Working on my genealogy, I am learning the profound aspect of articles of art, that is somewhere, anywhere, and under others control, even on a shelf in a second-hand store.
I consider the magnitude of the collections financial worth, and with that comes to me a moment where I stop, turn my head slightly left, then consider what my former husband knew, his siblings and their significant others, what they knew of my ancestry and were denying my family having no intent of engaging thoughtful, meaningfull demonstration of awareness towards my family, my parents, children, and siblings and their children.
It was only by sheer luck and disipline that I came to know what I know. I am not financially improved at this writing, and I feel a little like this piece of art, the Roman bust of Julio-Claudian era, like I have been left to float around the shelfs of second-hand stores. Unlike the bust, where once again, it will find its final resting place among the fine artifacts of museum quantification, I considered where my grave would lie and even though I did not know of my illustrious history, I considered I was deserving of a masoleum.
Would it be that I fall during my endeavors, put in the ground not as I'd planned. Instead the disposition of my body, languishing away in an unmarked grave off in some corner of a non-discript cemetery..., how I find my way to the well-versed shelves of life with much deserved recoginition, definition and placement is what I hoped to accomplish before my feet touch their final resting place.
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