I Bow in Belated Thanks, Miss Gore

The angel of the birds (1910) oil on canvas 106.7 x 203.2 cm

I realize that on a day when the first sign of winter’s bite is only moments away, I am flitting from one spritely spring ort of floral eye candy to rather romantic classicist ones, and back again. The cycle is broken only when I stop to fetch iced coffee or the equally chilled tea.

Such behavior hardly belies my longing but yet betrays my reason. As long as I breathe, although potentially voiceless, it’s my party. And yes, I’ll cry. That is, if I want to.

The Universe is indeed remarkable. On such a gray and bleak Tuesday, my beloved and I are content and well fed. Slowly, we’re devising a strategy to re-enter the world of the alive and living. The outlook, approach, and the song itself might be influenced by those of my friends: Victoria, Janet, Lynn, Twilla, Anthony, Nancy, Marty, Deb, Dr Bob, and of course, that zany but dear friend Andrew.

Mary L. is perhaps my oldest friend, since we were both sixteen, impressionable, and oh so pure. I was, however, the one with a driver’s license and the ability to calm the beast, the crazy Dr H. We chat quite often and talk of the imminent time when I can finally leave Raleigh to visit.

I suspect we’ll be singing the likes of “Grey Seal” and “Love Lies Bleeding” until the wee-est of hours. My lips are sealed should we get the least bit nostalgic about antics, misbehavior, and good old silliness. I mention her because she is my strongest and most direct bridge to my teenage years, those much later ones with Michael, and the many I spent pondering the questionable bliss of Greensboro.

Naturally, the only person with whom I have had a more enduring relationship is my sister. True, every once in an indigo sunset, we take breathers and take an emotional break. Trust me when I admit the depth of our intensities seems without equal.

While the two of us are both obsessive, Polly is the more conservative. That was primarily because of the long pangs of cheery parenting. My lifestyle, in contrast, allows me to be more liberal in many of my views and in my overall style.

However, I am certain that since 1980, we have supported the same candidates in every political race. We both recycle paper towels. And we both use one glass or mug and rewash it and reuse it, rather than filling the dishwashing at an excruciating rate. Our food and wine tastes are also quite similar.

We differ substantially on our aesthetics of art, music, interior design, and pop culture.

I mention Polly, Tartuffe’s small circle of folks who inspire me, and others for one reason. I am most appreciative of and humbled by of all of your kindnesses. While the skies may get worse before the clouds indeed part, I will someday soon be able to put more effort into “us”.

Your words, prayers, and kindnesses keep my beloved’s and my faith in the Universe well-bolstered. At the moment, my voice is strained. Conversation is almost out of the realm of reasonable questions. But that won’t be forever.

Lastly, I mention two relatives, in fact ones that I only met at the Sieber/Neuberger Family Reunion during the swelter of July 2008. My cousin Damian is the non-judgmental archivist, family historian, communications maven, and support guru.

In a different vein, his sister Eve is almost like a long lost friend. We often talk for hours about the arts, contradicting family secrets, and her life in Shreveport and mine in Raleigh. In other words, if we and our spouses went to the beach, she and I would never be at a loss for words, recipes, or a proper Pinot Noir. (I don’t mean just any old beach either!)

May you all have songbirds, warm breezes, and those errant blooms, the ever-drowsy jonquils and crocuses.

(Image: “The Angel of the Birds” by František Dvořák aka Franz Dvorak, 1910.)