The Funeral

Arrived at the church, my mother sniping, complaining and criticizing me the entire three hour drive. I kept my father's voice in my head and refused to take the succulent bait she tantalized me with, responding to everything with, "Yes, mother" or just reaching over and taking her hand.

I escorted her into the church, still clad in jeans and t-shirt and fled as quickly as she would let me to the car to retrieve my clothes.

There are three Patriot Guard Riders here, as motorcycle escort (though not flying any flags), all on Harleys. I approached one of the men and thanked him for being here and for everything they do. He smiled kindly and said this was his second most rewarding job. (I will ask him what the first was on my way back inside.)

The man looked at me, removing his dark glasses. "Are you alright?" he asked gently.

"No," I admitted. And he opened his arms and enveloped me in a hug while I sobbed openly into a stranger's arms.

He is old enough to be my father.

Why is it that we often feel most alone in the company of family?

Pleh

Two family deaths in one week and two full days of rehearsals and teaching dialect classes has resulted in one shell-shocked and brain-dead blogger. Add to that an average of four hours sleep for the last three nights. My internal censor has checked out entirely at this point.

I am leaving in six hours to drive two hundred miles to a funeral in the morning, returning tomorrow night. Right now, there is too much to write but I've not the facilities to do so.

"Be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a hard battle." ~ Plato

Dreaming

Mojo and I are watching an old Cosmos. Carl Sagan is talking about the Library of Alexandria and I am dreaming of what it would be like to have a library card.

In a Tizzy

I'm in cockney hell!

Penny for the Guy

Guy, Guy, Guy,
Poke him in the eye,
Put him on the bonfire ,
And let him die.

Memory

Day four of NaBloPoMo and it is literally the eleventh hour.

I am sitting here in front of the computer trying to update my materials and do a class outline for the new Advanced Cockney class I am teaching to participants of the Great Dickens Christmas Fair in San Francisco. I am failing miserably.

Instead I think about my cousin, Punky, who I just found out tonight lost her battle with cancer. I am think about family and memory and the stories we pass on. I wonder about memory and how it becomes compromised, specifically how my memory has become compromised. The memories change when they are transmuted into story. They change with the telling. And as years pass and the tales become ingrained they are almost more vivid then the actual memory. They also become clouded with others stories, especially as they overlap.

It's day four at the eleventh hour and I am lost in memory. My daughter sleeps quietly beside me and I think about the stories I will tell her of the people she never knew. Those who came before. I wonder what stories she will tell in time and how our memories shape the future.


The best memory is that which forgets nothing but injuries. Write kindness in marble and injuries in dust. ~ Persian proverb

To Bed

A thinking woman sleeps with monsters. ~Adrienne Rich