Thanx to Stalin, Anon.
So many things are at their most beautiful just before they die: She was so gentle, so strong, so prepared; she took me away from my terror, my loneliness, my despair. It was as if the entirety of her fierce spirit surfaced during her last days; her fragile skin was so transparent it seemed to reveal not only her deep blue veins but also the fullness of her heart.
Driving through Harvard Square, the muddy tired snow reminds me of those long days, two winters ago, in the room with the medicine-saturated air, lit by the clear winter light that poured into the room only during the coldest season, when the tall trees surrounding our Victorian house were barren and skeletal.
I reach down to change gears but the stick shift is stuck; this car is so old, dammit. I have to take both hands off the wheel and use my full weight to shift to fourth gear. Relax and ease the pedals past each other.
I take a deep breath, wipe a summer-browned arm across my forehead, turn the key in the ignition again. I keep on stalling and jumping forward. It feels like my mother and I are riding a bucking rodeo horse.
This is her vacation, too, and she would rather be on the beach with her best friend than in a beat-up Jeep that smells like mold in a deserted high school parking lot. I feel so American and so teenaged, learning how to drive.
It reminds me of when she used to try to help me with basic French grammar. Her fluency removed her from the introductory stuff just as her instinctive comfort at the wheel is difficult to break down into steps I can actually practice and follow.
I cannot go through an hour without being drenched by a waterfall of memories. I am waiting for that moment, that day, when I can be happy with my memories and smile about them; I know that is what Mum wanted wants?
Mum had a million friends; she was the most popular person I have ever known. But in the family, it was just the two of us. Dad left us when I was five years old, and I never really remembered him. He traveled a lot.
Luckily for both of us there was enough money in the Chase family that Mum could work with the political activist groups she loved so much without worrying about putting me through college.
We had a summer house by Buzzards Bay where I learned to sail, and an old Victorian house in Cambridge. She also played bridge for money, earning her train fare for weekends visiting her brother at Amherstwhere they would drink bourbon at his fraternity.
Mum was a huge person contained in a regular-sized body. Of her many passions, sailing was the most essential. She instilled it in me.
By the time I was eight I was sailing by myself. I understood the balance between boat and sail, wind and water. And I did win, early and often. My trophies — silver bowls that Mum liked to use for fruit, engraved cups, and models of sailboats — began to crowd hers on the mahogany mantelpiece in our living room in Cambridge.
Adolescence brought me to a more profound understanding of sailing and what it meant to my mother. I laughed, but her face was serious, and she told me solemnly that she really meant it. It was early in April two years ago that I drove to Buzzards Bay with the ornate urn buckled into the seat next to me.
I almost laughed through my tears when I thought about how she still had her seatbelt on while I drove: Um … may I have some more tea? Random stuff clutters the kitchen. We never had a neatly matching set of plates or any policy for what was used when. The family silver came out for everyday breakfast and was most often used with the chipped earthenware plates that she had brought back from a trip to Paris years ago.
Mum reaches out to the pot and pours more tea.Essay Three Part Two: Abstractionism -- Or, 'Science' On The cheap. Preface. For some reason I can't work out, Internet Explorer 11 will no longer play the video I have posted to this page.
Free ebooks by authors who died before and whose work is therefore in the public domain in Australia. Believe it or not I can look back in time and project myself in the period when the skulls where made, believe it or not . When looking then I would say the mystery of the crystal skulls is not that deep as it .
At this year’s conference I’ll be moderating a discussion between Bernardo Kastrup and physicist Christopher Fields. I was motivated to write this essay by some correspondence with Bernardo after my interview with him on Buddha at. The Strange Island Of Palmyra In this overpopulated and troubled world we live in, there is a popular dream of escaping to a tropical paradise island where we can live in quiet bliss, supping the juice of cocoa nuts, catching our daily meals in the water and just getting away from it all.
Free ebooks by authors who died before and whose work is therefore in the public domain in Australia.