What kind of wind is that ? Tangled up in the sheets with Francis , Jack heard six peregrine falcons walking on his roof like chapters to the same novel waiting to come forth after that day of unexpected love when he took Francis for that ride with the little Hawaiian girl on the dashboard and a blowing snow smoked , creating landscapes of Kafka who never finished a novel . Blasts of arctic air , a cross-polar flow , has frozen over Grand Traverse Bay and left these Great Lakes 82% frozen , the region in the grips of an extreme anomalous weather pattern .
A whirling wind , strong , laid itself inside her young body , spinning to keep the fetus from becoming stagnant in the pool of her living womb . The mothers silk slip abandoned on the bare floor as her pain was too much to remember what was needed to dress herself . It was a bizarre spring , the year of 1951 when RKO released the Sci-Fi film , ” The Thing From Another World ” about a crashed flying saucer and a body frozen in the ice , and Francis Camille DeKorne was born , born in the amniotic sac still intact . Her struggle begins like a Seneca legend in not wanting to be born again so soon after ascending into the other universe where ” love is all there is ” and where she was nearly obsessed with reading the encyclopedia of obsolete things . Fright frowned and was not letting her float . Her mother had a sickness inside , dripping blood while she slept , blood dripping , dripping out her nose , her ears , her gums leaving a stain on the white cotton pillow-case and on her upper lip , with blotches like a rash of scratched stickiness in her beautiful hair . Things were “out of order ” , over the edge , and the child would be poisoned by her mother’s confusion . The platelets of planet Earth , platelet counts falling so low that wounds seeped out , not only from the bottom of the oceans causing tsunamis and floodings but also into the fragrances intoxication from the flowers release and causing the earths creatures to become glutinous and fat from lapping up the large amounts of sap from the trees . The fungus that covers 38 acres in a forest in upper Michigan ; one of the largest forms of life known to exist and at least 1500 years old , began feeding on this new feast that the low platelets couldn’t stop , a feast of elements and dead roots with interweaving tentacles spawning an uncommonly huge amount of mushroom sprouts to rise and shoot to the surface above . And the Northwest Passage began an undistinguishable and curious conversation between its rivers and the freeways . Blood , milk , semen , wine , saliva … a benediction of tears and yes , things were out of order . And at this strange ” veiled birth ” of Francis , the babies cry like a canticle , ” O Lord , let me remember of where I came , of the dance of love . I don’t need eyes to understand or see , or eyes to keep your inner knowledge , let me not forget the key to the gate in the east . And please don’t let me write in the shadow of my own hand but in the clear light of yours . Tell them not to cry at my grave anymore , for I am not there .” The babies cry releasing a sacred mist of vapor , bending light rays that reached the north and south Manatou Islands where Native American spirits dwell creating odd and ever changing perceptions of castles , ruins , walls , tombs and towers …the islands themselves suddenly even vanishing from sight .
No one saw the father , he had not returned from Detroit and the birth was early , the phone ringing lonely in the night , unanswered , while this salesman turns up the volume on his car radio and hears the ending line from that movie when the reporter files his “story of a lifetime ” , broadcasting a warning , ” Tell the world , tell this to everybody wherever they are . Watch the skies everywhere . Keep looking . Keep watching the skies ,” Everyone must be saved, the whole world , a world being made new , the bloody fire of a volcano spreading thru like lava , thru the tiny veins into the babies heart beating . Shades of warm purple in the atmosphere giving protection before anyone knew just what was happening . And one day , in the far future , a landscape painting would be recognized in the Van Goth Museum in Amsterdam as her great great great grandfathers , the babies heritage and memory imbedded in her unusual DNA from ages past before matters of race became Americas original sin . And one day too , Francis would still remember her perplexing birth – trying with all her strength not to be born , fighting , aching to remain in the warm fluid of her mother’s womb . A mother who would always love without ever understanding . And water , well , water would forever be her desire , the sound of it , it’s velvet , the taste of goodness as it touched her lips , the waves like worship her enthusiasm . A life flowing like a new paradise from Stings “Opera” as Jack holds her tighter, the scent of soda crackers warm from their naked entangled earthiness while the first falcon , its shadow grey , the same tone as the sky , soars in search of the super continent called Pangaea where the “Aurora Borealis” illuminates celestial travelers on their way to heaven , heaven , the well spring of the rarest things on earth … where Gods message is so brief that it goes on and on .
Jack laid her down , he touched her skin . Behold the falcon and the dove . The baby in Francis’ dream that night wouldn’t awaken until Jack , appearing as a mirage , tells her to bring the little girl infant outside and let the raindrops fall , fall upon her tender body .
note : photo of wolf on bed by Sorolta Ban photography