How long will it take me to get from there to here? From the place where I was to the place where I am?
I start off with freeze-dried lentil curry and lots of water. I have a good map and strong legs. I miss my music. I hum fragments of Kind of Blue, bits and pieces of Two Little Feet, a bar of Concrete Sky. I stop to wash my hands in the spring and notice a callus where I used to grip my pen. It seems lonely.
The birds sound the same in the morning here as they did on my mountainside. The dawn chorus. Pink and mauve light filling feathered throats, an old view weathered by many visions. Lonesome, haunted. Crepuscular despite the early hour.
I make up songs as I go along now. My mother said she used to do this all the time, not just as a child, but all her life. The little old man on the tractor was so ugly he got a song all to himself, an homage to his puckered face. I make up triptychs of verse about Queen Anne’s lace, bear scat, and why crows always seem to travel in threes.
I pull at a loose thread on my flannel shirt. It wraps itself around my finger and the snap of string from sleeve is gratifying and crisp. My socks are wet and I want to go home.
The blackberries I find taste good and they get stuck in my teeth the way they did when my grandma made cobblers for us. All that crystallized sugar and flaky dough swimming around in a big white Pyrex casserole dish. These berries go into a baggie and I count them out on the bone of my knee as I watch the sun go down.
I had a dream last night about a bracelet I used to wear, a yellow rubber thing with a famous athlete’s name on it. It disappeared at the Y one afternoon when I went swimming. I didn’t miss it at all until I had this dream but now I wish I had it back.
How can people live without writing things down?
Pretty soon the loop will be complete. I’m still not sure where the time went. The crows are still coming around in threes, but there are also more hawks than ever flying above me.
I like the way I think music will sound when I’m driving in my car.
There are no blackberries left.
Posts
what i say...?
ReplyDeleteHi, I came across your blog, and want to say hello. 7th grade, kirtan, William Stafford, Van Gogh.....you have a dark side. Grok. Are you a member of the kirtan/Krishna group around Blue Ridge? I went to a high school in Rome Georgia called Berry Academy (graduated in 1972)...many roads since then have called to me. Volunteered one summer with the forest service in the Conasauga (sp?) wilderness area. Taught in Waldorf schools in California and Wisconsin for 8 years...7th grade was beautiful (as were all the grades). I saw your e-mail, and will send you an invitation to my blog. I hope you will visit. Thank you. Robert
ReplyDelete(here is one of the more positive things I have written)
WISCONSIN LOVE
out on the gentle prairie
sycamore and red-tailed hawk
between twilight and dawn
dreaming dancing wild rose listening heart
rolling field of Queen Anne's lace and bluegrass
white pine and water cress wandering laughing
food and fire burning warm loving delicious
and waiting walking in the dark
breathing in only love
breathing out only love
is
the heartbeat of the night
gentle brilliant creation that whispers
I Love You
in my ear
and my heart
explodes
into billions of suns
Ah, the Conasauga wilderness. I once created a holiday called Lake Conasauga Day.
ReplyDeleteChapel perilous....feels like I should get that allusion but I don't.
No to the kirtan group, but I'm curious.
I know Berry. My grandparents are from that area.
I tried to visit your blog but after a long day settling into a new classroom managed to screw it up. Can you send another invite if you get a second? Sorry for the bother.
Pax, and thank you very much for reading.
Laura
Hi Laura,
ReplyDeleteThanks for replying. It brings joy to read about crows in threes and grandma's cobbler berries stuck in your teeth...dough floating...lost bracelet memories on kneebones that hinge our life together....driving dancing music in our soul, and the berries are gone. Your two little feet are busy and yes, the loneliness is real. You write.
Chapel Perilous was a creation of Bob Dobbs, founder of the Church of the Sub Genius, sort-of-a lone wolf stick it in your face screw the establishment look at religion in America where a lost soul could breathe church air until the inside of their head became larger than the outside. Yes, I know that makes a lot of sense...sort of like the question "who would Jesus bomb?" :)
What does Pax mean?
If you are interested, I can dig through e-mails and find a contact for the Krishna group in Blue Ridge. Her name was Carol. They made some nice music, but I am not a Hare Krishna, so I never visited. I lead kirtan, but am not religious, if that strikes a chord.
What is your interest in Ondrea and Stephen Levine? (That is actually how I found your blog). They are my heroes in life. I'll send you a link to their "apologies" page. Very moving. That is what I aspire to. That is what makes sense to me. Crepuscular?
ok Laura...no bother. no sorry. you're welcome.
RC
Your blog and writing are amazing.
ReplyDeleteThank you. wow. that made my day.
ReplyDelete