Crone Chronicles, Autumn 1999. No. 40, p. 41.
"But For These Blows"
It's not that I was something or was to be something and this was denied me by cruel fate.
But for these blows, I would never have been sculpted.
Whole chunks of my life went crashing to ruin. Again and again. Everything that mattered.
Nothing essential was taken away.
Sad betrayal, the missed chance, a fumbled love -- true! -- the rubble lies at my feet.
What didn't matter was removed.
I stand naked and free, so wonderfully alive -- a product of the greatest art, such that I can know: the far ends of the universe conspired in my making; the roots of my being stretch back to the beginning of time and before; the effect of my smallest most unconscious movement will wash in the tides of distant planets.
I am not just the art, but the creator as well.