I saw her . I saw her tonight . My mother lingers like a ghost . I saw her with a samsonite suitcase . She still has the pink rose petals on her dead body … pink lips . A body as fragile as a young childs , her ponytail a waterfall of hair . Once an innocent teenager who loves music , attracted to the “bad boy” of fast cars , cigarettes , beer and horses .
A kindergarden teacher becoming a young mother . A pretty young mother whose home is Chinese curtains and black lacquered lamps , wallpapered bedrooms , a knotty pine kitchen table set with California dishes and milk in tall glass cups , a turquoise refrigerator and a built-in oven , salmon tiled bathrooms and large mirrors . She loves sunshine and is afraid of lakes , loves beautiful dresses , matching hats and shoes , and is afraid of animals , loves to entertain with manners and style , and is afraid of intimacy with friends . She dances with my dad in the kitchen and loves affection with her little children … I see her tonight like this , tonight my mommy , my mom , my mother . She lingers around my heart like brilliant blue light from a diamond deep in the caves of a continent .
In gratitude and love for you , mom , tender is the night … and to her grand-daughters , Denise , Jacqueline Joyce and Andrea … beautiful young mothers of loveliness …
Honey ( Madhu ) is one of the five elixirs of immortality ( Panchamrita )
She wakes at 3:00 a.m. , again the dream of the flying carpet she sits upon , the woven patterns of Turkey , a map , changing in the wind with the new moon tide making joyful the fishermen below . She sees the swimming fish and on the shore , donkeys in the mist .
She watches and here enters a thought that wanders thru the sky slow and deep and golden in the morning . The cosmos change color and there are no limits to anything . She holds a ticket on the night train to Bulgaria .
She walks at 10:00 a.m. only thinking of the bee keeper . With wonder like a new tooth growing she lives here and now and she is saturated like melted butter . Will he be playing Pink Floyd or Procul Harem , Jimi Hendrix or Florence and the Machine again ? He is a ghost never seen and only known by the music drifting from the broken window . She thinks of him sometimes while she stirs thick honey into her dead mothers teacup she has safely wrapped in white linen a year ago for this journey . A cup of delicacy and aristocracy so foreign to the earthy and primitive stone wall she sits upon to eat her simple breakfast .
Like dark chocolate her addiction guides her towards his lane near the outskirts. . How can this be ! … this music ! … this day ! So strangely different from the others ! Beethoven s Third Symphony , this revolutionary symphony that once burst upon an un expecting world in the summer of 1804 ! … and now the bee keepers music . Does he stand with Beethoven in the center of the music expressing his soul too ? Is the artist the hero ? Oh little soul gentle and drifting , guest and companion of her body , flying in the clouds and thru the window with a ticket on the magic carpet …
Flying Carpet 1880 by Russian artist Viktor Mikhaylovich
personal note : We leave something of ourselves behind when we leave a place … we stay there even though we go away and there are things in us that we can find again only by going back … we travel to ourselves when we have covered a stretch of time … we go to that place again no matter how brief it may have been .
Painting left on the wooden gate door in Gita , Bulgaria
I shall begin again when I reach America on April 1 , 2014 .
Love is a lucid roar