What Lies Beyond

Time Passages . . .

Joan Ann Lansberry

December 7, 1998

There's not much time left of 1998....
(Laura's Father made this grandfather clock from a kit. . .)

You know what I was doing at 3 pm. today! I love this clock face, and I'm so glad I'm able to get close enough to it to capture the image.

December 8, 1998

My Relics I have a little box of relics, Things from here and there, A buckle, pin, a tie clasp, A little lock of hair. A square tied with a ribbon, Contains some wedding cake. A dance program I find there, With just one dancing mate. And then a book of poems A four leaf clover too. The button off a uniform, All shiny bright and new. A little golden compact, Holds memories so true, A tiny book of leather, Inscribed with, 'I love you.' A bracelet linked with silver, A ribbon for my hair, And as I check them over, I touch each one with care. I rub the Army button, To keep it just like new, A pressed and dried Petunia, A photograph or two. An empty perfume bottle, Whose odor lingers one, A hanky that's embroidered, A glove whose mate is gone. I count these little articles, As I put each in its place, But the button on the uniform, Still holds the place of grace. And last there are some letters,     Sent from 'Over There,' This is my collection, Match it if you dare. Martha Naomi Bowers, 1950

Laura is refurbishing her autobiography and plans to put it back on our azstarnet server, since we have increased our storage allotment. Her bio originally had an addendum of old poems and journal excerpts from her ancestors. I've been preparing this section for the web, neatly putting the old poems into tables. The addendum is a fascinating glimpse into an earlier age. The above poem was written by Laura's gramma. I love visualizing her treasures. I store my relics here in this journal, so yes, I'm daring her!

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All of this reminds me of a poem I wrote in the mid-eighties. It was inspired by my Gramma and her cronies when they'd get together and talk about the good old days.

Memory Memory Gathers up       pieces of the past to be placed       like precious heirlooms     gently        into the velvet-box of the heart. And taken out         fondly: Time's treasures. JAL, mid eighties

December 9, 1998

Streams of Thoughts and Dreams . . .

December 8, 1998, 10:22pm The attempt to sleep has failed. No, I can't escape the pain that way. The heating pad eases the ache of my ears and eyes some. Yet again another dialogue with self. The endless stream of words, that's what we humans are - an endless stream of thoughts, until "THE END". To pin down these flimsy fleeting things in their rapid succession is the writer's art, to find meaning in the streams, panning for gold, hoping for that glint. Is this what it means to be human? The rest is all animal. Not that there's anything wrong with that. How can you know? How can you force apart the aperture wide enough to let the clear blinding light in? I am the scorpian, cringing in the cave. Some part of me is. Yet I embrace the part of me that wants to KNOW, despite the costs. So my eyes hurt after the blinding light has ripped every illusion from me. Metaphorical eyes, that is. Physical behind the eye and inner ear canal pain is another matter. So on with this love of words, essentially the love of my own mind. I embrace this me-ness, this succession of thoughts-one-right-after-the-other-without-stopping. Even when I sleep, the window washers of the mind scrub down the days flotsam and jetsam, and the mess on the floor is raked into neat little piles. Then the dream winds blow, resorting all those little varied colored leaves and detritus into the most amazing shapes. There is an art to that, art of the random, seemingly random. And for all that, there's some leaves left over the next morning as a usually pleasant reminder of the night time janitor's work. Re-settling, re-ordering, and the slate is wiped clear for yet another day.

 

''Mother's House''

There were some "leaves" left over this early morning. I had an extremely vivid dream. The colors and details were as crisp as though I were really experiencing it. I didn't know my childhood memories of my Mother's house were that clear. The three of us were visiting my Mother. Her house was exactly as it was in 1972. The main focus was her dining room, which had been transformed into a music room. The yellowish green walls with the knick knack filled plate rail, the maroon oriental rug, the low stereo cabinet on the north side of the room. On the east side is her grandfather's clock, nearly identical to the one we have, except that the wood is honey maple. The black grand piano shone with polish, begging to be played. How I used to enjoy playing it, enveloped in its concert hall volume. The south windows with the sheer curtains, and the view of the yellow two story house across the street. The wooden chair in the southwest corner, with the phone stand beside it. . . All these details were digital detail sharp.

Then two weeks had passed. We were again visiting my Mother. All the rest of the house was intact, but this room was empty, except for the maroon oriental carpet and a few knick knacks still on the plate rail. Our voices echoed in its emptyness.

I awoke, puzzled by the emptyness. What significance could it have? When I related the dream to Laura, she thought the only significance is that I'm missing my Mother. That is true enough. The last time I saw her was five years ago, when my Father died. Phone calls and big packages filled with photos and journal entries help to bridge the gap, but it is not like the physical coming together. Perhaps we can see each other sometime soon.

December 10, 1998

I caught this Petunia today!

We went to Ray Rd today and learned a Border's Books and Music store is coming to Ahwahtukee. It will be nice to no longer need a long trip to get to one. I was surprised to learn, reading the journal of a woman in Australia, that there are even Border's in Australia. Small world, and it's getting smaller all the time.

Anyway I saw this flower in a pot at one of the strip malls, and thought I'd test the close up capacities of the new camera!

December 12, 1998

Seizing a visit to Casa Grande Ruins as a photo opportunity, the three of us, along with Glen and Mother, took in the words of the tour guide. These sacred Indian ancestral grounds give evidence to the passage of time. The tour guide gave a hint of the builder's mystery, as yet unanswered. The people are all gone now. But here are their dwellings to inspire our imagination.

December 13, 1998

In our car cacoon yesterday, I was looking at Laura's hand draped over the back of the front passenger seat. I thought of an old poem I'd written, The Woman I Love has Large Hands. It's been over eleven years that I've enjoyed these hands.