Thursday, November 19, 2015

room at the IN



 VOGUE copyright Conde Nast
© 2015 h2omeloncholy@blogspot.com
© 2015 KM Fikes
Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from KM Fikes is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to KM Fikes & h2omeloncholy@blogspot.com with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.  No excerpt or link may be used for monetary compensation.

 
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Writers love story.  Some who never 'drop ink' live in story.  For so many, fiction is 
fact or vise versa.  The eternal power of story is that narratives are Wonderland looking 
glasses and Dorothy-­ean ruby slippers.  No matter how mystical, stories reveal me.  And 
you.  Stories expose the me IN you and vise versa.

There is a story oft told this time of year.  The protagonist is a Middle-Eastern  teenage mother-­to-­be who has recently married a young man, allegedly not the infant's  father.  Apparently, he knows this too but remains devoted. Holding the reins of a donkey, while the adolescent mother rides – doubled­-over in labor pains, they are turned away from
 inn after inn: 
"Go away; we have no room."  
  
The couple -­ of rather humbled means ­- find a stable.  Their 'stability' would soon be affirmed by a trio of men a little wiser.

J'adore walking Paris.  A poet's paradise.  It is one of the few strolls where those 
cursed with too much imagination don't find themselves conjuring an alternate road.  
There is no need ­to make more room.  Even the subway signs evoke Art Nouveau sonnets.
And that makes sense in the City of Light because transportation is the Parisian experience
made manifest.  I dig the cobblestones.  Don't forget the rain.  Parisian puddles are irresistible.  Walking in Paris means bookstores, real bookstores of old, corner-boulangerie baguettes tucked under every, other arm, and scarves lifting the sagging necks of advanced-aged women into stylish statements to shame the cover of Vogue. Paris has no street life.  The street is Paris; life is the street.  Last week, on Friday the Thirteenth, the street was death.  

The storied-girl, about to give birth, was nowhere near France. She sought shelter in Bethlehem.  There were/are Syrian girls much like her.  Before my adopted, beloved cobblestones...cracked?  My own country - guided by the Star of Consumerism to celebrate the pregnant story on Black Friday - knew it could not promise refugees safe passage.  However, if they survived tumultuous travel, Americans would make space:  

"Come, we have some room."

How to best honor the tragically departed remains an existential enigma.  However, 
Parisians did what they do best on a Friday night: they walked their streets.  For living the 
Parisian life, they died.  Syrians are living the Syrian life now: fleeing for their survival 
upon roads anything but their own.  They walk.  They walk with swaddled babies.  They 
walk with grandmothers so infirmed that the most fashion-forward choice is one foot, nigh bare, in front of the other.  Last Thursday, American law makers, ostensibly, were open to making room for Syrians who cannot go home.  Less than a day later, all hearts made room for Parisian grief,  horror, and shock.  The heart, unlike borders, is infinite in its capacity. Too, too many Parisian walks, back home, were aborted. Syrian walks to something, anything better than the ravages of war, plus the supplemental assault of international indifference, may well pay homage to those just lost if we - in heart and hearth - make more room. Leaving a light in our windows, may we walk tall.

a clever as compassionate critique
on the implausibility of
POSTness 

Til our next 'post', feast upon produce in season...

© 2015 KM Fikes 
© 2015 h2omeloncholy@blogspot.com 
Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from KM Fikes is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to KM Fikes & h2omeloncholy@blogspot.com with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.  No excerpt or link may be used for monetary compensation.

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