The Bubble-Gum of this Body

The Storms have spent their fury- the thunderstorm is over- Job has been censured before the face of humankind- the Lord and Job have come to an understanding… Job is blessed and has received everything¬†double. -This is called a repetition.

Kierkegaard. Repetition.


I have gone cold, alone, clawing from within a well. I have sat, in the puddle, taken my talons to the mile-high brick wall. I have not moved in a week, in a week I have not seen a single sight. I know nothing, other than upward. The girth of my stomach, my chin, my belly, have rubbed raw. For a week I have rubbed my tummy, I have felt my insides grow cold. I have felt warmth only from without, I have doubled the depths, the musk, the dew of this well.

This has been a trap, I am sure, laid by the Devil. No, God. The palm branches covering this cavern, I’m sure, looked beautiful for a reason. For a reason, I bent down to pick that dandelion, that the dandelion’s root pulled me here. I am linked to this Earth, I am linked to the depths of the flower. I sit here only because the flower has been here. I have been nowhere, where someone else hasn’t been. Ah, I only follow.

Job, had you felt this? Was there a time, at any given moment, that you felt you were following? That you were copying? Pasting, upon someone else. In that desert sand of your thoughts, of your body laid flat, you felt atop the Earth. In the jiggle of the Earth, as it exhaled, you felt life. Desire. Paul, I have melted in your words,

For it has been granted to you that for the sake of Christ you should not only believe in Him but also suffer for his sake, engaged in the same conflict that you saw I had and now hear that I still have.

Phil. 1:29-30

I remember it so clearly, how dark that hour was. How you seemed to sit atop a flame, no bigger than a speck of sand, as you wrote it. How you wrote to those like you, just like you. As if in your chest sat a window to Heaven, and in Heaven they saw Jesus. Jesus holding out a hand with holes in them. How I now sit here, wondering, if others see you in me. From you to Jesus. How this works only in the well; how this works in the walls of isolation.

Laying the pain upon pain, the body to body, I had and now hear I still have. I am not alone, but the company comes from without, it comes from the surrounding groan of the Earth. The groan sits like a warm blanket across my lap, I think of how Job would have taken this blanket. How he, perhaps, would have folded it, marked it, cut it into little squares, and began walking the globe. And every few paces left the squares, left just enough taste of warmth.

Like bubble-gum, I sit here, picking up each square. Chewing, every last flavor, and counting the fibers. I am not alone, Paul, you are even here with me. I can feel you in the sand beneath my nails. Job. I can taste because of you. Jesus, I am beyond belief for you. I am laid upon this Earth doubling over; I am bubbling over.

I miss you Paul,

~Your marchman


About Rene Diebenkorn

Lifetime Artist. ETC.

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