If you look carefully, you can see the sun skipped eleven times towards us… and Kit played a lullaby on her uke til the sky came down.
One year ago this month, I discovered Lithuania to my absolute delight, because “Nobody knows where it is, but when you find it, it’s amazing,” according to their racy tourism campaign. Actually, business brought me to Vilnius . . . but it was a pleasure.
They’re not kidding about it being nuostabi (amazing).
How could a place be so incredulously alive in the same buildings that hold onto the chains and death stains of its violent past?
Everywhere is both now and then/old and new/them (whichever foreign government/military was occupying) and us. In the self-proclaimed Republic of Užupis, “us” was a group of bohemian artists that decided to write its own constitution stating how things were goin’ be in this part of Vilnius old town including “Any artificial intelligence has the right to believe in a good will of humanity.”
Also: Everyone has the right to love and take care of the cat. Everyone has the right to look after the dog until one of them dies. A dog has the right to be a dog. A cat is not obliged to love its owner, but must help in time of nee[d].
At the Lover’s Bridge, I crab-walked with Armand (my favorite lens) to get a good angle on the locks over the River Vilnelė to Užupis. If I looked down into the water below, there were these stones balanced precariously in the water that flowed fast and dark around them. Some of the trees along the banks were wrapped with old books threaded through their spines with twine…weathered, drooping like a Dali painting.
Almost anywhere there’d be worn pavers engraved with news of who’d been shot in that random spot–some Lithuanian poet I’d never heard of before . . . a stairway up a hill is devoted to its literati, their names are remembered.
Vilnius is cloistered in resilience . . . a monument to survival, or, more accurately, to what survives.
Not just art, but the need to create it.
If Lithuania has a color, it’s red. Even the air is rufescent with the Catholic churches fogged in a thick incense of frankincense and fir resin, and the blunt cigarettes glowing in dark cafe windows as I walked at dark-thirty through Vilnius old town. The sound of red whines under the wheels of sleek cars driving too fast on brick streets . . . the taste of it is beetroot and vyšnia vyno at room temperature.
And Vilnius feels the red of dried blood . . . very much haunted by its history . . . which Ruta reminded me wasn’t very long ago.
Indeed, Lithuanians have many terms for red. There’s raudonas which is scarlet red from a cut, and rudas which is a Judas-tainted red of shame. There’s komunistinis red, and rauda, a wailing red lament . . . and revoliucinis, the red of revolution.
On January 13, 1991, my friends Ruta, Rima and their families joined thousands who formed a human chain circling the Vilnius TV tower in celebration and solidarity for their newly proclaimed independence when the Soviets forcibly tried to retake the city. They remember that night well, describing the sound of bullet tracers as we walked up the same hillside towards the tower where 14 civilians were killed in the fray.
That night we went up an elevator in that very tower under quite different circumstances. We had dinner in its revolving restaurant that is now the pride of Lietuva. I drank Starka and ate cepelinais. Cepelinais are potato dumplings stuffed with pork and topped with bacon and sour cream. Starka is made from fermented rye. I tried to decide if it burned as much as the malūnininkų did the night before, or the Trejos Devynerios did the night before that.
I’ve never had so much official alcohol. This was a business trip. I was speaking at a conference (which was dry) so it’s more accurate to say I’m not sure I’ve ever had this much unofficial alcohol . . . mano Dieve it was stout stuff. My friends were amused by my facial antics as I imbibed. Three fingers of “wodka” later (I love how the ‘v’ sound drops in and out of their language), I was thinking I’d be lucky to stand up, much less keep up with them.
I saw people drinking at breakfast, lunch, laiminga valanda, dinner, and after dinner, and night caps. I limited myself to dinner, except for this one early afternoon I went into a little cafe across from The Lady of the Gate of Dawn chapel to avail myself of their tualetas (sound it out) and a table of soccer fans invited me to have a brandy with them in a rather stoic celebration of Lithuania’s win over Ukraine.
Well, what the pragaras . . . when in Lietuva!
And, okay, there was that other time we had a drink in Trakai before lunch because it was raining and we were wet-cold. I don’t remember what it was called, but I think the name translated to “moonshine” which means the same thing moonshine means in the states . . . except stronger.
Vytautus taught me how to toast as the Deaf do in Lithuania. Since it’s not about the noise of glasses clinking for them, the etiquette is to make direct eye contact while your fingers touch.
And with that, I never want to toast any other way ever again.
Joana introduced me to the loveliest drink I had: Medaus Vyno (honey wine) one evening on Gedimino Prospektas, which is the main street in Vilnius. It shuts down to cars at 7pm every evening so the locals can walk along and enjoy the cafes, which they very much do.
These Lithuanians know how to have a good time, dausos knows they deserve one . . . they have had very bad times. The synergy of that dynamic is exquisitely beautiful. Powerful and fragile. Ancient and modern. Magnificent in its mourning or morning.
Once you’ve found it, you can never unfeel Lithuania.
I was created from the air, water, algae, spark,
and the murmur behind the hills of Vilnius.
– George Kunchin, Lithuanian Poet
Really excited to see Greg Graves’s book headed to press (#BenBellaBooks). Co-writing and editing a tome on #ESOPS (Employee Stock Ownership Plans) with Greg opened my eyes to a proven solution to #economicjustice and recovery: #employeeownership
#CreateAmazing is exactly what this country needs right now!
And getting an endorsement from THE bestselling author #JimCollins instantly solved the challenge of a front cover squib!!
After a little over a year, we went from a conversation to a book. Thanks, GG, for this:
“Thank you to my co-author and editor, Leeanne Seaver. I met Leeanne while she was penning the University of Kansas Health System turnaround story. She is very good at what she does. She’s a wordsmith and collaborator; tough as to her standards of quality and integrity, but also consistently patient and encouraging of me. Hiring Leeanne was my best editorial decision. She shepherded me to the end.”
the story Lydia used to tell, that one
about sobbing out behind the barn
so she missed the phone call with the
good news she’d waited so long for…
when I got your phone call last October
–His voice telling you CALL HER—
you didn’t even know where to find me
I had this disembodied thought:
bad news has planted a homing device
in me…has me on speed-dial
A few months before Jon died, I asked
him to tell me one true thing and he said
he couldn’t say…that he wasn’t sure
he’d ever told the truth about anything
…which was a lie
There we all were…our poetic fury
our tenderness to each other, our love,
our pathos… and our need to go on living,
to bear the brilliant madness of him…Jenny said
“I want to kick his motherfucking ass”
but I never felt angry…I knew his list
whittled down to scant few real things in
the end…and death was the last thing on it
I still wake up in mourning…
the geese pull the gray sheet of
November up over the face of the
cold world…there are so few real things,
really alive things in it, but I know
they are worth living for… at least
I hope I know that
Spell 161 in The Book of the Dead tells how
to reanimate a soul…by releasing the four
winds…breathing life with written words,
through vigils, chants…by bringing back the light
…surely we have done that, just look
at the life of him we’ve made…just
look at the life he’s made of us
in loving memory of the poet Jon Berkley Wallace who died on this day ten years ago… and we couldn’t stop him
© Liana 10/11 (original post)
It would be hard to articulate how I felt when she told me what she’d finally settled on as the subject of her next painting–the one that was for me. After months of pondering, the talented, divinely-inspired artist, Thimgan Dodd Hayden picked the photo that Wolfy took for me.
It was a tough choice, given that she had to pick from amongst a thousand or so images on my photography blog (ask for me for that link if you’re interested) and the only input I gave her was headed in a completely different direction. That she picked this one (only a half dozen or so duly-credited photos on that site aren’t mine) without knowing how special it is to me just blew me away.
Thimgan (pronounced TIMee-yun) is a Celtic name, aptly enough. Of course she’d find that November sky to paint.
That Scottish sky was taken for me by Wolfy, my eternally-present but far-away companion who lives in the UK. I met him when he was fishing off the dock at Cromarty in October 2012; I took this picture of him.
Wolfy’s glorious sunset was taken at Melvaig the month after we met. He was on his way to the lighthouse there because he had this amazing gig where he just drove to these incredibly remote places throughout the Scottish Highlands and did engineering checks and repairs on the BBC radio towers.
Now it’s hanging in the entryway of Swanchurch above the water pitcher that belonged to Jill’s grandmother and the small red mourning candle I got in Vilnius last October on the table below. The ornately painted Persian mirror with tiny doors from Faegheh hangs on the other side of my office door above Makena’s walking stick from the UU bridging ceremony at People’s Church, and my own (made by Geo from tanglewood) leaning into the corner.
It is understood that nearly everything at Swanchurch (where I live) has a story, including its name.
In a few months, Thimgan says the painting will be ready for varnish then framing.
Last night as I turned out the lights before going to bed, I noted how the painting’s setting sun seemed to hold its own even in the dark. This made me smile and consider a new aspect to my routine . . . smiling at the light of the sky inside the dark each night before sleep.
I’m so utterly delighted and blessed to have it here.
Thank you, Thimgan.
Thank you, Wolfy.
POV: my kayak a couple days ago . . . it was Sunday in fact. And this is why I call this place Swanchurch.
I was trying to explain poetry to someone who is trying to understand . . .
THIS . . . THIS . . .
I wanted to see where beauty comes from
without you in the world, hauling my heart
across sixty acres of northeast meadow,
my pockets filling with flowers.
Then I remembered,
it’s you I miss in the brightness
and body of every living name:
rattlebox, yarrow, wild vetch.
You are the green wonder of June,
root and quasar, the thirst for salt.
When I finally understand that people fail
at love, what is left but cinquefoil, thistle,
the paper wings of the dragonfly
aeroplaning the soul with a sudden blue hilarity?
If I get the story right, desire is continuous,
equatorial. There is still so much
I want to know: what you believe
can never be removed from us,
what you dreamed on Walnut Street
in the unanswerable dark of your childhood,
learning pleasure on your own.
Tell me our story: are we impetuous,
are we kind to each other, do we surrender
to what the mind cannot think past?
Where is the evidence I will learn
to be good at loving?
The black dog orbits the horseshoe pond
for treefrogs in their plangent emergencies.
There are violet hills,
there is the covenant of duskbirds.
The moon comes over the mountain
like a big peach, and I want to tell you
what I couldn’t say the night we rushed
North, how I love the seriousness of your fingers
and the way you go into yourself,
calling my half-name like a secret.
I stand between taproot and treespire.
Here is the compass rose
to help me live through this.
Here are twelve ways of knowing
what blooms even in the blindness
of such longing. Yellow oxeye,
viper’s bugloss with its set of pink arms
pleading do not forget me.
We hunger for eloquence.
We measure the isopleths.
I am visiting my life with reckless plenitude.
The air is fragrant with tiny strawberries.
Fireflies turn on their electric wills:
an effulgence. Let me come back
whole, let me remember how to touch you
before it is too late.
– Stacie Cassarino, SUMMER SOLSTICE
Somewhere in the Book of Mary Magdalene it is written just like that, Jenny, a desperate prayer that must leave the room, go out behind the barn or beyond the bivouac, and remain hidden from a civilization that doesn’t want to hear it. So you get to keep it . . . take it with you now.
Never for a moment doubt that you are still on the old, old path, albeit somewhere near Detroit where your words will grow like wildflowers through concrete into a space made sacred by them.
This takes patience . . . and this is what you do when you have lost it or are just lost lost lost…………………………patiently
work the muscle of endurance (JB’ism).
Make an art of it . . . make a science of it . . . make light of it . . . make a shrine to it.
Know it for what it is: the thing you make of it.
That’s all it is.
That’s all anything is.
And, trust me, the power of that is more than we can ever really grasp.
~ Liana © 6/16
According to her tattoo, the waitress is sinful. The eggs . . she asked me How do I want them?
Actually, the order was put in a long time ago. Life brings what it will, and on that day, it was serving me breakfast with Walter Gabriel Trachsler XIII in a small diner near the Missouri River bottoms of downtown Kansas City. The band he was traveling with played nearby last night, so “he’s with the band” sortuv; more accurately, he’s with the bus.
In fact, the first time I saw him, he was squatting beside an idling band bus drying his long wet black hair in the warm air flowing from as its AC-vents. This will forever remain on my top three “Most Memorable Meetings” list . . . and I’m still waiting for the other two entries.
We hadn’t finished the first cup of coffee before I switched from calling him “Walter” to the far-more appropriate “Gabriel” after hearing the story of his remarkable name. His chronicles from what he’s doing now (spending months on the road driving some band on its tour) to what he did back when he was the rock star cover lot of crucial, incredulous insider-randomania. Since forming his own metal hair band, The Rotting Corpse, in 1985 (with John Perez) he’s performed as musician and mechanic all over the world.
Stories abound . . . Gabriel is the repository of an entire epoch of cultural history with an “I alone survived to tell the tale” sense of duty to the genre.
There are lots of character sketches and sidebars along the way—especially from his childhood. It is understood that he was a challenging kid to a single mom, but the story of how she sent him on a one-way trip in the cargo-hold of a military plane to his even more rascally father (who lived somewhere on a boat near Puerto Rico) deserves to be a movie. I’d never heard “motherfucker” as a term of endearment before, but most of Gabriel’s stories sound like that and are full of lots of things a small-town midwestern girl wouldn’t have heard before.
I was rapt.
Oh yeah, I got stories, he says.
He’s laughing nowadays, possibly with relief. Everything that can go wrong is something he’s seen before . . . been there, fixed that. Mostly.
There’s nothing he can’t fix if it’s not human, and there have been police-radioed, breaking-news notable exceptions in the latter category.
For those, he’s put pen to paper and written his heart out. Over the years, I’ve saved his missives for the day he’s ready to serious about the great book of his own life. That’s how we’re connected and I don’t let him forget it, because the Muse won’t let me forget it.
There are a lot of people from the past fully present in Gabriel, grateful for his friendship and loyalty and integrity. They’re all crowded around the breakfast table of his birthday today in person or in legend cuz “it’s another fuckin party!” . . . (dis)ORDERS-UP!
Yes, it’s just eggs, but so were we all once . . . then broken, and made a certain way. Gabriel holds this all inside with a raucous reverence and a powerful, gentle motherfukin love.
Happy Birthday, Walter Gabriel, from Leeanne/Liana.
The leeks I planted have gone to seed.
This pleases me to no end because that’s when they’re most photogenic.
That’s how my garden grows, and that’s also how writing goes. A thing gets planted . . . but it often produces a different yet related outcome . . . like somewhere along the way, the question I was asking changed because of the answer that appeared.