33 – Dregs

I’ve always had some… strange thoughts kicking around in here about how we visualize love, and how we write history. Pop culture and stories give us this model that looks transcendent, everlasting… but what makes the ones we love most precious to us, in my experience anyway, are the things nobody else sees. The banal moments with someone, the fact that they know how to make a sandwich just like you like it, the dumb tune they hum when they’re thinking… those things aren’t in the stories, and they aren’t in the history books, and yet they’re all we really, truly care about. All the fury and pain and struggle is in service of that, of acquiring and protecting that, and yet we immortalize the fury and pain and struggle and just… leave out the rest. “Happily ever after,” and then once the honeymoon’s done, show’s over, everybody out.

Regarding this picture here – the photographer used to be on DeviantART back in the day, but doesn’t seem to be anymore; if I can find his site these days I’ll get a link up. The vanity set in the picture was Eva Braun’s, thus the iconography. The Star of David belongs to the model. I found the picture beautiful and thought-provoking, and it feels pertinent to this train of thought – it’s so strange to see symbols that have such brutal, horrendous associations depicted in an elegant, utilitarian context, intended to be beautiful and intimate. The weird banality of history, the way that earthshattering events touch the ground and surprise us by being so very human… it feels ridiculous and scary and sad and lovely. Like everything these days.

I wish I knew the photographer’s name! Google did not help me.
If it’s your photo, let me know! I love your work and wish to credit you properly.

It seems like we’re always washing our hands.
Fingerprints seem to get on everything,
cups and bowls, and blades, and hearts, and heartstrings.
They’ll butcher our story however they can.

Ask yourself – will they write down this moment?
Love in fairy tales is “ever after,”
and none of them will forget your laughter,
or their righteous zeal for your atonement.

But no one will remember how you smell.
The color of the sky seen through your hair
is part of history I’ll take to hell;
the forges steam with lovers’ tears down there.
They’ll write their books and claim they knew you well,
pretending that your skin was never bare.

Check out the rest of the 100 Sonnets

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