At the hour of the scorpion she lays down and rests, her hands crossed in solemnity, holding a silent conversation with the engineer of this world, the thing that we call this world, which is also all that exists beyond this world. The all that exists and has not yet been named, can never be named, for names are mere symbols, impoverished, bankrupt marks that do not capture, cannot capture the truth of the matter, the value of the real currency. And the truth of the matter, the real currency is that she has lived. She has lived a lot, she has seen and lived enough and is willing, ready to rest now, to finally be, to forever be, grander than she has ever been before. Open to the possibilities that have always been dormant within her, awaiting the magnificent moment, her magnificent moment, each magnificent moment. To meet with the worms and the cicadas and the grass and the spring and the summer. To enter the lumbar back of pristine winters that make you forever be: a bride, cold and stunning, like the snow of Canadian winters that extends endlessly and makes you feel that we are all equal and clean and children of the same God. Like last night when she had a dream about her father’s death: his funeral was out of this world, magnanimous, unforgetful, unending, because his death, which was natural, not induced, in fact represented the birth and the death of countless others: things, birds, suns, moons, stardust, you and I. They were all there, in front or behind his casket, all present in his ceremony, which was also theirs, ours. The pollen of everything and everyone never ceases to exist: it revolves around us, dancing, encircling us in ethereal, eternal beingness. As I write “beingness” on this white canvas, that word becomes red: it is not because it is misspelled, but rather because the support of this canvas has not yet acquainted itself with the strange, the truly beautiful, the truly sacred. That which exists outside of the alphabets created with letters and iron fists. Your letters. Our letters. Your iron. Their iron. And it is also red because it bleeds all our bloods. Yours. Mine. Theirs: all those people who burst yesterday in the beautiful city of Lebanon, while unconscionable politicians watched in abandon from their perched chairs. Like disgraced kings who feed on the spattered bodies of their siblings.
— Irene Marques
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