GALLOPING EAST
I am sitting straight and riding high, I am writing the horse that will take me into the future.
We are heading due east a collision course with the sun, just like every other morning, so many won’t know the difference
But this time I am saddled in my great danish great grand father’s medical chair. and feeling bold and settled. The chair is oak and is designed such that a straight back is required and parted knees such that a firm pedal stance is also encouraged. Oak tree is from Burhave…. that is not the way you spell it, it is the way you say it.
Burhave, the house, burned down sometime after Uncle Aage died and my mother and others cashed it in. So really, I sit on an escaped bit of furniture, not unlike in Toy Story, or like the butternut chest we discussed last night. When I think of this chair like this, it becomes almost like my great grandfather’s lap. I am young, but safe. I am suddenly oriented and ready to explore. I am riding the whole world, like each of us do in dreams and in deeds.
What new dreams might I direct, whilst riding around in the heart of my mother’s house?
“She loves to be the director,” I heard last night at my father’s Christmas Party. The puff was momentarily out of my sails, I greyed and sullened and sighed, but then, "so what," big breath, "why not" "better me than many"
I collected my self help my hands high and kept the beat. The fine if sometimes off key(I accept full responsibility for these moments) renditions of the music came forth: o’ come all….. the first noel…. Good King Wenslas etc. burst forth again as my choir of feeders again doggedly turned to what we could remember…. “O’ holy night…etc”
"Like a bunch of drunk birds on a wire?!"
"Well, that would be an exaggeration. But in our own way we are all trying to be free... lol….
y’all know what I mean…. dishes time….
Closing time.
In truth though, I don’t love to be the director any more than I love to watch grand conductors.
The Christmas Dinner was perfect, the turkey the pork loin the long skinny orange carrots with the top of cropped greenery. okay, the crackle on the top of the squash pie was not crunchy because of the shit oven turning off many times in some dying wave. Other than that, there were tarts and pecan pie and plum pudding and hard sauce and so on…wine and whiskey and Baileys for the coffee.. yes, that was a fine feast.
My Uncle Ian was there too….. sadly not Angus and Kathleen …. but happily Aunt Brenda! It was a collection with hope for the future, the youngsters Nick and Jocelyn and McAra….. and the dogs…. my father was happy. my love to Donna for her brilliant cuisine…. and those voices!
But now, it is morning again and the it is the shortest day of the year, I must keep my wits about me. I can stay still and watch the happenings before me. I am cloaked in my mother’s house, and watching Carly sleep by her little dog house. The sky brightens.
This is the resplendent world in which I live.
I am galloping around this morning, my greying eyebrows growing long and wise…
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