In the Event of My Absence Cristina Querrer
Excerpts from a larger work I Perhaps between heaven and hell typifies an experience outside the pain of childbirth, beyond the anguish of loss and the perpetuity of the arctic, hospital waiting room—where, like the airport, the masses wait anxiously for their arrivals and departures. Here, is what I am writing about now. A place where someone cannot absolve are the spaces where I cannot let go. Therefore, ghosts still walk on my paper and step all over my canvas and pull my hair at night and I cannot remember where I stashed my poems—my paintings—destroyed in my brother’s basement during one rainy season that I have not been able to hold a mordant gaze upon an original idea. Assuredly, I told my brother, John, that if I die now, I would like him to oversee my writing and artwork. I can see it in his expression—who the hell do you think you are? People don’t even know who you are? But families of other artists have waged war over a poem or a painting, why can’t mine? II We have become a culture of speed and implacable pretentiousness that the viewing of flesh and violence are our main fondness, and its citizens are brain-washed to believe what is worse than death is living in a society of repressed sexuality. What takes precedence is the numbing ignorance to anything beyond our frivolousness, and it is no wonder that sitting here for two hours now, I have not seen anyone take any of those writers magazines tucked away on the last rung of the magazine racks or take in the wonder of art. How shallow our society is or just plain fraught with ill regard to anything cerebral. How did I become a minority? Why do I search for meanings of words or the grain of things, reveling in its weight and texture, allowing its meaning to marinate and roll in my mouth and simmer in the synapses of my brain? III Faith. Though, I, with no assurance, believe in it, believe it or not.