humor,

a real knee slapper

targeted “faults”

spittle in the laughter.

specifications, whispered about.

Measured things of imperfection,

calibrated with latex glove

against the length of a snot.

Wine slurred dis-approval.

Tsk, tsk, between sips of West Coast grapes

and New York City Lattes.

 

I have to leave now.

Bushwhackers in the bush

throwing full beer can slurs.

 

when I think about it

Why would  I go without this upheaval;

shame, detaining progress of escape.

 

I need to leave now.

I cannot sit without a syllabus.

I need to prepare my right to prevail;

present my argument

for this incredible obstacle you present,

in knowing me.

Mimicked

like a mirror on the fun house wall.

 

I am leaving  now.

Excuse me,

but I need to take this call.