Ash Juice From The Old Man
Echoing spaces where grey matter bulged,
hanging loosely today in his stained cotton bag.
We're pressing through traffic I'm steering the old man
with small shadow girl-child we cross the high bridge.
This baldness defining his lost shrunken nature
hairs whisper of need, eyes pale faded blue.
I leave him at entrance, the tall basement doorway
the child has wandered and I stand alone.
In The Fifth book of Peace, Maxine Hong Kingston starts with the terrible Oakland, Ca. fires which consumed not only her neighborhood and house, but the newly completed manuscript to the Fourth Book of Peace. She speaks of finding the exact location in the remaining ash where her book lay, stacked blanc, ghost leaves, text still legible.
Sifting through ash is a bit of a theme for me of late. I can guarantee you, it's NOT a Cinderella complex. Maybe 35 years of heating our home with a wood stove. Makes for sweet late night contemplation. Where's my fire pit? Got a little wood here.
Just for the record, I'm one who considers the composting process to be terribly sexy and one that I've been personally planning toward (some day's lately, I feel as though I'm already in the process of), and have assisted more than a few dear ones accomplish.
My Poppa, Dick Revenaugh, shared his take on the whole thing thus: "This is IT. This ONE shot is the best one your going to make, and in that, is a totally liberating point of view. You make it right, to the best of your abilities, enjoy the process and try to be good to others."
Profound!
I'll tell you, he'd not have been able to pull back from the intellectual feast I've found on Image Readers thread, and Michael, Mr. Slim, your thoughts and how you express them sound so much like his I wax nostalgic.
Fair warning:
Dame Ruth, you gave me one beautiful piece of writing as a comment on the "People's History of Gather."
I, Adrian, here in a public setting, humbly ask your forgiveness. I had NO idea what was to happen upon pulling my article. Poof! All traces vanished every where!
In the old days, I would have woken to a Ridicule Pole, elaborately carved and bodaciously planted outside my door. There for the whole village to marvel at. Eventually, it would stand in my honor, IF I could prove my corrected path. With my writing abilities? Ho Boy!
Lately, I've been calling on the long departed spirit of my card carrying, atheist/journalist father, to send me a little juice from beyond.
Years ago, four of his six remaining children, broadly slung across the continent, received our portion of the Wild Irishman's ashes. His ex- wife of twenty-one years, our mother, lovingly divy-ed him up at the kitchen table for us to each do with as we chose. That was honoring his life force in the highest regard. Truly right up his alley.
When I was twelve, and already smoking cigarettes on the sly, I had to go to the children's ward to have my tonsils removed. I loved being the Pied Piper for the much younger kids but before my surgery, I hid behind the long curtains at the open window and lit up. As my sore throat squealed I heard a tiny cough behind me. Embarrassed at being caught, I quickly stubbed the thing out. There in the room with me was a newly arrived tyke in an oxygen tent. A two-fer; a new kid to cheer up fused with a kind wink my direction from somewhere in time, about the stupidity of smoking and inflicting it upon others.
I'd like to say I didn't act so foolishly again, but not the case. It took a lot longer in too many arenas.
When my Poppa arrived after the offending body parts had been removed we were able to make a lot of those miserable little kids laugh and squeal as he insisted that I demand the tonsils be returned to me so I could have earrings made out of them.
In remembrance of our shared birthday, my private goodbye to him required a snow shoe camp out across the Klehini River. In the starry night, singing boisterously, accompanied by the symphonic landscape I love so much, I recognized a Comet suspended in the snow lit sky! This odd apparition which I had no anticipation of, hung there winking at me throughout our special birthday night.
I saved a fragment of his charred bone, and with the help of a talented silver worker made a wickedly delightful necklace piece that I've worn now for years. It's helped me get through some terribly trying times, quite a lot of it based around that complicated, beautiful man.
This is his "tell the story and pass it on" approach to "living spirit".
Well, its got a very long way to go, but this is the first time this one's been written down.
