Category Archives: father

Resurrection (tentative title)

Work on the book about my father resumes, all true, even my son, my fahter’s only grandson; the only son mine from conception through birth –I won’t go into the details of that, except to express my thanks to a Bangladshi sperm donor. and the man in my life, Thomas Robert Higginson, that wonderful and complex man.  I introdcuce my father and his father to the most important men in my life, my son Ansted:

a photo of Ansted , and of Ansted with me:

 

 

 

 

Some pictures of Thomas:

 

 

 

I will never reveal his legal name, although I know it; that just wouldn’t be fair?  If his identity is ever revealed, he will have to reveal it, not me.  I could even post some photos of this man and myself, but not at this time; he must remain enigmatic, incognito

Just know that he is real, and it is perfectly fine if you bcome jealous of him, after all, he is the man appointed to this honor of  well, being the world’s greatest lover –not sayng he is perfect, as he does tend to misunderstand things, even when I am prasing him, but he deserves every  word of praise I give him,  and he has taken a lot from me, but all in the spirit of how much I love him, but the realiy of him is a bit too private to share, some images of my father:MY FATHER IN HIS FAVORITE LIVING ROOM CHAIR

 

 

 is introduced to nsted my son, and to Thomas Robert  who never got to meet him while he lived,  One of the great tragedies of the world.  Even those who saw him, did not know him, glimpses only, but no real sense of the complexity and loving nature of his character; I am doing the best that I can

 

as well as my paternal grandfather:

 

Frizzell Brasier, father of Calvin Brasier, a farmer

 

that’s about it for now.  I will probably write all through the night. There is so much good that I must say, (not that I don’t want Thomas Robert Higginson himself to say more good about me, and about the book 

 

Thomas Robert persists in Calling mea great writer” –-maybe I am, but I have a great someone to write about, but only I (and Thomas Robert of course) are privy  to the details.  

 

I can post no more details without giving away his identity,   but I advise all of you to search for a man like him, and maybe, although unlikely, for there is only one Thomas Robert Higginson, but search anyway, and perhaps you will come close.  

 

The point is not to identify my son or Thomas Robert himself; the point is to introduce this exceptional man to the small world (that reads my stuff) and is interested in a different model of a man, of a human being, of the outcome  (me)

 

from such a man  who married my mother and is still exceptional although he died in 1980, and would love all the science and technology, things he missed during his life from 1923 – 1980; above all he would have adoresd computers, and he would have had one.  No doubt several of them.

 

If I miss anything, it is the sound of his voice.  Think of all the ways he could be captured, and he used to sing –such capture with just a phone.  

 

I am sure I will dream about all of this tonight.

 

 

 

my father and I: precious photos.  My mother also in the first one.

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Raggedness

I continue work on the book about my father, that wonderful man, and in the process, I stumbled upon an interview of me about “Raggedness” 

 

Ths ineterview, full title: “The Raggedness of Interacting Boundaries…”: An Interview with Poet Thylias Moss  is proving quite useful for my essentail little porject.  

 

I am learning quite a bit about mysef, and this is proving very useful.  There are some photos in the library of this blog, that I would love to post, but I had better not at this time, maybe I will once this  book, that still needs a title,  is published, but now is just too soon.  

 

My father was a semi truck tire recapper, so I will post a couple of YouTube videos about that process:

 

 

And now, some photos of my father, semi truck tire recapper until he was no longer able to work (Lung problems):

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Stamp of Approval

The featured image is of my paternal grandfather, Frizzell (never sure how to spell his name, one “z”,or two, one “l” or ‘two”?)   a most interesting and confusing background, Caucasian, and Indian from India —

My joy at the moment is because a real man who meets my father in the book, informed me that he has received it and he calls it “a good one”shouldn’t make me as happy as it does.    Let’s just say as things fall apart as they do, he and I have something, and I do not always know exactly what it is, but if he says it’s a good one, then I can’t help but glow.  

It is a good one but for more than he may think… if I didn’t already care about him, this would be reason to.  Now I will just lean back in the joy of this accomplishment.  

I am so glad that these men meet, and that they like each other.  He has no way of knowing what this means to me.  

I have been thinking about that arrow of time a little bit, and well, wondering if I can cause that arrow to move differently, and if I had that opportunity, what would I do?  

Wondering how I would make that arrow move?  These men would indeed meet, and I believe that my son would be joyous… Well the first (and only, I say sadly) time my son saw me with this man, he said, “It’s the first time I’ve ever seen you happy with a man.” I had been married for forty years when he said that, not the son of my ex-husband, but with a Bangladeshi sperm donor father of necessity.  

Ansted with iPod in Toronto

Ansted wwith iPod in Toronto

Well I will not post his picture, st this time; perhaps that goes much too far, but at least I know he likes it, and knowing that is everything right now.

ME:

My Father:

I will rest with this interlude of joy.  

Book about my Father

Calvin Theodore Brasier

My father

I share only the beginning of this manuscript:

 

Silence of the Lambs” is one of my favorite movies; I like Jodie Foster, as Clarice, outstanding performance, and Anthony Hopkins as the serial killer Hannibal Lector, pure genius, and I am curious about impulses to kill, that loss of control, seems to me, that devaluing of human life, such intellectual murderers do interest me, that complexity of the mind, so smart, genius actually, and yet, killer instincts emerge; in all of us carnivores but controlled, animals killed (ideally humanely) , slaughtered, butchered and for sale in neat styrofoam packages under shrink wrap, or if purchased fresh —(fresh meat—collegiate or not) just wrapped in butcher paper, but her film “Contact” even better, for few understand how important my father is to me, but Foster’s character Ellie Arroway fully comprehends; we are as sisters concerning relationships with our fathers; his death will always bother me, although it happened in 1980.”

 

copyright © 2017 by Thylias Moss. Published by arrangement with the author.  All rights reserved.

I am just glad to have a draft done.  My father is one of the most important men in my life; my manuscript involves a few other living persons, and I have sent a copy to those involved; hoping that they won’t mind  inclusion. Hoping they will understand how important this book is to me.  

Especially Mr. Muse.  I pray that he understands. Everything.

Here is one of the impactful “Contact “scenes:

this is all for now.  It exists. And I am very glad indeed. 

   my father                             and my grandfather 

 

My Father and I

He even created my first name for me. Details are in the book.

I am quite aware of just how lucky I am.

The Golden Library of Knowledge, sample covers of the books my father bought for me durting our very long walks, Father and Daughter.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Calvin Theodore Brasier, my father

my father smoking a Pall Mall. These cigarettes killed him.

Online Dating and New Kiss Horizon

 

For this post, I use my former match dot com photo, and my former ok cupid photos.  

They caused quite a stir.  More than I was hoping for actually.  More than I really wanted?  No;

I wanted more; I wanted to see if it was true that I can attract attention.  I really did.  I really do.  All the time.  

“Only dating explained image from this URL: )

Online dating explained

 

My photos from online dating, (by the way, I am 63 years old, have never dieted in my life, have never had any reconstructive surgery, no cosmetic work of any kind.  I do not even wear make-up, no hair weave, extensions or wigs, WSIWYG –all the way.  I have never lied about my appearance): 

 

I self-identity as mixed race, because that is what I am, and I am not ashamed of this at all.  To be honest, I would not mind if more races mixed; for that is true interaction as long as all participating parties agree to interact; all interacting parties leave something behind, and all interacting parties take something different away, do not interact if you are not willing to change, if you must cling to what you were previously, before interacting for interacting will change you if you let it.    

 

a definition of “interaction” states: “:  mutual or reciprocal action or influence” –all interacting parties  change!  

(so stated right here: https://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/interaction

 

–Sure changed me, and I am still changing.  Among the many things Thomas Robert told me, all of them wonderful, by the way, he said: “If ever I change my mind, I will tell you” –an he has said nothing to that effect.  So I believe when he say din August 2016, that he loves me–

 

(I do not feel right about online dating; maybe I will in time, but I cannot rush… I have to take my time.  I do not want to make any mistakes; I do not want to feel any pressure, especially just to have  a man not so far away as  Thomas Robert Higginson is.   I also want to be fair to all involved, especially to my own heart. I feel guilty just a bit. I do not want to feel this way, but I am also involved in the promotion of New Kiss Horizon, my most recent book to date, and I want to do justice ti that unbelievable love, and that will take time.  I have a feeling that  will still be pretty; Thomas Robert was the first man to call me that and mean it.  Not just those catcalls I often heard.  He spoke from his heart, and I am not at liberty to say right here all that Thomas Robert said to me –over many, many years –as the real man behind that name, to the real woman behind the character’s name. )

What I have come to believe via “Limited Fork Theory (and life experience, to be sure), is that much racial discrimination can and will cease when there is more acceptance of mixture.  I do not go back five or six generations, no further than my own father, and his father, both pictured here:

 

 

 

Two of the few photos with my father, I was a teenage bride; I never met my paternal  grandfather while he was alive:

 

 

Here is some info about these men and my experience with train whistles: (courtesy questions Bracken Hamlet asked me on Facebook):  

“My father, those long low moans, my father coming back to me… sounds dissolving in the air, night calls, his bounce becoming a sky. He has a long way to travel, from death and its tucking of things inside itself, called burial, but only him curling his tongue into semblance of an ichneumon fly, and that sound is the curl, chalk writing on the night sky. My father once cooked for the railroad, making slaw, his own recipe under handle of the Big Dipper, making a prayer come true, that is what I hear, my father calling me, and I answer, another train, car of his train switching onto another track, and we speak to each other in those whistles, and train treadles of heart traffic…

Warm, loved, a track itself so the trains could enter the station of my heart and join all other memories of him, whippoorwills answering me, duets and trios with scent of dogwood racing along the tracks, the frogs too, a thick froggy carpet that squishy road between homes of my southern grandmothers, one black and the other something else, oh, those platforms where I would wait for the train. My father often whistled and could sound like a train, like President Kennedy too with a yodel stuck in his throat, that’s what he said, the sound of him cutting cabbage for his slaw with the rim of a tin can as shiny as the rails themselves; that my father was rail-thin was often said, he was traveling the best way he could, those special trains, Nickel Plate and Ollie’s; one even said Saskatchewan

You know, I will always miss my father. Always. I was never spanked because of him; he did not believe in hitting; if something can be loved, you don’t hit, you love it. That is how he raised me , so unlike my mother; how different they were. I don’t think she ever hard the trains. Maybe just a screech of metal on metal, trains encountering obstruction on the tracks, circles in her mind, constricting it. Oh I also recall the magic of being in Terminal Tower when the locomotives chugged into Higbees underground, and the magicians’ smoke filled the space, overlaid more drawings on the luscious artwork, murals (that never should have been destroyed, work sewer rats could do, but I would think that even they would gag on such colorful profundity and drop like tubes of oil paint, potential usefulness squeezed out, fat gray gloves decorating the scene); smoke gushing out of the front silver plate, folded with the fold pointing out like a collar cradled in silvery recollections; this is what irons wanted to be, but not even that Rowenta came close, the steam irons would slobber on the clothes when they weren’t working properly; they wanted to be flattened for usefulness on the railroads, my paternal grandfather built them, hammer and pickaxe, Native American, Caucasian and immigrant from India, dry-land stevedore, oh, oh, oh, these memories….those murals in Terminal Tower railroad station“:

 

— Some of this deserves, warrants repeating, and some of this will pear in slightly different form in a book I am at long last writing about my father, including a scene I will have to completely  imagine since my father’s death in 1980; he got to see not one  of my books while he was alive; he never got to see his only biological grandson; he never got to see me truly happy with a man, the way I was with Thomas Robert Higginson, and I wish my father could have seen that photo of me standing beside Thomas Robert on a bridge, happiest weekend off my life so far;  (even my son who never met my father, commented that he had never seen me happy with a man before, and I know with all my heart that  true.  

 

–Must sidetrack for just a bit right here, because I was married  for forty years, and did not know the pleasure I found with Thomas Robert —  says a lot about Thomas Robert, I know, and it is not my intention to embarrass him; but when a man has achieved something as special as this, you just do not keep it to yourself, 

 

(If you want to know more, and I hope you do, then by all means read, New Kiss Horizon!

new-kiss-horizon

 

 

 

end of sidetracking, but not the end, probably never will be, of feelings for Thomas Robert Higginson)

 

 

(find out more about New Kiss Horizon here :

 

NEW KISS HORIZON LINKS:

 Link to “New Kiss Horizon” on Smashwords: 

https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/683373

 Link to “New Kiss Horizon” paperback on Amazon: 

https://www.amazon.com/New-Kiss-Horizon-Thylias-Moss/dp/1540584496

 Link to “New Kiss Horizon” Kindle book on Amazon: 

https://www.amazon.com/New-Kiss-Horizon-Thylias-Moss-ebook/dp/B01N1K0PLC

 Link to Thylias Moss Amazon writer page: 

https://www.amazon.com/Thylias-Moss/e/B001JSBOQQ 

Vashtis Blog (narrator of NKH, maintaining a blog so that readers may keep in touch with developments in the character’s life beyond the book):

Vashti’s blog URL:

 https://vashtisblog.wordpress.com/)

 

 

Dear Thomas, I sure hope that you do not mind my posting in this blog a photo that said to me was pure “delight’ –that’s what I felt, also; I am standing right beside you where I belong, and you are standing right beside me where you belong, always:

THYLIAS MOSS AND BOB HOLMAN on a bridge in Chicago 2014

Vashti Astapad Warren with Thomas Robert Higginson: love in full bloom

and I am writing a scene in which my father is holding his usual study, his brothers-in-law sitting at the dining room table , table my mother still has, by the way, his lectures on the composition and location of the human soul, a bottle  of Old Mr. Boston nearby, pale in the glasses, like my skin when it sparkles (as it did when I was with Thomas, especially whenever he kissed me and I kissed him); Thomas Robert is a drinker too; they would have enjoyed each other very much, and my father would have been joyous indeed to see that I had loved someone like Thomas Robert Higginson.

 

mr-boston-brandy-logo

 

image from :http://www.liquor.com/brands/mr-boston/

 

 

Back to the business of reverie, and repetition, for all of this is true, nothing truer has ever existed:

 

You know, I will always miss my father. Always. I was never spanked because of him; he did not believe in hitting; if something can be loved, you don’t h it, you love it. That is how he raised me , so unlike my mother; how different they were. I don’t think she ever hard the trains. Maybe just a screech of metal on metal, trains encountering obstruction on the tracks, circles in her mind, constricting it. Oh I also recall the magic of being in Terminal Tower when the locomotives chugged into Higbees underground, and the magicians’ smoke filled the space, overlaid more drawings on the luscious artwork, murals (that never should have been destroyed, work sewer rats could do, but I would think that even they would gag on such colorful profundity and drop like tubes of oil paint, potential usefulness squeezed out, fat gray gloves decorating the scene); smoke gushing out of the front silver plate, folded with the fold pointing out like a collar cradled in silvery recollections; this is what irons wanted to be, but not even that Rowenta came close, the steam irons would slobber on the clothes when they weren’t working properly; they wanted to be flattened for usefulness on the railroads, my paternal grandfather built them, hammer and pickaxe, Native American, Caucasian and immigrant from India, dry-land stevedore, oh, oh, oh, these memories….those murals in Terminal Tower railroad station

 

copyright © 2017 by Thylias Moss. Published by arrangement with the author.  All rights reserved.

 

Dolphins and my father

Here I am, I hate to say it, Sea World, interacting with dolphins, veatures and cousins I love , rememberng that my fathe was willing to build a dolphin tank  for me in what is now m mother’s back yard.

Perhaps the presence of dolphins swiming and leaping would comfort her troubled heart a bit.  For me, just my father’s willingness to rearrange and restructure a bit of grography, no mater how riduculous my original request was, to break yp these animal families, thse mammal families.  And yes, I did enjoy the TV show, “FLipper” how coul dI not?

 

and of course, the Flipper theme:

My father, only a memory now, but one of the strongest and most persistent memories I’ve ever had.  I was lucky enough to have him in my life until 1980.

 

The man who would have built a dolphin tank in my back yard in Cleveland , Ohio in place of the garage:

 

Book about my father

At long last, I begin a book about my father,  a book I have long needed to write.

 

It is a distinct pleasure to recall the man whe invented my first name for me, and had ideas about love  well ahead of anything you hear about now.

He  never tried to force upon me traditional views of women, and was glad anytime I excelled.  He always thought I could, encouraged that. And most of all, he was against spanking.  He sadid that something worthy of love should not be hit.  I was never spanked.  Did not make sense to him.  To punish is not to show love, and on that we agree.  I grew up seeking alternates, always; I still believe that, is an intrinsic part of me, my core.  This belief is my foundaation on which the rest of me is built.  This is the part of me that does not waver, no matter what I face; if it is wroth loving, don’t hit it, don’t bully it into obdeience; let it decide that kindness and compassion are better ways, but unless the individual comes to such decisions on her own, she has been bullied into it, and that won’t succeed  for long, perpetuated “bullying” as a strategy, instead of someone realizing the advantages, the respect  for all, the envionment included, if we love it, we don’t hit it with pollutants etc.   

 

Just how I grew up, the predicate for all of me.

 

I knew my father until my mid-twenties… He died the year before I graduated from Oberlin, something he would have loved to see… He never met my son born in 1991 ANSTED WITH IPOD TORONTO.jpg

 

Ansted with iPod in Toronto.jpg

–all I can try to give him are my memories. As my father died before the height of the digital age, unlike those of us in it now, I have no recordings of his voice except for an old Webcor tape recorder that I had until I was about ten; at my mother’s house now, somewhere, and if any of the old tapes remain, and we can get them to a facility that can extract material from old reel-to-reel tapes, then we’d have what I most want: to hear his voice again…

Not a problem for those born more recently where even phones take movies and record voice –and of course I’ve written extensively about my father, but are I need to do it more… Yes, a memoir! –I was 26 when he died… I knew him very well is my point, but my son, his only grandchild actually connected to him genetically never knew him… and that’s such a shame, as in so many ways, body type, etc, and certain habits, they are so alike, interests; my father would have loved talking to my son, and as my son has a sperm donor Bangladeshi biological father, he didn’t have a certain closeness and bonding with a man in his life, other than my ex-spouse no relation to my son, and the way I had to become pregnant is an exceedingly ugly story, but it is my story, a story in which my time with my father is nestled. He was a drinker, especially Mr. Boston, and I would go with him to the State Store where such alcohol had to be purchased… Never in the supermarkets, from which we had to use jitneys to bring the groceries home –he always did the grocery shopping, not my mother, and he preferred washing dishes as no one else could get them clean enough, etc.. and so much that I remember, but my son has no memories of him of his own, and there are only a few pictures, and none of them can talk, none of them can move, no holograms for instance… No way to go back to capture anything. My father was a huge fan of the Space program and of scifi movies; he and I would watch them every weekend, especially on a show hosted by Ghoulardi –my mother hated such shows as they eschewed religion…

 

–of course I knew him, but not long enough… He was truly an ideal father! –and I guess many would say that I was a spoiled daughter…–“spoiled” –as in unrefrigerated meat, produce, milk spoiled as in well past an expiration, or “sell-by”, “use-by” date; rancid odor, that type of thing, but drenched in love is hardly spoiled in my mind….but I wasn’t at all… In a memoir supposedly about my life, “Tale of a Sky Blue Dress“, I have an opening chapter about being a little girl growing up with my parents, but the memoir veers into what happened to me when I was fifteen, rape, pregnancy, abortion in NYC, and my father riding in the car my uncle drove to take me to NY, the only state in the country where abortions were legal in 1970 –I was in the third trimester –such abortions are discouraged, sometimes through violent means, now –that pregnancy especially mars the memory, but life cannot mar “life” –rape and ensuing pregnancy “spoiled me”, ruined me in a way… so this is what to me must have stood out in his mind about me upon his death! –education was so important to him; he was a reader, yet saw none of my books, the first of which “Hosiery Seams on a Bowlegged Woman” was published in 1983, three years after his death… I wish he at least could have seen me graduate from Oberlin first in my class, and Phi Beta Kappa! –what an honor for a woman, a Black and Native woman! –this is what I mean; he never knew such truths of me.  And now so many books I have written, he would have loved all of them. 

 

 

He was responsible for getting me books to read beyond my mother’s only choice:  the bible:

 

 

High time he had his own book.  I can’t believe I have waited so long to write it.

Because my father was such a drinker, and that was what my mother most despised about him, I will have to mention my friend Thomas Robert Higginson who would have liked my father as he is, well was.

They are both drinkers, and Thomas Robert would have really liked him.   I may have a scene in the book, where these men meet.  I can bring the two men who have meant the most of me together.  They will meet in the pages.

 

My father loved baseball, basketball also. football, the superbowl, that is.  We will see how much I remember.  

Calvin Theodore Brasier, my father

My father with one of the cigarettes, combined with inhalation of rubber dust (he worked as a recapper, mostly of semi tires)  that killed him.  I never knew him with a mustache, unless I simply have forgotten.  

 

My father - main portrait

mr-boston-brandy-logo

 

image of Mr. Boston from http://www.liquor.com/brands/mr-boston/

PALL MALL 

 

 

My father smoked these exclusively.

When I was two years old, ate one of the cigarette butts from his ashtray aand had to return to the hospital where I was born during a blizzard (I’m told  snow covered cars), to have my stomach pumped.