17 December 2006

rebecca one.

we are all here. circling. circled. and rebecca is taking these small quiet hands. olivia and louise are there side by side hands in hands. we haven’t seen them since they could barley walk barely run, and now they are here, running the fields, collecting rocks introducing older cousins.
looking out the window through the laced curtain i only see a sea of faces, of fleece, of forgiveness. woolen hats, handmade, manhandled with the care and ease of a new england knitter. of couples getting back to the land. a hippie. and gay telling me later how they had dug a huge hole to plant a large tree upside down. a practical joke? a pagan ritual? nobody knows, and nobody will.
i watched d from my window, went down for a bit, mingling with a tiny ounce of regret- a tiny ounce of awkwardness usually associated with such occasion's as weddings, births, deaths, and tax collections. less awkward than my normal phone conversation, retail interaction, or first meeting. and that starts to set in. how unawkward death can be. how it shrugs up around us all like a scuffed knee, a lost dog. not nice, but too familiar. i walk out joining the circle. noticing how they undry eyes have aged since i last saw them all together. how rebecca doesn’t really look older after 7 years, but more stretched. more thin skinned. with the redness around the eyes of (somebody who can’t /won’t cry anymore)who cannot cry anymore. and the girls. the girls. so young, so loved here.
gay calls on tuesday to ask how i think it went, the ceremony, the circling. and did i catch alan, and did i catch that look in his eye. the look of grief that cannot be measured, that cannot be spoken here, but which runs as deep as any body of water on this land.
i didn’t see alan. althoughi thought i caught his shape out of the corner of my eye. still long, still spry. herding the children, shushing them with the gentle affection only a father can muster- or get away with. but i hadnt layed eyes on him. i hadn't met his glances. maybe nobody had, maybe nobody dared, especially rebecca, especially now.

And this is the way it went. f rom circle to circling. Down the path and everyone had brought flowers. I went out early this morning hoping to get a look at what gay says is the strong presence of a person. That his ashes spread out on sunday. nine days before are still floating there on the surface of the stream. That they are still holding on there. All i found were the frozen edges of banks filled with the preserved flowers. Our gift to saying goodbye to mark. frozen over now in a icy grave, a place to rest. Still keeping their color. Nine days. It’s roses and carnations and some purple flower i should be recognizing. And it hits me that i don’t know what the ashes of a man would look like hovering over the tides of a cold river.. that i would not recognize them and that would not find them here.


on those dark days, when death seemed to well up all around touching edges, she had all she could do to keep from crying. counting backard in her mind.. the lost time, the missed aquantance, the way things from the past resonated as she touched them. the tiny cracks in old wood, and all of the spaces in between, reminding her of then time before this time. a time in which she was younger- felt stronger, and altogether had a greater time of it. when rand was still her and they were still pushing towards something. the way it rolled in waves in her mind. like riding home in the back seat last night, trying not to fall asleep..preforming all of her small tortures. going over and over what could have been different- what could have been easy, made more sense..made her happy(made happiness last).
and it wasn’t a list of big things,,,it wasn’t like you’d expect..finish college exercises, do waht you love..it was more the minute of everyday and all of the days that had pseed rushing below her like the passamaquatee river. like striaghten up, call back the man who loves you, return your sisters email so she knows you are still out there somewhere..send the gift..the one that has been sititing on your bedside table packaged up and ready to get on its way. send it beacaue if you don’t the tiny hopes have welled up just to die here in the dusty apartment, wrestled away in the all too often changed bed..amoung piles of clothes you knew you’d never wear.
do it. send it, and you never did. and moving out now with your dad driving in the front seat you still cannot rest beacuse you never did. and you feel the soft edges of the padded envelope and you feel the way you preessed letters hard trying to make your handwritting look the way you remember your moms being. and you peel back the stamp marked 25 cents and let it fall softly onto the floor of the car, roll over and chase beads of water collecting on the winow.

08 December 2006

the subway calls, the subterranean,the agean, the age

i forget to write. write the dreams. i was in new york, i really was, but i was in new york in my dreams and steph was saying i can dance and sing and i've learned german good since the last time we spoke. and she put on a small show of singing and dancing and her hair was so short again. and i said i think some one stole the whole engine out of my car. and she said don't say injun. and i walked the streets and allys and parks till i could feel my way from one subway stop to the next just like braille.

and my old friend keeps writing me and he doesn't know how much it makes me.

07 December 2006

grandma's emily

my mind has this way of racing. racing right back into time. and the halls and the walls are cluttered with yous and mes. i dream a dream now that is restless, that is all twisted blankets and the night. i have a warm face and it's close to your cold one, too cold. too close. you have a grave face and it's a watery one. too close and too cool. my face it's a hot one, a warm one. still so warm. the extemes of temepture prevail.
yesterday my grandmother called to say she is stopping giving things away. she kept calling me last year saying "i'm boxing up the tea set you gave me and sending it back, along with the collage your mother made me when she and your dad were first married" and she'd call my brother and say " i am shipping you a box of old year books and text books and your fathers old comics".
she assures me she is going to stop doing this. it is because she explains " since your grandfather died i have been dying everyday, and i'm going to do that anymore."

03 December 2006

that oceanic feeling

the oceanic feeling
i can tell you first that i have been watching too much oceanographic footage, obsessed by alla those underwater camera moves. my dreams are drifty, underwater blue, and full of tides, surfs, and moon cycles. I dreampt of a giant whale being pulled from the sea in a giant net. just the sight of it's white patchy under belly scared the shit out of me. barnacles. tiny men inside there. you might think the sea is a lovely dreamers dream, but last night it was the waves, the victorious horrible waves.
samuel used to tell me about a man that lectured all about our obsessions with the ocean, it's beacaue he said, we want to go back from where we are from, want to crawl back in the waves, curl up in the surf and stay there...tiny bubbles on the surface, a blanket in a school of fish, cold weeds on the ground, salt. not me, i'm never going back.
thanks god for jacques-yves.
the only man to realize it's sandy powers

24 November 2006

the nest

it grew between your shoulderblades in a dream i had that meant you and me and as you came to say a missing of more than one more day.

the teapot

do you remember that teapot we had? the white one. it was a city store purchase, late one night after riding the escalator in there for hours. we had thought to ourselves, well well we do need a tea pot.

a water kettle, as his mom would say now.
after you left and after i moved out too and after jo said it was his last month in the old place, i snuck back in on a random trip to the city. it was there on the stove..it gleamed brillantly, dusty and covered with too many nights of misuse. i carried it silently up the back stairs and to my car and away into the afternoon like i had snuck some prize, a glowing white orb with iron spout that meant we were once not as far as we are now.

it felt like an egg ready to hatch.

i have had the teapot for so long now that the insides began to go on the thing. it had since stopped whisteling and i had become more distracted, i guess. there would days it would boil dry before i noticed and it cracked up all the paint inside. i finally figured on retiring the thing, but it lingered on shelved cellar entyways and in cupboards for another year or so.
it moved from vine street with me, without much protest from alex, because i had said repeatedly "well, it's a good tea pot. a fine device" and that was enough for him not to question it too much.
this fall when i started teaching, out on the playground were lots of people's old teapots...maybe even a couple couples' old tea pots..but i was sure none had been as fine as mine.
after many afternoons of sand tea, i decided maybe my teapot could have a good life here under the poplars in the tiny manie village where i have come to spend most days. without record i just dropped it in the sandbox one day.

i watch like a mother hawk.

everyday at the end of school i do one final search, under the slide, up under the big tree's root, back behind the nursery, and inside of the boat we have here, one last search for the teapot, that white round egg-now broken a handle, now missing a lid, one last search for you and for me.

15 February 2006

without return, there is no visable motion

such that a life is layed out in small peices. parcels. the moments strung together by memory. recollection. recounted. like how a bees tiny thighs carry the pockets of pollen that will make honey very slowely for us. how we don't ever hardly think of it, but how it's there. constantly. and the void that constant thought in no particular general direction, in an attempt at forgetting, only fills us up. w/ the underground buzzing. the faint murmur. makes us more anxoius. makes the days into weeks or months or three years, even. but makes minutes feel drawn & stretched out before us like the now unwoundtrails. tales. like the silkworms inching out from under the porch. each spindeling out a string, reaching the end, holding for a moment and then climbing back up. how she hated that. how we loved it. loved watching them work, turn, glisten & return home. if only our own paths glistened with such clarity.