Waking dreams of beauty

Ever looked at someone and guiltily wondered how they bear up looking like that? Some years ago I contracted a severe case of chicken pox. It was so bad that within a week I would need plastic surgery. Until then I still, periodically, had to come out of my hiding place for food and other such necessities. But since I'd depleted my strength in recovering, and because I cried every time I looked in the mirror, it took hours to get ready, hours to gather up the nerve to show my face in public. Once a double take in my direction was enough to make my day. Now I devised ways not to be seen. But when I was, my survival instincts would kick in in the form of acceptance and defiance. Because to react otherwise meant a short walk into the ocean with some rocks in my pocket. Yes, I would think whenever my face caused the dreaded look in a stranger's face, this is what I look like for now, this shell, this mask you take to be me. What of it? And, oh by the way, eff you.

I counted the days to my surgery. That was when everything would magically return to normal. Well, hopefully not everything. A few weeks prior to all this my sister rang me up simply to tell me that her misery was all my fault. Afterwards, my fuckwit of a brother, the person who gave me the pox, only laughed at how much more severe my case had been compared to his, which, in his mind, proved how much better he was than I. Such dysfunction had to change. Physically, emotionally, I couldn't handle it anymore. So I wrote them an eff you both letter, an impassioned and thorough explanation of why they would no longer be a part of my life until I decided, if I ever decided, that they could again consider themselves lucky enough to know me.

Surgery day the doctor cut around my facial scars, seven in all, then sowed them back together. Despite the painkiller he'd injected all over my face, I still felt nearly every cut and stitch. But I didn't care. Every slice of the knife, every prick and pull of the needle meant hope, long life, renewal. For the next two weeks I had to keep my face as still as possible which meant no laughing (not that there was any danger of that) and chewing (protein shakes morning, noon and night. I haven't had one since). And now, except for a few minor scars, there's no sign I'd ever been struck by the pox. And my relationships with my brother and sister - especially with my sister, thank goodness - have been reset to a course more to my liking.

What brought that up? Only this...

an etching by Max Klinger (from his On Death, Part 1 series) I saw at the SF Legion of Honor last Sunday. I know, I know. Just be glad I didn't dwell on any of his other images. Like the sleeping mother unaware Death has walked off with her baby. Or the live and very bewildered looking baby sitting on his mother's grave. Fun stuff. Anyway, this image, to me, is a reminder against the attachment to youth and beauty and all things ephemeral. And how detaching from these things is inevitable and necessary if the normal cycle of life is to continue. (What would I have done if I'd been unable to let go? If the doctor had said there was nothing he could do? Would I still be here?)

Still, who wants to think about such things when you don't have to? Here are images to counteract any possibly negative effects from the first part of my post, images of pure loveliness. Careful! Don't get too attached...
This painting (Jose Jimenecz y Aranda, Holy Week in Seville, 1879)) takes my breath away, it's so gorgeous.

This one too. Oh, those textures and colors! I love the expression of the woman in this portrait (Portrait of a Lady, 1591). And the way she proudly proclaims her age, 54, for everyone to see. This should be every woman's conception of growing older.

Here's a couple of works, both by Monet, I could get happily lost in ... Sigh...if only one could camp out overnight in a museum. I'd sleep under this painting...
Oh, and here is me in my new dress that I mentioned in my previous post...This is how it makes me feel...

Thank you God, universe, whatever, for Ann Taylor dresses, plastic surgeons, beautiful paintings, museums my art will one day be in...brothers and sisters...