Uncle Richmond in his late 90s. He finally got an electric bike, but only used the motor to help on steep hills. P.S., he did wear a helmet.
I write this on my uncle Richmond’s 100th birthday. He was down in the gym a couple of days ago, thinking he’d do a little workout before dinner. He loves using the machines. This time he sprained his back, which is slowly improving. Also, while he was downstairs in the lounge, he was told the elevator to his fourth floor would be out of commission for an hour. He disappeared, and they found him “sprinting” halfway up the stairs, dragging his walker. I could tell you so many more tales.
The Brown men have always been like this. I wrote two books, two memoirs on the sheer energy of trying to explain my father, Richmond’s brother, didn’t I? It seemed that the intense and flawed relationship between me and my father drove most of my life for a long time. You might say it was my life’s work, to break free from the stories, to fully enter my own life.
Stories are so enticing. Funny. Enjoyable. Untrue. Once we ‘ve locked into a story, we discard the subtlety, the moving parts, the relationship between what our mind “sees” and the way it meshes the story with its own agenda. No matter how hard we try to tell the “truth” of the story, think of the layers of interference! The minute we “see” something, we’ve already clothed it in our concepts of what it is. It’s our concepts we see, not the actual thing. And are we sure the “actual thing” is what we think it is?
Therefore, it’s a brave thing to write a story. To take on the lie and try to fit it to a truth as closely as we’re able. To try to bridge the gap between the reader and what we see. Even if we’re not writing, just telling the tale. “You should have seen him!” You didn’t, so I have to do the best I can.
Meanwhile, my chapbook, Doctor of the World is now out! Here’s one poem from the teeny collection. Remember, these are prose poems. Don’t look for line breaks.
Crickets
Here are the crickets again, like the background sound of stars. Keep calm. They’re no different from your fervent prayers, or the cries in the darkened theater, where you’re not responsible. You can say the crickets are singing if you like to put it that way, but the worst of it is that they’re unconcerned with you. A thousand bows scraping, a deep meaning you can’t read. Leathery wings calling out to each other in the woods. You’ve never fit in. You’re one of God’s creatures, yet the angels and imps outnumber you by a long shot. They’re out there jumping in and out of your notice like quarks and anti-quarks. Everywhere you turn, creatures have already solved what you’ve spent your life diligently working on. They’re calling out the answers to each other in their secret language.
Haven’t you thought that, too? That you’ve been ostracized, excluded, from the secret language of the creatures? You have this giant brain, and still can’t get inside. No wonder the Irish find fairies and leprechauns behind every rock. The world is full of magic. We can only see a small corner of it.
The P.S. . . . .
April 25— the triple launch of new books by Teresa Scollon, Ellen Stone, and me at The Circuit, the repurposed church on 14th street in Traverse City. Sponsored by Michigan Writers.