Feeling such thankfulness for your dear and beautiful friendships ….💜
Feeling such thankfulness for your dear and beautiful friendships ….💜
I sat watching on the sheepskin rug , watching as the desert invaded the room , invading my body becoming like the hollows of the rotating earth . I am tired . The houses gaze at each other with beige pueblo faces . I watch the wide sky , the soft ending lavender of it all . I was once married to a Christian , and once to an artist dead now , and once to a carpenter.
What is that boy doing pulling a skull along the street with a string ? Watching , there appears a light of pale pink from the moon so far away . And in that blush glow I hear my youngest son say , ” I sometimes miss my father “. How do you explain God to his own son ? It’s too much for me . I look down at my drooping breasts , the dark purple nipples he once suckled and the scent of crushed juniper berries passes into my memory , a memory of his father , his fathers paint and ink stained clothes , the very look of him , his gentleness , his father and I walking , walking as he takes the garden shears , clearing a way thru the woods , showing me the birds , the wildflowers , the sun . He hums a song by Jim Morrison , it was to be the last song I ever heard him sing . There was that place of his contentment surrounding his studio , a place now faceless , that place I cry about . It’s been twenty two years . He held my hand so tight before he left and I wanted to lay down on the ground and smell the mud in my nose . You were only five years old sleeping with batman on the wall over your bed .
I sat watching from a room in Santa Fe , watching the night invade my life . I am tired . Your older brother hung himself on a stove pipe a year later , his body growing plump and rotten like palm wine before anyone found him alone in Brooklyn , alone on the Road of Perpetual Tears .
In honor of Edward “Ted” Dickerson
June 1932 – February 1994
photos by Denise Thomasin Photography
There she was , yes . Her choices were different , yes . The sky was grey and pink , yes . She saw out her window , hills that had eyes , yes . Eyes so brown that their softness created a city , yes . A city for only poets , yes . There she was , yes . She had become her own inspiration , yes .
Once upon the earth lived a man , a man tender who she loved . She laid in the quiet not sleeping . The night was to be the last with him . She remembered Amsterdam where tulips die so beautifully and she thought of northern Michigan where tragedy had happened one year ago , a tragedy in the forest , a storms destruction . And she hoped the forest would take care of itself , hoping for mossy growth on the fallen bark to return , hoping she could shove off into the snowy woods down a hill and slide into heaven . Hoping he could too . She planned her escape during those midnight hours , of laying so still while his sleep of anxiety and sweat created a smell that had always intoxicated her , a lingering scent whose memory saddened her now . With the haziness of dawn approaching , without speaking before he left for work , she dressed into her clothes of yesterday . She pulled the curtains down as if disassembling a nomads tent from an oasis. She did everything methodically , packing her clothes , blankets and rugs , paintings , her writing desktop , dishes from Mexico , her green accordion . She carried it all outside , placing them in a pile , waiting for her brother to come , the wall of belongings looking like a carved facade , carved like the Lost City of Petra . Feeling a desert in her heart , hot , she raised her hand to touch the bones of her face damp , damp as she stepped through the door .
Days before he had taken her to dinner , I know as I was sitting alone , watching them from the dark corner table . Looking across Main Street from where they were sitting , I saw her black eyes become transfixed on the upper windows of the long term , newly renovated Studio Hotel . Something in her life was ending and another thing was beginning , she wasn’t sure what but she knew she was letting it happen . She told him a story about her soul , how it was like an intimate plot of moist , warm , well cultivated earth with the sun dazzling hot on it and how the appeals of that small heap of earth were unremitting if anything righteous was to grow , righteous of its quality and how this soul needed so much care . She told him it would be very difficult for her to live if it were destroyed again just now .
The night after her escape , alone , she felt lightening hovering courageously . And out her brothers window the trees were moaning like the lover she left , the shadows like wild animal tracks in the abyss of the winter , the winter of 2016 .
It was beautiful inside the cage , yes . But it was still a cage , yes . He would always be touching her , yes , even when he could not reach her , yes . All the days are holy , yes . The sky was pink and blue , yes . The sky was unfinished , yes .
Credits : last photo by Denise Thomasin photography
Near The River of Wonder I walked , traveling all this way without shoes. A porcupine tree branch tapping , tapping on the window , flashing in the sun , these are the first voices heard , a sound like people talking in whispers , a sound stunning its way around in my mind too strange to believe . Only night and day , one night , one day , becoming my entire life as the moving sculptures of Christs apostles on the astronomical clock in Praque click cryptic with dials and mechanisms into a world so sublime where a skeleton , the figure of death , waits slowly , so slowly , to strike the hour . Is my friend La Vagabonde near ? ” Night and Day ” could be the title of a poem by Chris Nelson or William Blake , or a sign over a cafe in Paris , a bookstore on Orcas Island , a collaboration unbolted by Tony and Tati , a song by Ewian or Pink Floyd , or even the name of a tango dance applauded by the spectators in the square of Puerto Vallarta . But it is for me the name of a most curious decor , the velvet decor of my own life , a blue decor of an endless sky held open by a curtain of tassel trims sewn with threads silken of nostalgia under which peacocks nest where I am touched in a womb like the heavens touch a single star . It is a spinning , puzzling , absurd decor , mysterious where all makes sense .
The hour of motherhood , only one soft sweet peculiar moment , a moment in the snap of a camera , images ( every time I can , I stare at them ) covered in glass , delicate and shimmering , spilling their hearts into my mouth , my breath joining the budding branch where a dove is cooing , where linens sing flapping on the clothesline sending off-beat melodies towards the yurts on Mount Bohemia , connecting with the hum of the electric station not far from that rusty windmill laying broken on its side still able to plink like a xylophone and even further on the beat is giving rise to the howl of the tall Egyptian pharaoh dogs with wide apart eyes gleaming on their foreheads from the rays over the pyramids epicenter . It is a loud ornate place where ” all boundaries are conventions waiting to be transcended “, a world that rhymes with me , rhyming into almost insanity. This is the way it is . Why are birthdays so important when every single second is one ? When day breaks and night departs , I know I’ve been here a long , long , long time . . .
photography by Denise Thomasin
The fox , while Odin sleeps , stands watching on the northern hill that leads to Empire and where everywhere else leads to Cemetary Road . In the upper hemisphere , appearing as a vault , the falcon from Jacks future is seen soaring its freedom , the robin , it’s red breast symbolic of a dawning sun , still ages behind . The sky , a mystic realm , landscapes of afterwards poignant to these flying creatures of the blue . The return of earth is on its way .
The room his ex-wife lived in still has a thin line of light from the cracked window where rain drips the color blood from the small painting still wet from the dampness on the sill . Jack stands drinking cups and more cups of coffee , a pool of thirst that no one knows how deep it goes . ” You can always come back home ” spoken twenty years ago .
The return of new love is on its way this year of 2014 . Jack is a solitary man , practical , indepentent , lyrical with music in his body . Francis had suddenly come by with her just bought old Volkswagen Bus and he thought of her , out on her own , always off to a different place . Could he , could he really think of offering her a practical arrangement , like the one Sting sings about in that song he can’t seem to get out of his mind with dreams of her interrupting his secrets , thoughts swelling and forever coasting . Did he dare … no , she was already on her way … soon going all the way to Bulgaria on the last ship . But what if she said , yes , yes to an arrangement with time to his solitary life – ” a shoulder to lean on and one roof over their heads ” ? But she probably didn’t have any reason to consider that . A good horseman never needs to use a rope for a fleeing horse to follow or return . . . this he knew for certain . She was chasing her inner light , he honored that even though longing to put his bare hands on her face made his heart weak . They could better be friends , faraway friends and he would look for her if and when she returned . He would ask nothing other than to hear her funny laugh . He sensed her shy nervousness and didn’t want to frighten her away . . . a coupling of moon and sky , of loneliness and isolation , of Jack and the orange fox watching .
The day Francis went to first grade in the big city , Jack was not quite two , sitting in his high chair in the farm kitchen on a ranch in the north country , a father placing his own cowboy hat on his little sons blond head , feeding him with a copper spoon . Once , years later as teenagers , they actually passed eachother down a dirt road each going in different directions , when Francis was at her families summer cottage at Glen Lake where Jack and his brothers liked to take cars and girls to Lookout Hill . At 19 she was a billowy silhouette wearing soft suede and florals , fringe , lace up boots , swirl print pants with a paisley pattern bag . The birds all chirped madly about their passing and many eggs were laid that day to hatch wonder and joy into the future when Jack was shown the white ring around the eye of one of these robins descendants . But at 16 , epic love was not on Jacks mind . He rode his horses bare back , went to the Cherryside Drive-in Movies , did daily chores for his sweet widowed mother and tried to tan a Bison hide with the brains of the mighty beast . He didn’t know yet how to plant flower seeds with his mind and didn’t know if it was really true that the island of Lake Dubonnet , near Interlochen , really floated wherever the wind blew it . He had yet to graduate High School and join the Navy , follow the rodeo circuit to Oklahoma and Colorado , play the mandolin , travel by truck cross-country , build his own house , go to Key West , sew bands of feathers for his western hat , bake a fruit pie and notice that the knots in the wood in his ceiling looked like the faces of baby seals . But someday this young man who he was and the older man he would become, passed eachother on Cemetary Road where Francis would join them , a symphony in their cells , and say , ” Are we going “?
” Embracing forever ” , the second of those peregrine falcons flew from Jacks roof where underneath Jack and Francis had fallen out of their bed still tangled in the sheets and the Falcons words were heard by all the earthly creatures , ” because the self that you are was built for eternity by God . He held nothing back , not even himself . He made no mistakes “. . . . . .
Quote from dear Michael at Embracing Forever … expressions of an authentic Self … ” A Course in Miracles ” .