not a pretty picture. not a good. not a bad. picture. but an argument.

Monday, February 6, 2012

what faith is this structure?

i tell you this house was built in 1879.  i tell you the man who built this house, a man with dirty blond hair swiped off to the side, a sturdy jaw and freckles still, loved a woman before, much earlier, 1867, and she died.  she died young.  she had long brown hair that twisted on her chest, matted and crude, so far from what it once was as she labored for breath.  what she had was something that deteriorated her flesh, consumed her body.  as she was living she was dying, even then as he sat beside her, spoke with her, held her hand, even then the structure of her was leaving.  

 you tell me how, after this, a man has faith to wake up in the morning, to brush his teeth, his hair, eat a piece of toast.  you tell me how a man has faith after this to pick up a piece of wood, a hammer, a nail, to build a house.   you tell me how he falls in love again.

you tell me how any one of us has faith.

and yet we do.  

we have to, or what are we?


  1. not letting the moment just passed hold too firmly onto the future becoming present while also painting its features with rouge to bring out its cheekbones . . . steven

  2. love this foto Erin, and your wrote make me shiver

  3. steven, well said.

    laura, it was from a brief place of distress that i wrote this. sometimes moments are stripped, all of life, in fact, and i wonder why we bother. but we do. we have to. well, we don't have to. there is always that alternative. but somehow we rise up, somehow we have the capability to rise up with faith. this is astounding. this regeneration is nothing short of a miracle.



"Words at the limit of hearing, attributable to no one, received in the conch of the ear like dew by a leaf." (philippe jaccottet) or even a quiet presence is appreciated))