purgatory tender_square i was inside what was supposed to be the windsor house although the layout was different. the previous owner had left a bunch of items behind—board games, a record player, christmas decorations, lamps, a coffee maker. there was old, cold coffee in the carafe and i was drinking from it, pouring liquid into a white mug and throwing it back, refilling it over and over. i couldn’t get enough of the cold matter sliding down my throat, the black shadow of negredo slithering into my belly. i turned on several lamps to bring artificial day into the living room where my husband was seated; he bristled, preferring to sit alone in the dusk. one of the lamps i touched was tiny and cutesy, decorated with a stethoscope and a heart, similar to the nurse angel figurine found on one of the ledges in the house during waking life, which is why i'd assumed it was not mine. the light it gave off in respect to its size was tenfold. and i realized later, one doesn’t need to be in health care to look after someone; in love, there is a duty to watch over someone who is unwell. anyone can check a pulse to feel whether blood still cycles through the body and mark the rate of its rotation. and i have been working for months, if not years, to try and pull my husband out from the dark years that have consumed him. in the light, i studied the christmas décor with snowmen and elves and the word that kept appearing was “joy.” i couldn’t remove the signs from where they’d been arranged, even though the holiday had passed, it was as though they had been glued, they became permanent fixtures; it was a joy that refused to be packed away and hidden in the cellar of my heart. i wanted to donate the stack of board games listing on the bookshelves; i had no interest in playing them with what limited time i had left. yet i knew the old hi-fi in the stand beside was rare, specifically designed to play broken records; i’d thread the needle through the songs my lover sang to me from beyond the walls whenever i desired. i made dinner on the stovetop, eggs diavolo simmering—eggs in purgatory—and i ladled each poached sun into a dish, scooped from the fiery sauce it had cooked in. i tried to cool the sauce and layered it with water in the sink and, soon after, realized my mistake, tried to undo what i’d done. when i woke, i thought about patience and its proximity to suffering; i thought about stuckness. in my dream decoding i came across an image titled, “passing through the fire of purgatory” from a 15th century manuscript of dante’s “divine comedy.” in that passage, “inferno xxvii,” dante is instructed to walk through fire to embark on the next stage of his journey—the fire would cleanse those who were humble, those who had sorrow for their sins. and even though dante knows the fire will not harm him, he declines. even when dante’s guides assure him not to fear, he won’t follow. it's only when beatrice is mentioned, dante’s divine love, as being on the other side of that fiery wall, that he summons the courage to cross. and i know the name my guides will invoke when my time comes to pass through the initiatory flames and i know that i will follow. 220111 ... unhinged her father's rebellion in the great upheaval of the 60s and 70s (which coincided with his adolescence) was his rejection of the institutionalized catholic church. one of the presiding nuns called her grandma in to have a sit down over the paper he wrote about why he chose his confirmation name (he liked the way it sounded with his other names). the nun wanted him to rewrite the paper, take the assignment seriously. the nun talked to her grandmother like her father wasn't sitting in the room with the two of them. her grandma turned to her father 'is that the real reason you chose that name son?' her father looked her grandma straight in the eye 'yeah ma.' her grandma looked the nun straight in the eye 'he won't be rewriting that paper. come on JR. let's go.' they both left the nun's office without another word. her father raised his children to be religiously independent; no indoctrinations into dogmatic institutions that were more political than religious. 'if you want to talk to god, just talk to him yourself. no middle man needed.' she did not realize how unorthodox this was; to have two catholic parents and never be taught the liturgy and dogma. to sit excluded from the communion on the rare occasions she went to church with her mother's mother. at some point in her later adolescence she made the decision to leave christianity entirely behind for the direct vehicle to enlightenment in this very lifetime and ironically her father was surprised. but made no attempt to sway her otherwise. 'look at these kids i've made. greater than the sum of their parts. i don't even know where you get this stuff from!' she didn't explain to her dad that when she was young she used to talk to god when she couldn't sleep and it didn't seem like he was listening. or when she found out what the same god did to moses and noah...or the existence of purgatory, that catholics put unbaptized BABIES in purgatory. she just couldn't get down with the punitive god of that book. she put a wall around her heart that blocked that god from entering. if she was barred from that heaven so be it. as her dad was fond of saying, all the interesting people were in hell anyways. 220111 ... tender_square the shopping mall is vacant, many of the stores are shuttered, and the ones that are open are selling the last of their wares. there are people browsing and others sitting in the food court, but the level of activity amazes me when nothing is happening or seems to be worthwhile to watch. i consider some ice cream, but the shop i pass is short on flavors and what remains is freezer burned. the energy that had formerly flowed through the building with the exchange of hard-earned money for something tangible is on life support. i walk the large corridors curious about what brings me there; what am i looking for? how will i find it in such emptiness? outside, i see some loose stones and i kick them with my shoe, following them as they tumble downgrade while a security guard stands watch at the entrance. i see a fellow artist at the bottom of the drive, someone i went to high school with who works with oil portraits like a renaissance artist, they are so lifelike. i ask her why we are wasting our time here and she has no better answer than i. 220112 what's it to you? who go blather from