Identity Redux

Her workshop it littered with crayons, marker, and an empty container of Elmer’s glue. Scissors snip. Bits of paper fall through the air and come to rest on the carpet. Like marble dust from Michelangelo’s chisel.

“I saw the angel in the marble and carved until I set him free.”

The warm air from the heater makes my eyes feel dry. I blink until a tear beads in the corner of my eye. The radio is on. Renee Montagne is interviewing Annie Leibovitz. “…the mark of a good portrait is whether you get them or get the soul — I don't think this is possible all of the time."

G. looks up at me, smiling. In her hand is a note card covered with patches of color. Her name, clearly written, is embellished with more swatches of color and a lattice of swirls and polka dots, followed by the numbers 6,5,4,3. The five is written backwards.

“I made this for you Daddy.”
I love these kinds of gifts. I tuck them in my pockets like Zuzu’s petals.

I look at the dashboard. One of G’s “butterfly” creations covers the tachometer. The air from the vent makes the edges of the paper flutter.

I think about the interview. How does an artist capture “Soul?” Definitions are definitely in order for this conversation. Are we the mean bits of clay and gristle that covers up a shiny pearl? Or is who you are the culmination of what you have done, what you do, and what possibilities lay in the future; a definition that is only complete once you are no longer doing?

I remember the conversation in church. “We are changing all the time.”

I imagine my soul like the core of identity. “Is there a soul, or just me? What would it look like?” I think about this for a minute. It is a chalice, tucked away in some little nook behind the church alter. “To hold my life’s experiences” I muse. My mind floats over the choir of some great cathedral. Gliding forward, I hover a moment before the reredos then reach down and part the wooden doors that conceal the goblet. It is encrusted with jewels. A momentary flash of light blinds me. Looking down I can see a slick oily liquid that fills the basin. I can see my reflection on the surface. Is it wine? Oil? I think about the taint of sin. Was it Adam that changed or the world he lived in?

There is something on my face. The reality of it snaps me back into the present. It is a bead of moisture rolling down my cheek. I reach over and turn the heater off. My eyes lower one more time to G’s butterfly. The soft cerulean blue oval winks up at me.

The hard stone is bitter, cold and rough. The body, enslaved in matter, twists, yearning to be free. “I’m in here” a voice cries. “I am in here. In here. In here.”