Sometimes we must learn to live with uncertainty, the priestess said. Sometimes we must endure the unendurable. She smiled at me. Come take a walk, she said. Let’s walk over there, under those trees. That pine grove over yonder. Under those quiet pines, on the hush of the needles. Let’s make a basket out of them. Let’s walk to the spongy banks of the creek & watch the salamanders wiggle across the damp. Let’s phone home, and listen to your mama’s voice. Go ahead, let us surprise ourselves by crying.
The bride’s laugh vexed the lands, overlooking the great, bruise-colored canyon, when she first said to the groom, No, I don’t think so.
She defied his desires, for nearly a century. He tried so hard… it nearly brought death. His, or hers; it didn’t really matter.
We’ve learned how some of them, my darlings, are nothing more than creeps. And rest assured, our game does have an end: an end which tips the scale. The journey out of the wilderness, away from the pit, will find our esters quite changed. Our journey was (or will be) long, and very quiet.
Now, our shimmering skin dims to the shadow thief; time is stealthy, taking soundless, fevered positions. The anticipation is delicious, under our knees, truth thrust like a knife (between waxen observers). Soon, light-dressed love will be in your hair; and wrestlers, across the colors, will shift through the room. Desire, realized, is hot silk, slipping quiet and soft. Dear one, there is no other course found. You know more laughing is the way — and less is usually, but not always, more.
Oh! It happened with the first naked, helpless chicken in the oven I recognized… Mommy, get it out, let it out, I cried… chickens have their own heaven, my mother lied.
At six, I dressed as Saint Teresa of Avila for Halloween… that year, I felt sinful accepting candy. More than anything, I yearned to bless their dear hands moving with generosity toward my outstretched pillowcase.
Later, I tried bright blue skin, leading my perfumed cows to drink. I wore robe of scarlet and gold, a red galero atop my head. I wore fragrant saffron in my hair, eating nothing except fruit from the ground, sweeping the earth bare before my steps… with a broom I made myself.
I danced in green meadows, wrapped ribbons around a Maypole, reached high for a golden ring. I sank into plushy new grass. Once more, the earth herself said to me, you will be all right, you will always be all right, as I lay upon her — a small, breakable doll. I lay on my mother like that (like that) (like that) (like that) for hours, eyes shut, and felt her words eternal lift off the roof of my skull and cleanse me of my fear and shame like fast-running, silvery water.
The old lady didn’t know she sat under poet’s jasmine. She didn’t know the plant was native to Iran and of course, she didn’t know another name for it was common jasmine. The coffee was nice & hot and her sprinkle cookie was nice & sweet. Did you know every time a love song made you cry, an angel got its wings?
So she sat at her table, outdoors in the cool shade, writing & editing & surprised every so often by a whiff of some heavenly perfume. She kept writing & smelling heaven, writing & smelling heaven. Someone once said that every love song was really about god.
For a while, she thought this gift was courtesy of a young woman at the table in front of her, but she left and the puffs of light sweet perfume kept right on puffing. She nibbled what was left of her glorious cookie. Your soul is a mirror, my soul is a mirror, she thought.
She saw, reflected in a pane of glass, the image of vines. She lifted her head and saw dozens of jasmine blossoms swaying high above, each tiny, white star the universe’s own perfumery. Right there in a coffee shop, on Sixth Avenue.
Every moment of her life had been marked by her soul, waiting and restless, trying to elevate itself. Yearning. In the end, she had done what she had HAD to do… she recognized herself only from a great distance. Was she Mary Poppins? Pollyanna? A doe-eyed Disney princess? She remembered driving across Western flatlands, as fast as she could, her head out the window, her face into the sere wind.
She, an Air Force pilot’s daughter, felt bad for the poor stewardesses, who knew what was coming in a way mere passengers could not know… stoically dumping everyone’s shoes in the bathroom. Collecting all sharp things, taking people’s eye-glasses away from them. She remembered walking along the edges of the Atlantic, feeling the cool sand under her toes. Mother Universe keeps her eyes on us all.
Someone reached out to grasp her hand, solid & firm. She grasped back. She looked at the sun through the little window, a flashing brilliant light, and lightly closed her eyes. It would be quick, merciful, and good. And right now? Right now she was still alive. She was still a witness. There was no other way to get through life. Mercy was revealed, and blinded her. Everyone was waiting.
When the next big war started, Grandpa grew grave. There can be only one captain of a ship, he said. He’d been in the Navy, and I knew by ship he meant only himself. He may have steered the outside of my life, but inside of myself, inside my body, I knew I alone was in charge. I had heard all the stories about him, figuring some of them were true, some of them not.
Always remember the patriarchy was designed to raise the population, Grandpa said. Control of human bodies was wealth, before common currency. Before title, before paper, before symbols, he said. Who were human beings, before symbols? First, we drew, he said. We took sticks & pushed them through the sand, making shapes our eyes had seen. We planted our handprints wherever we felt most moved, most compelled. We drew our prey; we drew our predators, he said.
More importantly, we drew each other: the eye first. The eye contains the soul. Truth is in the eye. It is a living, breathing process, Grandpa said. Up from the roots, up through the trunk, and up into the sky. Then truth comes back again, around & around in an infinite loop. You are its center… but only for yourself, Grandpa said. In every dimension, mathematically speaking, each human being must define their own truth he said. So much science; so much language; so much sound, he said.
He had never uttered the letters C-I-A. in his life. Listen to everyone around you, Grandpa said. Whomever you decide is most trustworthy in the room, Grandpa said? Listen to them! All liars have tells, he said. Staying patient, staying calm at a molecular level is an acquired skill & takes much time to develop. And then, he wept.
You were not built to carry the weight of this world. And yet. It is upon you; you feel it, heavier every day. Your prayers have been shouted and whispered, in communion and all alone. There are four thousand languages, in this world. Don’t you think God can speak every one? Never be afraid to grieve; to cry; to pound the ground; to bang a drum somewhere; to appear naked as a jaybird, before your maker. And don’t be afraid to make your own mark, on the wall of a cave, on a server, in a cloud. Do you need a map? Some create their own, mandalas with colored sand, swept away after three days. There are so many ways to pray, and the most important way is kindness. You, my beautiful daughter, will begin and end with a simple breath — and you, my well-loved child, were not built to carry this weight, the weight of the world.
Leslie Moreland Gaines is a criminal, a con man and an artistic failure. He has stolen — from me personally — business assets worth at least $66,000. In addition, he has physically assaulted me, stolen from me, and invaded my home.
I’ve received calls, letters, and emails from other victims. I have been thanked for the following warning, whichI repeat here again as a service to the public. Warning: do not ever, under any circumstances, trust this man.
He is a liar. He never speaks truth. He sheds crocodile tears. He is a bad actor. He is a hypocrite, a racist, and a descendant of General Gaines, one of the foremost murderers of native Americans in this country’s history.
He has been successfully sued by both the Seminole and the Miccosuccee tribes for judgments in excess of $1,000,000 (yes, you read that right). I believe he is also is suffering from early onset Alzheimer’s, or some other form of dementia. Or, just as likely, he has just rotted his brain with too much drinking & drugging.
He abuses women physically, uses & emotionally abuses everyone he meets, and continues to steal from my by using my deceased brother’s name on his work! I pray that he doesn’t harm anyone else. Should you see him? Run!
Forewarned is forearmed. I owe all of you a warning. Do not trust this man.
Kimberly Townsend Palmer 