the leaf spirals downward… wafting back up on a breeze
twirling across the distance between
the time I saw it and knew it when
as pistil and stamen
as hope…
the bud and
the stem
a sassafras growing
out of the
marsh muck
into a pen…
writing on pages
once fifty-feet tall
before the axe
and the fall
and the soil of me
that’s more fertile from everything I’ve ever been
Liana © 11/25
Grandmother Spider solves it… offers her solution
I admire her clarity… smothered in profusion
what really is the point… tangential confusion
we know what we know… including delusion
what hill will I die on… or stay execution?
If I take the upper trail, that’s when I should keep the bear whistle ready for action… J just saw a bear last week when he was taking the trash out. Which reminds him, don’t hang out near the trash dumpers either… like that’s where I’d go instead of walking silently on the forest floors of these old mountains. Appalachians are the most gracious of all high country… come they beckoned… come… so I came to–
listen little sister
angels make their hope here
in these hills
follow me
I will guide you
careful now
no trespass
I will guide you
word for word
mouth for mouth
all the holy ones
embracing us
all our kin
making home here
renegade marooned
lawless fugitives
grace these mountains
we have earth to bind us
the covenant
between us
can never be broken
vows to live and let live
~ Bell Hooks (from Appalachian Elegy)
It’s nearly Samhain. So far, only one person has died.
Raining . . . early afternoon, this library is quietly bored with theme-sweatered women who fall into the midriff-bulging demographic. I like being surrounded by books, but I am distracted and way behind on my deadline.
There are still 36 hours left in October before we will know for sure. From the hospice, J called me last night . . . weakly . . . I cried with relief to hear from him after four days of dark pacing.
A little over two years ago, Nancy was telling me were she hides the car keys . . . my dad looked up from his National Geographic when I came through the door . . . and only three weeks ago I could say, “I just talked to Reed yesterday. This is what he had for lunch . . . and how he felt . . . and where Santos found the mare.”
Today I can say “J called me just last night and this is what he still thinks about and how he feels,” and it’ll be true all the way until tomorrow.
My internal clock stops . . . resets . . . starts again.
I know it won’t be much longer before J joins my seasonal story problem: Since JB died in October 2010, Nancy and my dad died in October/November 2017, respectively, followed by Reed earlier this month, if I remember their voices in present tense, subtract the sadness and add my own as adverb, then how . . . in what way . . . to what extent can I ever hold onto their beauty?
Just let go rustle millions of crisp motivational speakers I’m going to rake and burn.
When does death stop hurting, asked my friend who lost his wife 18 months ago. He is worn out with grief.
Seven years, I tell him, because I read somewhere that’s how long it takes for the skin to completely regenerate. It’s just a theory. He grimaced.
Ok, so give yourself a deadline—write something worth living for on your calendar—work towards the goal: I’m going to (some sign of life goes here) by this day.
There’s nothing left on my bucket-list, he shrugged. All I’ve got is a bucket list, I reply.
October thinks we’re saying the same thing.
The bell in the library tower rings one time every half hour . . . also saying the same thing.
© Liana 10/30/19
(Photos all from Lithuania 10/19)
* ‘floating world,’ living within transient moments of fleeting beauty (Japanese)
The second day after it snowed, I was looking at the scene outside my window and thinking it would be good to have a word for when you love something even better because its fading beauty reminds you of how good you felt the first time you saw it. The Japanese word ukiyo comes close but it lacks the saudade, right?
This brings me to the work of Dr. Tim Lomas who is cataloging a much-needed repository of words in any and every language that express goodness in its many forms with the Positive Lexicography Project.
Who knew that “the glimmering that moonlight makes on water” has been captured in a single word in two different languages: Gumusservi (Turkish) and Mangata (Swedish).
The incredibly satisfying and useful word for “Photos I’ve taken that could have been wonderful but weren’t, yet I posted them anyway” (see above example) is actually commonly expressed in three easy letters: WTF.
I think Dr. Lomas should consider adding that to his trove that you can find here: https://karmiphuc.github.io/link-blog/positive-lexicography-project.html
You’re welcome.
how many times have I gathered myself like leaves do
then waited for the wind to choose the right moment
~ Liana 11/14
After surviving the fanfold and admiring
your oblique body, don’t be surprised
when a chain of perfect strangers
unfurl themselves from the raw material of you
and hold your hand. It’s normal to be anxious
but if you’re as good as you say you are,
you won’t worry about who created whom
in whose image, or begrudge the loss of touch.
Or which one of you is the mother,
the father, which one came first.
Pray when the crayon touches your face
that the god of expression blesses you
with a smile, remembers the two dots
for the eyes. Pray for shirt, for hair. Be thankful
you’re not that poor lonely twin
at the end of the line, one arm raised
and reaching out for someone
who will never reach back.
~ Colin Pope, If You Ever Become a Paper Doll
…furthermore, they do not want to be raked up into bags…they’ve told me this explicitly. I’m the only one in this entire neighborhood who even listens to them, it’s just pathetic.
the hour of soft light... 