Tag Archives: books

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.

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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.

 

Tarpulin Sky: What I’m Reading

  I have just completed and submitted my essay on “What I’m Reading”

books of influence and comfort, books, ideas and words of propulsion, the books I chose are among my favorites; I own just over 5,000  books and Lisa was generous enough to help organize them for me today.  But in the end, Lisa turned out to be neither who nor what  thought she was.

No longer tight rows of a hundred boxes of books; the books I selected for Tarpulin Sky:

  1. Sadako and the Thousand Paper Cranes, by Eleanor Coerr   

     2.  Schindler’s List by Thomas Kenneally

3. Contact by Carl Sagan

     4. Touch the Universe by Noreen Grice

5. Song of Solomon by Toni Morrison

You will be able to read my essay very soon, online. As soon as I have it, I will post the link.

I hope that you will want to experience these books. 

I live with them, these books form an archway;

I had to walk through them just to get to my bedroom, lines, images and words fell down as explosions of popcorn that kind of excitement about what will soon enter my body –that’s how sensuous reading is to me, active not passive.  

the swelling and opening of kernels, that rank indeed. Idea Gardens. Essences of the plant, no higher order of magnitude, necklaces of popcorn balls, popcorn hat that falls apart; I hardly get to wear it.  

Only thing better: would be to wear a honey comb; I go to bed like that, golden caramel and buttery, even between my toes;  most of you will just have to imagine this

–for a moment I think of popcorn balls at Euclid Beach Humpgrey Popcorn balls 

(Image from : http://www.humphreycompany.com)

Now a video of Popcorn popping from YouTube:

Mexico City here I come!

I am a good chica, I think.  

I m a good chica, I hope.

More details now about the trip:

 

DETAILS FOR MEXICO CITY:

Dear Thylias,

allow me please to comment that this will be the second edition of this poetry encounter, that last year gathered 22 poets from the five continents and more than 120 from the Mexico City and other regions of Mexico. This is a link:

http://data.cultura.cdmx.gob.mx/diverso/index.php/participantes-internacionales/

This year we’ve invited some 30 international poets, and it is our desire to approach the urgent issues as the frontiers (not only the geopoliticals, but also between media, genres).

So we ‘d like to propose you’d do a reading accompanied by your video poems. We’re interested in the experimental aspects of your work, though of course we’re open to your suggestions and we’d like to comply to your wishes.

About the hotels, very soon we’ll let you know.

The events will take place at several locations in Mexico City, like the Mexican Library and some other cultural centers. Our staff will accompany you to your planned activities so that you can be sure to arrive there.

About your books, could you please inform us if your have a publisher in Spanish, and in that case, give us their contact?

In order to start planning your participation, we’d kindly ask you to send us the following information:

– a short paragraph (10 – 15 lines) in order to present you to Mexican public (biography data, titles published, languages that  your work has been translated into )

– high-resolution photo portrait  (with the photographer’s credit, if any)

– a poem and also a translation into Spanish (if there’s one) . Please indicate whether is an inedit piece or, if it has been already published, please provide info. about the publication source.

– links to social media (facebook, instagram, twitter, …)

 II) TRIP and HOTEL

–  City / airport of departure:

–  Food preference (vegetarian…):

–  Please attach scanned copy of passport :

Should you have any questions or comments, please don’t hesitate to write to us.

Warm regards,

Marianna

They want my video poems! I am even more delighted knowing this! 

For instance:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IHZdiXmNghQ&index=6&list=PLndg3mxeIxFyIegs9xYRfurlhcVBmigqk

Relocation

The time has come.  Goodbye Ypsilanti, hello again Ann Arbor.

Tomorrow is the official day!  Dream Baby is coming back to town! 

Moved to Ann Arbor, Michigan from Massachusetts, became very ill, rupture of a cranial aneurysm , 2011, survived, against all expectations, and my life was forver changed for the better, improved I mean,  divorced after 40 years of marrage, a change I really needed, having married as a teenager who knew nothing, not really; I thought I knew a few thngs, but I really didn’t.  

Mostly, although I was married for such a long time, wedding in 1973, turns out that I knew nothing about love,  not really.   But a friend of mine (Thomas Robert Higgginson)  did, and we got together for the best weekend of my life, became the basis of a romance novel, I was finally able to write, my favorite book of all my thirteen books: 

new-kiss-horizon

New Kiss Horizon

details on acquisition of this book:

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/

Presently working on a book about my father; a book I have needed to write for many years. He and my son (I was finally able to have) are the people most like me in the world.  My father was the most soft-hearted man –and I am soft-hearted too. My     son may be soft-hearted also, but life itself and the world not fully hospitable to such nature has tried to crush this, has tried to hammer it out of us, but my heart, agaist all reason, defiant in its softness had not curled up and died, the ventricles useless, chambers unvisited and exploited.

This too is legacy.  

A softer legacy to be sure.  I wish he had lived to know any of this for himself. 

My father - main portrait

This Heart will survive. 

Of course I like memories, but I prefer things of substance, the physics of what  can held in my hands, hot or cold, even if it burns, I want the marks of  living well, of knowing these feelings; there is a cost of knowledge, and for those who maintain the story of origins involving Adam and Eve,  the cost of knowledge was the loss of paradise, but I suggest  that the knowledge gained perhaps was worth that loss; for they gained a physicality that is very much enjoyed around the world, among all species the propagate –he way it’s  done: interaction and connection of bodies:

the actual paradise of pleasure.

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.

WRITING NOW AND GRATITUDE FOR THIS ABILITY

 

I would also like to point out today just how lucky I am to be alive; I do not discuss my MS that much, because  honestly  I have no attacks of MS and haven’t had one since 2013.

From diagnosis in 1996 – 2013, I used needles, injectable treatments..

Travel was greatly compromised because of  difficulty in boarding a plane with needles.  And those were  injectable drugs, Avonex, the first, intramuscular, huge needles no matter your size, same for me at 96 pounds and for someone 200 pounds.  A side-effect was flu-like symptoms, and that is what I had flu, redness, and scarring, and injection scars on my thighs…. 1996-1998, then Rebif, a three times a week, subcutaneous injection, now flu three times a week, redness and scars, I still have scar tissue, lumps under my skin on my thighs.  I lost an inch of hip on each side, by the way.

Then in 2013, a capsule twice a day every day, no holiday exclusion.  But let me tell you what a difference the capsule Tecfidera has made.  My neurologist Dr. Tiffany Braley, has even remarked that my level of function is as if I do not have MS. 

I walk quite a bit, five miles last Friday. Please understand how remarkable that is.  Not only that I can walk, but at age 62, I can do this and even went skipping down the hospital corridor when I last saw Dr. Braley.  My friend started calling me “Skipper”.  Little things like that made me glow inside.

The last thing I will point out is my nearly impossible survival of an aneurysm rupture.  I want into the hospital in July 2011, same night Amy Winehouse died, and did not not come home until 9 October 2011.  The actual rupture occurred when I was in the ER; had I not been  there, I surely would be dead.  I had to learn how to walk again, how to talk again  –it was assumed and predicted  that these were things I’d never do again, but the emergency brain surgery was performed by Dr. Neeraj Chaudary who says another MRI for the aneurysm is not necessary until 2019.  He too is amazed…. I have not had a single headache; of course, my head was shaved for the cranial surgery. 

After that, a great love of my life, but surely not the last, just hope I don’t miss it, refuse to sleep through my life, and I  have written a couple of books, no one thought I could do that, a man who dared to call me pretty, beautiful, and gorgeous

–please understand that no other man had ever called me that, just unsolicited catcalls  when I walked by…. I was married for 40 years to a man who never called me that, not even at the wedding.  And not even for my senior prom from high school, because he took me to that also, but did not dance with me.  He told me that he could not dance, and that my head would swell if he acknowledged my appearance positively.   


Prom Thylias, age 17


bride-thylias

Bride Thylias 1973

 

Thomas Robert Higginson did not care what size my head was.  I will always love him just for that, but there are so many more reasons.

Had the rupture of the aneurysm not happened, I  never would have seen him, because when I did not die, I realized it was my last chance to try to have MY life, so a divorce happened for a marriage that should not have happened; I was a teenager, and entered marriage blindly. 

post emergency surgery photos of Thylias Moss, following repair of a ruptured cranial aneurysm

July 2011, University of Michigan Hospital

 

chicago-taxi 

(Chicago taxi photo from: https://goo.gl/images/dztwNq)

This wonderful man had been waiting for me all this time.  And he really talked to me, and I really talked to him, it was so easy to trust him and tell him everything, the TRUTH! –that’s all I told him: the truth.  He listened to me and he loved my  poetry. It wasn’t about him then, but so   much of it is now.  I hope he’s not  embarrassed by the praise, but when  someone has done as much for you as he’s done, it is right to acknowledge that and express gratitude.  Even when he stops doing it. What he did remains true even if he never does it again in that season of doing impossible things, and that may be the problem, the things he did were impossible in a world  that depended on “possible” spines to hold the fragile together, that Vashti Astapad Warren and Thomas Robert Higginson bubble wavering in Chicago light and stretching thinner and thinner until it has to break for nothing that thin gets to last, it promises to last then has to confront its own, his own weak humanity moseys out in spectacular  crash and burn, the world has never seen such fireworks as those spines themselves spit and sputter in otherwise impossible heat of blazing love that will have to burn out for what can   sustain anything like that? Even Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego would have trouble despite their experience with a fiery furnace which is just what the Chicago taxi became: a blazing yellow spine navigating Chicago streets, seen best from an aerial view to better determine the exceptional impossibility that anything like that, such love in ordinary Chicago, the spininess of the yellow spine of dream best seen from above with the rest of heaven: it really was like that.

THYLIAS MOSS AND BOB HOLMAN - DREAM DATE

Vashti Astapad Warren and Thomas Robet Higginson in Chicago  

And then, then, wow! He kissed me in Chicago! And from that moment, my life has not been the same.  I owe him  my glimpse of a beautiful world; I could always  see it in my mind, but now I know it’s real, and that world is much better with him beside me.  Even if he lands elsewhere changing his mind and his heart which he gave to me for just a little while, life goes on doesn’t it?

I  like how he looked in that Chicago fire, my red lips, Kiss burned into them; I do not believe that any man could look better, even if he does not believe that, but I assure you that it’s true. 

When Thomas and I first seriously connected , I had pink hair.  This was when Facebook allowed me to be called “Forker Gryle” and Thomas always spelled “Gryle” “Gyrl”

pink-hair-forker-gyrl

But then the rules changed, the Facebook world was fragile also.  Such delicate dancing around and tiptoeing also so as not to disrupt anything trying to reach a  stage of doneness to be able to fight its way into the most unlikely birth, somehow succeeding for a time, best time, to be honest, as I must, of my life (I won’t be 63 until 27 February, 2017, and no, I do not expect to hear from Thomas anymore.  That would require a miracle best associated with that severed spine of dream, those bones stitching themselves back together as they refuse to die, strength of their  belief in their own existence and the Love that Vashti Astapad Warren and Thomas Robert Higginson, shared and will forever share.  (Bases for the characters in the novel)

No, he’s not perfect as conventional knowledge defines “perfect”, but Thomas Robert Higginson is perfect for Vashti just as Vashti Astapad Warren is perfect for him.

Thank you for everything, Thomas Robert Higginson that you did in the Higginson season, when Hurricane Vash  (a prose poam coming soon to Outlook Springs) also sometimes emerged with her fragile kiss of spine of dream. Some cookies crumble even inside a Dream Baby Tienda, and do not require those inevitable power failures in order to crumble and rock the flimsy house that somhow manage to stand until the wrecking ball of urban renewal that changes the neighborhood into something for the most part unrecognizable even to the man in the mirror.

I hope that you read this, but it’s true even if you never see it.  Truth has a way of lasting when nothing else prevails.  In the end  it will be truth that is the last thing standing: a true pillar of truth will be there.  And only a lucky and honest few will be able to see it, that Entrance to the “Dream Baby Tienda” (major part of New Kiss Horizon, Thomas Robert Higinson’s own supermercado)

Cover of NKH

Only for you, Thomas Robert Higginson  have I been, will I be “Dream Baby” my name taken from the poem you wrote to me, as was your name “Higginson” for the Higgs boson, also in your poem, my poem, our poem:

A Trip to the Tienda

       by Thomas Higginson

           — for Vashti

You are my rent-a-poem

 

You are love jungle — Yoyo, hula hoop!

 

You are my closing costs

 

My plasma vibrator my single malt

 

You? You are my Tampa manatee

 

You are my Occupy

 

You are an eucalyptus octopus

 

And a haircut on an autumn day

 

You are firecracker, salt, oil, vinegar

 

Things not supposed to mix

 

yet do.

 

You are jellyfish tentacles elongating my back,

 

dreaming of medusans all of which become you,

 

YOU, You.

 

Also submarine. Surreality check.

 

You you…! You YOU you!

 

That’s who. The Temple of Shenanigans,

 

AKA Shenanigan Temple.

 

The complete works. The leftovers.

 

Strangler fig, tiny seeds starting out on branches,

 

tines, grow to surround, encase the host,

 

leaving only figs

 

to take over

 

You surround me just that way, take over,

 

connect with me, to me: your host

 

You are what I’ve been waiting for

 

And now I’ll never wait anymore.

 

Dream baby, you are, and indefatigable,

 

That, too. And you are the cream in my coffee,

 

And you are the one, and you are my everything,

 

And you are everything I could hope for.

 

And still you are more, and still you keep coming,

 

You are coming like a river, like a torrent,

 

Like an all day-lollipop where every day is today.

 

You are the Castle of Doubt on the Plain of Forgetfulness.

 

You are one more and able to laugh it off.

 

My sunshine, that’s what you are.

 

A rocking chair and a band-aid. Violin castanets.

 

An elusive perfume. You are all history. You are

 

Breakfast and you are on your way and all

 

I can do is list, name, and hand out passports.

 

Because you are who you are in a way that is all

 

Your way and which, as a poet trying to set it down,

 

Failure, I am a failure in that you will always be

 

Something to me both bedrock and ineluctable,

 

A passion of opposition and an unchecked probity

 

Of Probability and yet a chemical formula not to be

 

Tested. The Higgs boson, that’s it exactly. A gluon.

 

A ramshackle melody. A forgotten memory that

 

Never happened and when all is said and done,

 

Actually nothing was said and nothing was done.

 

That’s why I keep writing endlessly penning, because that’s

 

Who you are and when I stop, Surprise, you are

 

The surprise, you are the inching to the summit,

 

The chocolate razor, the tadpole’s pole and the

 

Gate to the Fields of the Lord. I sing you praises and

 

The answer is more like a light fog saxophone, a

 

Kingdom Come revelation, a hunch that blossoms

 

to birth a new species. An appointment for lunch.

 

Some nectar in a tube, a pillow. Like the new language you

 

Are, if I could write that I would, you in a race car,

 

A pendulum, a fire tower, a blimp. A pothole, narcissus,

 

An a capella cantabile, a big bucket of milk. I can run alongside

 

You but can’t keep up with you, your tapdancing

 

Shadow, your clothing made of earth and spit. But I know you

 

And when you wish me Happy Birthday I trade it for yours,

 

You not growing old, you everlasting, you infinity you.

(from New Kiss Horizon:

copyright © 2016 by Thylias Moss. Published by arrangement with the author.  All rights reserved.)

 

Read all about them in my romance novel: “New Kiss Horizon” The book can last forever even if the romance in real life doesn’t, for that couple is in a world that seldom exists in reality, but I made such a world for them: in Chicago: “Let there be love” I told the pen and there was love in real life too for as long as it could last. I really am a better person for learning how to give love, how to receive love, and how to kiss in a taxi, #howtokiss #thomasroberthigginsonisthebestcarnalteacher

and now to commemortes the warmth and heat of those forever precious days: “Warm Water ” by Banks: