72. My favourite dancers dying.

Over the past several years I’ve seen my mother become frailer and more unsure of herself and her grasp on life sometimes. This is my rumination on my own mortality as much as hers. With the passing of an aunt I was close to at the start of 2013 mum became the last significant family figure of that generation that I’m still close to.

Which means when she does succumb my generation is next on the reapers chronological shopping list. No more maternal buffer zone between me and the one who’s grim. So that means, and I’ve only realised typing that last line, this is as much a very selfish and indulgent piece as it is a loving tribute. That’s actually been more sobering than writing this piece. An interesting learning experience for a Saturday night.

72. My favourite dancers dying.

Where did she go to, the woman I loved,
Who quick stepped head and shoulders above me,
My boyhood began in her spring time,
But while in her summer I looked to leaving,

She used to tapdance in the kitchen,
Long before I was fully grown,
It was maybe only a few steps
But they were all joyfully her own,

Now she walks like newborn Bambi,
To the bathroom for a cigarette,
Even when she’s in her own house,
Especially when I’m there visiting,

The doors now open on my own Autumn
And she’s worn famine thin by winter,
While her stooping I want to be stopping,
I see her leading the way without knowing,

And my worries have been like flurries,
Next to her blizzards of maternal concern,
For she’d go snowblind for the love of us,
To shelter us from any hurt,

But I don’t know where this piece ends,
Well, actually I do,
And so do you,
But I’m not saying that out loud,

(c) Jim Laing 2015.

Outtakes.

Where did she go to the woman I loved,
Who walked head and shoulders above me,
With that purposeful stride,
While I quick stepped to keep up,

That slim figure with the hair tied back,
And the caringly hurried “keep up james”,

Where did she go to the woman I loved,
Who quick stepped head and shoulders above,
My boyhood began in her spring time,
But while in her summer I looked to leaving,

Who walked head and shoulders above me,
With that purposeful stride,
While I quick stepped to keep up,
That slim figure with the hair tied back,
And the caringly hurried “keep up james”

She used to tapdance in the kitchen,
Long before I was fully grown,
It was maybe only a few steps
But they were all joyfully her own,

Now she walks like newborn Bambi,
To the bathroom for a cigarette,
Evenwhen she’s in her own house,
Especially when I’m there visiting,
The doors now open on my own Autumn
And she’s worn famine thin by winter,
While her stooping I want to be stopping,
But is she falling or gently leading,
Now I’m entering my own autumn,
She’s winter worn down with past duties,
And the hurts of demons long gone,

I feel the chill now of my own autumn,
As winter digs its fingers into her cold,
But I don’t know where this piece ends,
Well, actually I do,
And so do you,
But I’m not saying that out loud,

And my worries are like flurries,
Next to her blizzards of concern,
For she’d go snowblind for love,
To shelter us from the hurt,

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About Jim Laing

The Buddha said there were four kinds of people. Those who run from dark to dark, those who run from light to dark, those who run from dark to light and those who run from light to light. From a life going from dark to dark to having a few years running from dark to light, with scuffed hands and knees from sometimes falling, I may be getting the hang of it now. How it began is not now how it is, I need a quiet space, After the noise of the day, So I take sanctuary in the creativity, And my soul feeds, On sometimes dark, Sometimes light fantasy, And I dare like many to work, But stay up off my knees, To dream, perchance to suffer, But always still to dream. Here are things mostly lyrical and poetic, with nonsense sometimes, reviews and personal musings. The coffees hot and always black. The words not necessarily so.
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