February 19, 2024 Monday Essays

 This morning is grey, kind of reminds me of that poem I wrote in High School.

“Not black, not white it was grey” and then I thought about whether I should write “gray” instead. May one was an American spelling and the other British.

Sometimes those kinds of thosghts stop me entirely. No willing to move on to the next line, or the next minute, or next breath. Kind of stops me cold. And I start to breathe again and wonder if I can even remember a poem I wrote so long ago and how much it meant to me to have it published with writings from our class by our English Teacher Miss Tedder. I often wondered what happened to her, during these kind of grey/gray days when the words come in a way that they cannot be stopped. In a time when I think I had an English teacher who wanted me to be true to myself, my authentic self whoever that was and how difficult it was for me to figure out if the words I was writing were from me or actually from someone else. 

Now when I write poetry anyway I say the words are channeled from somewhere else and I take no credit for them. The easy thing about that is that then I don’t edit them, after all “who am I” to edit writing of someone else?

So I continue to write.

The writing this week will be with Jennifer Burd and Haiku, so I am really excited about that, she sent an email about Metaphor to me. That was a subject that attracted me to her first class and because she is an excellent teacher, at least during that time I wrote and wrote and couldn’t quit. So, every place I went I channeled the poetry, sitting in a chair, coffee shop, out for a walk. She just got certified in “Forest Bathing” which is great (I looked into it once, but like all things, it wasn’t interesting to me unless I shared the learning with a friend, and it was a lonely looking affair.) We’re supposed to be outside writing or near something near outside so we can channel the outside. I read the initial lesson plan, I didn’t realize there were so many kinds of Haiku, which is great. We’ll see what I end out exploring. Speaking of which it took well over an hour to get connected to internet, because I had changed something, a password? Anyway my laptop is now connected so I can begin to finish my project. You know the one.

About my dad and in my class the impression is that it is really about dementia. Well we’ll see, I really wanted it to be about my sibling who took care of him. And wish it could have been about my other siblings who also took care of him through the years in a way that wasn’t really recognized. I may have to change the narrative to include everyone.

I guess that IS a story of love and caring. 

REVISION

                        SEPIA PICTURE OF DAD ON HIS GRANDMOTHER’S LAP

He was 82 years old. He didn’t remember his four children, I lived outside the country so I understood that, plus he suffered from head trauma. My 2 brothers and sister, lived, fished and hunted with him, and for a year my sister cared for him in her home. She let me know he could do simple tasks, like painting. He looked at me as I explained the brush, the paint, the wood. I showed him how.

                        PICTURE OF PAIN BRUSH< PAINT AND WOOD in rapid sequence

When he looked at me I saw the sky blue eyes

                        PICTURE OF BLUE SKY

All I had was a few pictures, faded, worn. I wanted to know him, his life. I could tell “Charley” was recognized and appreciated by his colleagues and by the company he worked for for 50 years. He didn’t remember.

                        BLACK AND WHITE QUOTE FROM TEXT

                        PICTURE OF HIM RECEIVING AN AWARD

I knew where he grew up, the Iron Range, when iron poor mines were a source for pellets of iron

                        PICTURE OF PELLETS

Where roads rusted from the Iron

                        PICTURE OF ROAD RUSTED FROM IRON

Where the wood they used was a hard as iron, called “swamp wood” “ironwood” maybe tamarack.

Even the town he lived in was named Marble

                        PICTURE OF SIGN FOR TOWN

There must of been some wings flapping or maybe the sound of crows.

                        PICTURE OF A BLACK FEATHER

When he stopped painting.

“His name was Jimmy. I named him Jimmy.

His leg was broken, I fixed it.

                        PICTURE OF A CROW

“Jimmy the Crow” I called him. I kept him safe.”

                        Rapid pictures of painted wood, brutish, paint, splinted log

I heard a shot

                        PICTURE OF THE SKY

Jimmy on the Ground. I heard my neighbor “Nuisance bird”

                        BLACK FEATHERS ON THE GROUND

Sound of crows cawing.

“Mom ran after me: “shush, shush. Don’t say anything, that’s your dad’s boss, he gives us the wood you split, I head the house, fuels the stove for food. You’re the oldest, think of your four sisters and brothers!”

                        PICTURE OF SKY

                        PICTURE OF SPLIT WOOD

His clear blue eyes looked at me, “Are you my supervisor? I don’t think I’m qualified for this job.

                        SEPIA PICTURE

                        1919 CHARLEY SITTING ON HIS GRANDMOTHER’S LAP