This Savage Place

Almost all the leaves blew off the maple last night. Suddenly Indian summer, the prolonged weird heat just vanished and cold and wind took its place.  My mother used to hate the wind.  She stood at the doorway howling at it sometimes like a wolf to the very end. She hated how it whipped and thrashed all the pretty flowers in her garden in a frenzy, like a mad dog foaming at the mouth.

There were black spots on the yellow leaves on the sidewalk this morning, like some disease, mold or rot. It struck me how black and sinister looking they were, big round spots like some kind of plague or cancer.  I kept my head down all the way to the bus stop.  It was hard to look at anyone’s face.

The cemetery looked peaceful again.  How happy they must be, settled in their neat and tidy graves.

A group of a dozen or so Ginkgo trees in the Mormon church parking lot glowed bright yellow like magic lanterns, like sunny stick people, like curly little Shirley Temple when she was America’s sweetheart.  Such a cute chubby darling.   Their branches looked so human like hands raised in the air, like a crossing guard or someone in a panic.  Yes, the Gingko trees, all hands up as though in supplication. Each one a perfect replica of the other. The Chinese eyes are smiling.

The sun is shattering bright.  I’m having trouble breathing again.  I might be hit by a car today crossing that busy street like a highway.

Poor dear they might say she was distraught again today she had trouble breathing last night but I didn’t know it would end this way.  The other one said it was mildly entertaining watching it all a thousand miles away.

Why isn’t anybody crying?  Why is that rich old white man in that big black car smiling?  The driver asked me if I was cold.  “No” I said but I wanted to hear Bob Dylan screaming “It’s alright, Ma (I’m only bleeding)”. Tim Kaine quoted William Faulkner today in a very nice speech he gave just before she said farewell, adieu, goodbye,  to all of us… she was very brave but her husband was crying…”Well, Kernel they kilt us but they aint whupped us yit, air they?” Good for him, that goon bragged that he never read a book in his life……..

I’ve been up all night, I couldn’t even cry like when Ma died or Pa or Aunt Sue.   I bet Jo Ann Darling is glad she’s dead and didn’t have to see what they did to her garden……

I feel so tired I can’t even walk.  I think I lost my shoes….

I threw out that card from the Neptune Society.  The ones who come and clean and sweep and sort out all your stuff for you when you die… Save your relatives the trouble of stepping over your flesh, your trash, your discarded clothes and shoes….

When my father died I remember seeing his single navy blue suit hanging on a lonely hanger in a lonelier empty closet….. the silk pajamas I bought him 30 years ago still wrapped in tissue in the bottom drawer unopened… he never did like to have anything…

I threw out the Neptune card thinking there was time for sadness, sickness, and death and ashes….. Scattered like my father’s in Ukraine in his favorite park near his favorite river under his favorite sky.  Soon I hear they are going to take the country away again.  They are trying to figure out how to rip out the sky and the sun and the clouds.

There is no sky here or sun or park or river….. nowhere even now to put ones ashes. So don’t worry, like he just said.  “Cheerio, the world’s still here.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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About O

I live in a suburb of an American City. I write to try and understand myself and the world around me. I love nature, art, music, literature and beauty in all its forms. I think the world is crazy and many of us will soon go insane from living in this world. What I love almost more than anything is my garden. I love its trees its shrubs and its many flowers. I love the birds, their flying and singing and dancing movements in and out of the sky and garden. Their freedom. I could watch birds all day long, though sometimes they act horribly, and fight and squabble over the birdbath, seeds, and space just like people. As do other animals, and sometimes you wonder if anger, violence, greed and chaos, really has to be part of life, and why. I love to work in my garden. To get muddy and dirty, digging, weeding, mowing, pruning and deadheading. Then, I like to have a cool glass of white wine or red, or sometimes a Manhattan, and drink in hand, I walk around and look at the fruits of my labor. My blog is whennothingworks because for a long time nothing has worked. Friends, family, jobs, money, fame, houses, careers, lovers, things--- it all just doesn't work sometimes, or most of the time. The garden always works. Nature and its beauty always work. Whatever your garden is and wherever it is. My garden always gives peace, delight, calm, majesty, and beauty. And, in my garden, I can sit quietly and think, or just breathe, and somehow manage to survive the world.
This entry was posted in Bus Stop Stories, Ukrainian stories, Uncategorized. Bookmark the permalink.

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