Paralysis

Her earrings don't match; her skirt is too long or too short; her lamps sit broken for weeks so she lights candles; she cuts the blossoms to see the lush green leaves; she'll be leaving soon anyway; she's always leaving.

And in this gypsy life, she packs up and moves on, carrying her trinkets and treasures, her stolen booty, her small reserves. And at the end of the trail, she parks her wagon, merely exchanging ground. Everything the same. What looks like the unencumbered life of adventure is a body drowning and a paralyzed heart.

A childhood tragedy rendered her paralyzed. Surely that is why. She was thrown from a horse and broke her back; she leaned from a window and a bounce in the road sent her hurtling beneath the wagon, the wheels snapping her vertebrae; another gypsy intruder carved out her heart and packed it in concrete or dug it out and fed it to the dogs replacing it with a simple clock. She doesn't really remember anymore and creates stories to entertain her callers.

She doesn't cry alone at night; she's not even sad. Once in a blue moon, Missing slips into the space beside her. Missing. Only missing. It's as close as she gets to loving. Missing is the only fishhook in her heart. She avoids having. She won't miss you when you are gone. Except when the late day sun reaches across the floor, the losing light. That's the time to move on.

Dear Mom,

Happy birthday, Mom. Lorraine. Lani. Marcella.

Part of what we leave - you left - is your five year diary - in your own hand.

I value that portion - the slide of ink on paper - our own force driving the words on the page - "The force that through the green fuse drives the flower Drives my green age; that blasts the roots of trees Is my destroyer. And I am dumb to tell . . . " Ah, the poet your bore in me.

My mother would read, out loud, poetry, plays, stories. The word was the beginning of everything - for me. She and I read with my brothers; later I would read with my children so that words mattered. If we were painters, it would be a pallet heavy with crimson, vert, white and all the shades between. Lorraine did not leave out the nuance - although she could be heavy handed. Here she is - just a girl - a girl - loving her children - discovering herself.

Here she is in a another light, perhaps a fantasy light but one where she was full of joy.

She gave me some remarkable take-aways:
1) You will never be beautiful; you must create an illusion (ah, writing)
2) Men like women, pretty women. You can be smart or pretty; go for pretty smart.
3) Learn to cook (she never did and I was slow coming into my few special dishes)
4) Don't worry about things. Things are what you pawn when times are tough.
5) "You can be anything you imagine." And she believed it. So I did.

So, there is my mother. Don't misunderstand - my mother had many faults - but when she regarded her children - they would be kings, presidents, writers, explorers, rock stars, whatever could be imagined - she believed in them. If there is any energy from my loving mother's soul - it is still true.

You put a child into the atmosphere; anything can happen. But you have a choice - to make it strong. Lorraine made strong children.

Sailing Video posted

I went sailing last weekend on the Archimedes; Captain Robert Eichelberg.

My video skills are not very good yet. ">

And it was all yellow

Yellow flowers in the kitchen,
Yellow flowers on the hearth,
And one at the bed side.

Caution in the kitchen,
Yielding at the hearth,
Cowardice by the bed.

Yellow in the field,
Unabashed, lifting the
Skirt, turning crimson by dawn.