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Advice for my sister
by Abigail George
2018-05-27 08:26:43
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Pray. Take a warm bath at night before you go to sleep. Just hug a child from a poverty-stricken area and tell them that they’re special. That God did not make junk. Tell them that one-day mercy will bring them to their knees. Tell them that heaven has a story that can lift spirits. I think of you in faraway Johannesburg eating sushi or a plate of Thai curry fusion-style, and keep taking the medication even if you feel you don’t need it anymore. Love. Love all, or is that too difficult an undertaking for you. I think of the rock of faith of Christ (how there is not one thought that is hateful for animal-flesh, how it does not envy or boast for lost generations), the scientific and factual promises of our entire moral genetic makeup. Be more patient with me. You’ve liberated me. I’ve discovered faith and will, progress and imagery. This costume.

port0001_400I love you. I love you.  I love you to the moon and back. To the circumference of the sun. To the planets. To the stars. To Jupiter rising. To the maker of the earth. You stand above other living souls. The dead female poets I have come to love so much. That I have come to worship and praise. These women are like God to me, and only you understand that. You’ll be leaving soon. You’ve finally found the phoenix-exit out to Prague. That homeland of Rainer Maria Rilke. He will find you, in the same way I have finally found you. You are loved. You are loved. You are loved. That is my story. Only part of your journey. I’ve known reckless wastelands and wild, open wilderness filled with grace and stories and pictures and seawalls. You’re really, really something beautiful. There were times when I had a deep hostility for you.

I have known precious few people in my life that I could call friends or even social futurists, and I have understood the social dynamic of history and historians interpreting that history, those paths made of fire awaking our souls to honesty and morality, hope of all understanding, and with that comes the understanding and tolerance of things that people who did live the childhood we lived. Dear sister, you are the light of my life. You are my ocean and river. You are the overflow of day breaking into a million cracks of darkness in the prison-system of nightfall. In teenage years, you were my unknown. You were hidden (a hidden image) to me in the same that soundwaves are. You are the honest impossible to me, the subtle, the magical.

You rise to meet me. You know, you know, you know how all I need is one room with a view.

I don’t really understand your style when it comes to worship what you call ‘the aesthetic phenomenon’. I don’t understand how long it takes you to make friends in a new workplace. I don’t understand your trust issues or your abandonment issues. I don’t understand this. How I neglected you when you were growing up. How I neglected you when you were becoming a woman, or even in the past when you were becoming a mournful adolescent walking on the waters of the investigating what would become your truth. I wondered all this time and still do about who are your closest companions. All the pain was worth it now when I look back on the years we spent or did not spend in each other’s company when we lived in the same house. Look at you now! You’re victorious! You’re victorious. You don’t have to feel ashamed. Hate.

You really have become something of an obsession with me, like the democracy of our childhood country, the sins of our leaders playing out in digital and print media. I turn to look for you now. You’re not here anymore. You’re faraway in Johannesburg. You’re gone, gone, gone, and I miss you. Yes, you are loved. Yes, you paid a price, and I made a price, and our brother paid a price for having an elegant, sophisticated, and narcissistic mother, and a brilliant manic depressive father. You were conceived in love, you said as much or didn’t say once. You are part of my life again, and I’m finally free of the same chains that imprisoned our father. The same genetic material found in me as in him. You’re as complex and complicated to me as Nietzsche. I just want you to be happy now. Find yourself. Go now. Find the ultimate you!

If it means releasing your burdens in another country, staring a new life in Prague. Meeting and marrying the love of your love, having a child there and not here, then so be it. So be it. I can’t be the judge of that. It was our father who composed the future-goals we had for our lives. I mean God knew ahead of time what our individual destinies would be. It was our father who taught us about speeches, lectures on philosophy, the burdens of being educated, having an intellect that could rival no one in his dreams, in his, in us, his children’s daily lives when we were kids. It was Daddy who taught us to fight fire with fire. Daddy who taught us to believe in each other, not just the individual right. That just individual fight. He taught us with a kind of holy instinct to desire with our entire being. He taught us about humanity’s good and evil.

He was the first man who taught his daughters about the existence of truth, and beauty. Keats spoke of that. Keats wrote that down and somehow, somewhere it became a significant part of history. I burn for you when you are not here, and now you are moving not just to another city, but a European country. First it was Port Elizabeth, then Cape Town, then Johannesburg. I’m standing solitude, but I know that I would not be here if it wasn’t for you. I love you. I’ve only realised now just how much now. Death to everything now that stung me in the past. The wasted words that were said in a moment of haste. I don’t know how your faith was made stronger (in me). I don’t know how, why, when you became so wise, this so, so graceful woman in my presence, who can cook, and bake, and love, live, trust with so much energy, and fun.

Is this goodbye, I don’t really know. I only know this. That I love you now with all my heart. You’re the most beautiful person I know besides the magical person that our brother created, whom we both adore. The heir apparent to our father’s throne. You’ve schooled me, instead of the other way round, or perhaps all this time, in all of these vibrations, and waves around us, invisible or visible to the all-seeing, all-knowing, all-powerful mind’s eye we’ve been schooling each other. What is this longing to be whole, to feel significant in this world, and for this brief, challenging moment because even joy and happiness, they are not perfect, and we were never perfect daughters, or that the perfect imperfect balancing act of our mother? I long for your embrace now, the sound of your voice, just your merciful presence near, or far to me.

It is a Christian morality that calls to us now like a sculpture, or important visual art like Leonardo’s Mona Lisa. To make sense of this bleak life, this senseless culture that bankrupts us at every seam, every thread, the fabric that makes up this uniquely patterned costume that we wear. The seam that we call fantastic shroud, the thread that makes up this universe and all the worlds in it, both public and private. Personas that are focused and determined like an ocean-sea. You, my dearest sister are like spiritual medicine to me. My eternal joy and happiness. I am saying this now to you so that you can leave with this knowledge and be happy, and grow. We’ve covered the treacherous abyss of what life was like before, and now we look towards the after-future. This organic navigation that our mother, and hers, and so on travelled.

And in a split second you will be gone. The plane rising up into the air, disappearing from view. Distance lends enchantment to the view, said our father. I remember that line so well.

I don’t know why I write about it the way that I do. I’ve always wanted you to believe in me. I have always wanted you to be prouder of me than I am of you, but you’re already no longer here with me, with us. You don’t belong to me and you never really did. Go beautiful and make the world your book complete with your own happy ending. You’re the woman with the graceful neck, ocean, soul, a snow jewel. Just a fragment of my human body. Particles rising.

Abigail George has two books in the Ovi Bookshelves,
"All about my mother" & "Brother Wolf and Sister Wren"
Download them, NOW for FREE HERE!




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