nobody sawed the sun as a tree
or hacked the moon
we only erased our skin
as we saw fit,
we wrought the stars from the sluice
of the watergate
which wetted our sleep with dreams
nearest to hope and nearest to love
so much nearer than we believed 
,
,
well, i said, listen.
and ran my hand across corrugated cardboard.
listen.
remember the shape of the fiddlehead fern?

perpetually 

anonymous

========================================================================================================================



Remember? I hope you will, for I oft feel as though I cannot. It's hard to slow down the memory leak - things once so indelible now faded, near vanished -or vanquished, I do not know. The speed with which I acquire the distance from them disproportionate to my desire to keep them near...near to my heart.

Now only vague whispers of what I think I thought I wanted, had, lost. I was filled, fulfilled. My cup which ranneth o'er, now runneth me o'er like a wrecking train; broken pipes once lovingly tended now derelict leak.

Yet the pools of their waste reflect vaporous distant pasts hovering ghostlike from whence I dream I can recall - the love - the hug....so long long ago. And the drip drip drip as it slips by and over and through my heart, strums a lullaby at once both familiar and sad.

I left a month ago, like I've left so many times before, to go off on yet another adventure. Two trips recompense for two weeks work; I so love to teach and travel. Days wandering the streets of downtown Orlando while Russ darted between classes he was in and classes he held. Reading. I spent a great deal of time reading - at the Starbucks in downtown, on a bench by the lake, at a donut shop around the corner, curled up on the futon watching the squirrels play outside the window. Dostoevsky kept me company and I pondered the dilemma of men not quite gods and yet not simply mere mortals. Their thoughts, they think, will be indelible and I know the word is a fiction that time will bring them to whimper. Changes sure to occur, predictable they span the gaps of man and time and religion and morality and penitence and ego and ascension. Nothing is easily acquired. 

Dalton is solid, Patrick longs for the gift no longer open, and en' masse they smile as their dance continues - gentle souls wanting what we all do - peace, joy, comfort, companionship, and, if possible, to limit the suffering of others. That's what friends do - and I have been so fortunate to know them each. Russ is forever; like Bobby; like Linda; like Terry now gone, like I wish John was; like I once wished so too was Dean.

A week with the family for the Thanksgiving holiday: little drama - great joy with the nieces and nephews - energetic and growing so quickly -- too many years lie between the enchantment they have now and the sense they'll have in paragraph one (and two) (and three). Don't spoil it for them. Save the words as comfort not received by me so that they will find in their own time that it's all a part of this great big glorious world/life/joining/solitude. I still get a great deal of Joy watching my brother - he's such a good father; and often I wonder if I would have been.... or if I can even be a good uncle. Kay, his background singer, choreographer, producer, assistant, partner, muse, confidant', stopgap, stalwart, comfort and joy! Inspiration, strength as a willow and lovely in her kind soul. Their children are lucky - someday, I hope that this will server to tell them so. A blessed existence is easily overlooked.



I saw the snow last week - more snow than I'd ever seen in my lifetime - falling so softly you could hear bird wings flapping in the morning chill air - the stars all but spoke as they slid lightly back making way for the sun. Hush. The Colorado Rockies are everything Mr. Denver sang about, and then some - I KNEW the feelings he sang of were real and I felt immeasurably honored to personally experience some of them in my brief excursion to Winter Park.

Work stress picks up in a flurry of hope-to-finsh-before-everyone-is-gone-for-the-holidays-next-week. I won't mind working late, or even coming in o'er the break. Seems I'll be busy doing much o' nutthin. Mom's gone with Aunt Ruth and Bill, everyone else is pretty much 'paired up' - or trying to get that way at the last minute. 

The speed with which it is upon us is staggering - hardly leaves you room to move or catch your breath - sometimes these feelings are good - sometimes they just make your eyes swell up wet. Breathdeepandrelaxitwillallbeoversoon; Santa will leave. Sleep will follow. Slowing down is painful at times and I want to run through the lonely holiday's hoping to stop just at that moment past Valentine's, when it's all still a blur - and more importantly, just before it all starts  again. I don't think I can cry again just now.

geoffy :{)>

updated: November 20, 2002

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