Wading through a Sea, Memory, Time

Memory of a Wagoneer and a Winter, 1981.

There was a winter storm that hit us during our second year on Layman’s Hill. A big one, the biggest storm we ever saw there if my memory serves me correctly. It was January of ‘81 and Elaine and I had just driven the kids back up from visiting their grandparents in Raleigh, North Carolina. We had that Grand Wagoneer, cream with the beautiful fiber wood-paneling. Not something folks from this generation would find particularly appealing, but it held a quiet and rustic elegance to us back then. Gates had said it would get by during the cold Vermont winter and it did for the most part, save a spin-out here and a jumpstart there. How it purred up and around the hill of that long driveway. I remember a warm satisfaction in the feeling. Returning at dusk from a day of teaching or writing at the college. It’s gentle grinding, so steadily in the darkness after picking up Thames from practice. Returning him to his mother and a hot meal. Such quiet reflection in the beams of those headlights scanning the white stillness. A sort of blank canvas for the young man’s life I often thought.

I sometimes wondered if he ever saw it that way. Or if the hunger and homework and sweat were more than enough to consume his thoughts after a long day of algebra and athletics.

Kitchen Counter, December 1st

I notice I’m getting picture heavy here Damn What can I do To fill new space With text and words and Imagination And Imagination.

Simply spill my mind? Nudge it over like a glass of milk Sitting on the edge of this kitchen Island? It falls delicately. It creeps To the floor Makes no sound when it crashes at your feet.

I scurry to clean it and when I have finished, a calm contentment returns to me. Washes over, And gently pulls the fleeting concern back out to sea.

With a few steps I discard the broken glass down in the receptacle.
My finger is bleeding as it drips onto the counter, white marble A perfect splash, a splash so thoroughly red, so full of life.

I turn back to glance at your face. But you’ve no gaze because you’re Removed from this moment. You aren’t even in the room. This room Of spilt milk and marble counters And what once was A most fastidious gaze.

Were you ever there?

Quiet fall sunday

Writing, posting.
Thoughts, feelings, MEMORIES
Of yesterday, tomorrow, next fall.
A spring day in two years.
Winters and falls,
Past Aprils and Future Augusts.

Realizing the quiet solace in… solitude.
The learning one can encounter
So refreshingly through earnest
Self-reflection and isolation.

Being aware of a past and
Hopeful in a future. Without
The often-times crippling hindrance
Accompanying judgement of one’s self.

But rather through acceptance
And an openness and understanding of vulnerability.
Future invitations to joy
In the presence of challenges and uncertainty.

written on envelopes

lieslieslies:

paychecks
feel so good
until they’re
gone
mocking you
with that number
the number you
diminished
with those stupid
shoes, shoes!
with all
those
whiskeys
and the
ones
you can’t
remember
sad.
like a
long
grocery
list
you can’t
afford- 

(Source: lieslieslies)