Blessed are the merciful: for they shall obtain mercy.
Blessed are the pure in heart: for they shall see God.
Calvarium 5:7,8
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Tag Archives: Abortion
Calvarium 5
- 2 doz. cupcakes
- Tea lights
- 2 doz lei
- 2 doz gift bags
- 12 feather boas
- 12 pirate swords
- 2 gal milk
- Birthday banner
- 2 packs juice boxes
- 5 pizzas
- 12 assorted party crowns
- 12 pink tiaras
As the children come into the party room they see the treasure box by the door overflowing with odd vests, second-hand dresses, scarves, hats, helmets, shields, tutus, capes (of course), foam swords, and they don these things, perhaps serially-changing from knight to ballerina to carpenter
Seamlessly
Because they are children
And this is their kingdom.
Calvarium 4
At the beginning of the black-tie fundraiser (325-1675 dollars a plate, depending on your commitment to “the cause”), the organizers have a basket full of random names, (where did they come from? Who were/are these people?) to the current batch of servers-take one and pin it on they say, so they do and for this night they are foreign to themselves-Renata, Consuela, Xavier…instead of Pam, Ashley, and Rob… They have to remember these temporary identities when beckoned or chided by the plate-holders. As when, mid-dessert, a tray falls, sudden show of violence, shattered porcelain, all those scrumptious (expensive) eclairs.
Wasted.
Calvarium 3
Three players, all brothers, familial resemblance in their eyes, the curve bones of their faces, halo-ed hair, lean in. All intent on winning the game of choosing–rock! paper! scissors! Shoot!! The mantra, the litany, the eventual victor, unaware of what can be broken with all these ordinary things.
Calvarium 2
Old time-y barber shop, corner of a once prosperous downtown, old fellas talking about the game on cathode ray TV mounted on the wall. Men coming and going, sitting, standing, paying tips with crumpled dollar bills. So many versions of the naked pate, the scruffy, and the wispy comb-over. Knife to chin, razor to scalp, going through this mitzvah of voluntary loss as that ancient metaphorical talisman turns on its axis outside-red/white/red/white ribbons of our old, shared story of triage. Triage or else.
Calvarium 1
the girl-woman in the kitchen takes her time, cracking the dome of the speckled egg with patience and surgical precision, holds the broken pieces together so that only the white can slip through, the round, intact yolk cradled in the serrated halves of a thing once whole and intact which could have been another thing entirely or…an omelet, a quiche, the whipped interstices of meringue, or these lovely macaroons scooped dough into her piping bag from the sterile bowl on the counter, suburban kitchen, tinted carnival colors, creamy in the middle.
Magi at the park
They emerged from an ordinary
van
…wore ordinary clothes
shuffled toward me along uneven
lines
squinting, sun-struck
I realized: Magi!
come close enough for
greetings and salutations
along the usual
Lines of dignitaries and princes-
Hands shaken; eyes met
they said oh, it is you!
(Me?) their honored guest?
regretting I had no
Gold, frankincense, myrrh to give them
Come so far we all are
children of the King.
Primate Love
The monkey tribe grieves
over the prone body of what is actually just
A robot baby
while across the globe in human cities
woman rage and tear
Euphemistic offspring from their own
wombs
Run, human child, to the relative kindness
of other mammal mothers
who would never, ever
do these terrible things
to even the semblance of
their own young.
To the March
In deep winter
she chooses to suspend
All the ordinary chores
Drags a heavy fishing net to the belly
of this man-made stream
Feet first into
cold deep
Swims upstream
where they wait for her
bobbing on the water
snagged by the naked
limbs of winter branches
An old oil can, adorned with red duct tape,
several empty beer bottles,
torn flotational device,
And a veritable tableau of shirts and trousers
Snagged on naked limbs
then animated by the wind
Once carefully extricated
she lines the children up by year, gender, alleged disability
Names them back to life
So they can indeed
Fly, flock of winter birds
to inauguration.
How safe is abortion?
Years ago I did an informal study of the language associated with the debate over abortion.
At that time, forty years ago, both sides of the debate referred to “the contents of the uterus” as babies.
This is indicting.
In the 1970s we knew and articulated a simple fact: the contents of the uterus during a pregnancy include at least one human being.
I say all of this because…
Socrates is immortal.
I know, seeming non-sequitur as well as a bit of a hijacked syllogism. But if you think about it, that is exactly what abortion apologetics is about–hijacked syllogisms.
Track with me here.
The original and better known Socratic syllogisms run like this:
1. All men are x
2. Socrates is a man
3. Therefore Socrates is x
X could be mortal, animal, sentient, mammalian…
You get the idea…
But what if men were immortal? Then Socrates would be immortal. His life would be defined by more than the hemlock, the sham trial, the bad marriage, the stopped heart. He would be out there somewhere, forever, thinking, feeling, real forever.
So what does that have to do with the safety of abortion?
What if we substitute human fetus for Socrates or men?
1. All human fetuses are…
Half of all abortion patients die. Those patients are the children of the other half of the patients.
Anyone who says abortion is safer than giving birth simply has the math terribly wrong.
Imagine if this math applied to all medical appointments: half of the people who went to the doctor on any day would not only not leave the clinic alive, they also could have their remains given to research concerns for money.
Still, what does that have to do with Socrates being immortal?
If Socrates is immortal
Then Someone or Thing has made him so.
A Word perhaps, an eternal Word.
Born into poverty, at risk of being the victim of infanticide, not because of who he was right then but because of who he would be…
Who they would be…the millions of would-be people.
Who like, Socrates, deserve true logic, not faulty syllogism.
Carrying Light 