Mother Anne (born August 12 1916 in Kentfield, California) died today 23 June 2007 at noon CET, 3 am PDT (in Walnut Creek, California) "We all have to go soon, dear," "Thanks for everything, mom."
LOVE...
Saturday, June 23, 2007
Friday, June 22, 2007
I wish for you a garden
Today is Midsommar Afton in my neck of the woods, and Mago's treasures continue to vibrate with pleasure, not unlike all the little sms digital messages that have been coming through my cell phone this morning:
I wish for you a garden
With a little babbling brook
And in my covered cottage
That has a "welcome" book.
A wish for lots of pleasant friends
with whom to spend your time
And heaps and heaps of treasure books
Both fiction and good rhyme.
And wishes for a fuzzy wuzzy?
To trot upon your knee
And these are just a portion
Of good things I wish for thee.
I wish for you a garden
With a little babbling brook
And in my covered cottage
That has a "welcome" book.
A wish for lots of pleasant friends
with whom to spend your time
And heaps and heaps of treasure books
Both fiction and good rhyme.
And wishes for a fuzzy wuzzy?
To trot upon your knee
And these are just a portion
Of good things I wish for thee.
Wednesday, June 20, 2007
Another Unnamed Work
The house on One Oak Hill. Many attempts have been made to redeem the depths of R.I.P., Requiescat in pace, through W. I.P., Work in Progress. Unfortunately most attempts fall far short of Finnegan's Wake. Trench after trench, hole after hole, we dig and dig in defense of our own territory. We dig not to plant new trees, but to keep wake over the graves of our forefathers, in defense of our heathen roots. Let us not run amuck with all the cryptic acronyms and misguided associations founded in the wake of my industrious Irish ancestors, but find the rivulet that runs between their bones, that can cleanse the wombs of our mothers, and us. There is an exodus. Oh if only we, the living, could see the light, while continuing to work and rest in peace. I know that you love me, you have said so - so many times - as I too have done and said.
Once upon a time, there was a house called One Oak Hill, in Sweden. To tell you the truth it’s the only house I’ve ever ”owned”. In fact I’ve never owned much of anything in this world apart from a Borgward (which I gave to a friend who sold it to his brother), a Toyota Starlet with a cracked carburetor, and two old Volkswagens that I bought used and eventually sold to a junkyard.
One Oak Hill was nothing one could own, mind you. It was a living plot of earth (may whatever or whomever is buried in its soil R.I.P.) upon which an historical building was set, alongside a giant oak and a pear tree. On the first day it was a place that I felt I could learn from, and then a place to which I returned weekend after weekend, year after year to cultivate my garden, and to which I sensed that I too gradually belonged. Even though I never felt that I owned One Oak Hill, I felt reverence for what had once been the residence of many Swedish iron miners. I felt responsible for the whitewashed stone house and the living land that had been entrusted to me, if only for a short while, like the lace handkerchief.
It was in this trust that I reroofed all the buildings on the property with my own hands, cut the lawns, planted new bushes and fruit trees. I still have the scars from blistered hands to show for it. I put in a new cast iron stove imported from my own native home - to the extent that I have one - to keep us warm. I sanded floors, replaced old doors, painted walls, wallpapered, scraped windows and sealed panes.
I even drew up plans to build an outhouse where the old one that we shared had burned down, but that was evidently the last straw. Because that's when the Swedish baroness accused me of ”grandiose plans”, when I wanted to build a new outhouse, when I wanted to drill for running water, when I wanted to add a shower and a sauna. "Grandiose plans", said the baroness who immediately proceeded to appoint herself the perennial gatekeeper of paradise by saying: "please do not come out to Oak Hill, you are not welcome in your house while I am there", which was seldom the case in those days anyway since she lived and worked in my homeland, "because it is so close to mine." Hardly one to practice as she preached, her patent professional regimen for depression and anxiety remained "Send them back wherever they came from".
The global kiss, hypocritical as promiscuous, was on many lips then. At the same time, I was apparently a harbinger of the perils of globalization, an uncultivated seed of knowledge, a would-not-like-to-be terrorist whom her brother the "inventor" accused of howling. I was the one who would eventually have to abandon the tainted soil around Oak Hill, in an effort to keep clean.
Over the years I had gotten to know most everything that grew there on a firstname basis, and felt at peace as I made the rounds each weekend. Like visiting and caring for loved ones, I learned to prune the fruit trees in the winter, delight in the blue and white anemones, the irises, bridal spirea and the lilac hedge in the spingtime. I cut the peonies and the roses for a crystal vase that I placed on the old oak bureau. I printed curtains with white-winged and blue-bodied dragonflies, and planted and cared for my vegetable garden in the summer. The pleasure was great in knowing where the tiny Daphne blossoms could be found on bare branches in early springtime. Likewise the satisfaction in discovering the succulent morels in the late spring and chanterelles in early summer, and being able to fill the cupboards with red and black currant, blueberry, raspberry and lingonberry jam in the late summer... all until I was expelled by the original sin of "native" ancestors who were convinced that this was their plot and who could care less how important it might be for others to cultivate a sense of respect and belonging.
I cried last week when I found an old letter that reminded me of how much this wounded Swede had wanted to be able to love. She wrote about walking out to Chimney Rock at Inverness (in my native territory) to see all the wildflowers, and about having dinner at Vladimir's. She mentioned that C was in Hawaii spending time with his dying grandfather. She thanked me for the elderberry juice that I brought her while she were pregnant. She wrote that she were worried about K feeling imprisoned in their little house, impatient and tired of it all. ”I think she needs more company, another perspective she wrote.” She was, of course, writing of herself?
That was the last I heard from her before she went underground, and yet ten years later I still hadn't lost hope that she was alive despite the silence. And so I returned to speak lovingly of my memories of our travels together, in the Brazilian room for example, which is perhaps as close as we will ever get to her paternal grandfather's final destination. She said she wanted to love, but cut me out, never mentioning the beauty of the many low-growing live oak trees that dot the hillside above her new home overlooking the sea. Those are the Thousand Oaks I love, the ones that offer shade from the resplendent sunlight. Am I what professionals call pathological grief itself - the very mortal sin of omission that is passed on from generation to generation?
Are you enjoying the blossoms and fruits of all the trees I planted on One Oak Hill today? The baroness tells that they were planted after I had gone, but it is not true. As though the tree of knowledge came after the temptation. Much truth is still in my hands. You said you wanted me to cultivate the field in front on your side. You said you hoped one day to ”feel me” as a "benevolent and positive presence in your little red house". You said you realize how easy it is to become territorial, "because the houses are so close…can we be there both do you think?” I'm afraid you took not only more than you needed, but perhaps the wrong things and built a wall to protect the loot. I am guilty of the sin of omission, I shouldn't have let you get away with it. Fortunately no one possesses the dead.
The heritage and hospitality of Gerdie, a woman whom neither she nor your children (her grandchildren) have ever met, is given freely - to cleanse us of any residual, unoriginal sins. She always said that it was good to write, to paint, to dance and sing. May her earthly powers suffice to purge at least some of her great god, adopted and biological children of original sin, for she was meant to enlarge the place of her tent, stretch her tent curtains wide, without holding back. (Is 54:2) I think she always knew - as any true pioneer does without ever having to look back - that her son would return her treasured heirlooms, and he did: a love seat and a rocker.
It is good to write, to paint, to dance and sing. Therein lies the exit. I believe that Gerdie has put me here as the valet of an empirical inn, to point to the exit, to stand up against a wailing wall of silence built up over the years in the shadow of one monstrous oak, the gallows tree where "dat mothex..x.x a dun try ta take de law in 'er own hans." Of late I think that I've been put here to howl and bark at the moon, until your grudge is out, exorcized once and for all. My door remains open to the land of the living. Decades pass. Can you still ”feel me” now?
to be continued...
Once upon a time, there was a house called One Oak Hill, in Sweden. To tell you the truth it’s the only house I’ve ever ”owned”. In fact I’ve never owned much of anything in this world apart from a Borgward (which I gave to a friend who sold it to his brother), a Toyota Starlet with a cracked carburetor, and two old Volkswagens that I bought used and eventually sold to a junkyard.
One Oak Hill was nothing one could own, mind you. It was a living plot of earth (may whatever or whomever is buried in its soil R.I.P.) upon which an historical building was set, alongside a giant oak and a pear tree. On the first day it was a place that I felt I could learn from, and then a place to which I returned weekend after weekend, year after year to cultivate my garden, and to which I sensed that I too gradually belonged. Even though I never felt that I owned One Oak Hill, I felt reverence for what had once been the residence of many Swedish iron miners. I felt responsible for the whitewashed stone house and the living land that had been entrusted to me, if only for a short while, like the lace handkerchief.
It was in this trust that I reroofed all the buildings on the property with my own hands, cut the lawns, planted new bushes and fruit trees. I still have the scars from blistered hands to show for it. I put in a new cast iron stove imported from my own native home - to the extent that I have one - to keep us warm. I sanded floors, replaced old doors, painted walls, wallpapered, scraped windows and sealed panes.
I even drew up plans to build an outhouse where the old one that we shared had burned down, but that was evidently the last straw. Because that's when the Swedish baroness accused me of ”grandiose plans”, when I wanted to build a new outhouse, when I wanted to drill for running water, when I wanted to add a shower and a sauna. "Grandiose plans", said the baroness who immediately proceeded to appoint herself the perennial gatekeeper of paradise by saying: "please do not come out to Oak Hill, you are not welcome in your house while I am there", which was seldom the case in those days anyway since she lived and worked in my homeland, "because it is so close to mine." Hardly one to practice as she preached, her patent professional regimen for depression and anxiety remained "Send them back wherever they came from".
The global kiss, hypocritical as promiscuous, was on many lips then. At the same time, I was apparently a harbinger of the perils of globalization, an uncultivated seed of knowledge, a would-not-like-to-be terrorist whom her brother the "inventor" accused of howling. I was the one who would eventually have to abandon the tainted soil around Oak Hill, in an effort to keep clean.
Over the years I had gotten to know most everything that grew there on a firstname basis, and felt at peace as I made the rounds each weekend. Like visiting and caring for loved ones, I learned to prune the fruit trees in the winter, delight in the blue and white anemones, the irises, bridal spirea and the lilac hedge in the spingtime. I cut the peonies and the roses for a crystal vase that I placed on the old oak bureau. I printed curtains with white-winged and blue-bodied dragonflies, and planted and cared for my vegetable garden in the summer. The pleasure was great in knowing where the tiny Daphne blossoms could be found on bare branches in early springtime. Likewise the satisfaction in discovering the succulent morels in the late spring and chanterelles in early summer, and being able to fill the cupboards with red and black currant, blueberry, raspberry and lingonberry jam in the late summer... all until I was expelled by the original sin of "native" ancestors who were convinced that this was their plot and who could care less how important it might be for others to cultivate a sense of respect and belonging.
I cried last week when I found an old letter that reminded me of how much this wounded Swede had wanted to be able to love. She wrote about walking out to Chimney Rock at Inverness (in my native territory) to see all the wildflowers, and about having dinner at Vladimir's. She mentioned that C was in Hawaii spending time with his dying grandfather. She thanked me for the elderberry juice that I brought her while she were pregnant. She wrote that she were worried about K feeling imprisoned in their little house, impatient and tired of it all. ”I think she needs more company, another perspective she wrote.” She was, of course, writing of herself?
That was the last I heard from her before she went underground, and yet ten years later I still hadn't lost hope that she was alive despite the silence. And so I returned to speak lovingly of my memories of our travels together, in the Brazilian room for example, which is perhaps as close as we will ever get to her paternal grandfather's final destination. She said she wanted to love, but cut me out, never mentioning the beauty of the many low-growing live oak trees that dot the hillside above her new home overlooking the sea. Those are the Thousand Oaks I love, the ones that offer shade from the resplendent sunlight. Am I what professionals call pathological grief itself - the very mortal sin of omission that is passed on from generation to generation?
Are you enjoying the blossoms and fruits of all the trees I planted on One Oak Hill today? The baroness tells that they were planted after I had gone, but it is not true. As though the tree of knowledge came after the temptation. Much truth is still in my hands. You said you wanted me to cultivate the field in front on your side. You said you hoped one day to ”feel me” as a "benevolent and positive presence in your little red house". You said you realize how easy it is to become territorial, "because the houses are so close…can we be there both do you think?” I'm afraid you took not only more than you needed, but perhaps the wrong things and built a wall to protect the loot. I am guilty of the sin of omission, I shouldn't have let you get away with it. Fortunately no one possesses the dead.
The heritage and hospitality of Gerdie, a woman whom neither she nor your children (her grandchildren) have ever met, is given freely - to cleanse us of any residual, unoriginal sins. She always said that it was good to write, to paint, to dance and sing. May her earthly powers suffice to purge at least some of her great god, adopted and biological children of original sin, for she was meant to enlarge the place of her tent, stretch her tent curtains wide, without holding back. (Is 54:2) I think she always knew - as any true pioneer does without ever having to look back - that her son would return her treasured heirlooms, and he did: a love seat and a rocker.
It is good to write, to paint, to dance and sing. Therein lies the exit. I believe that Gerdie has put me here as the valet of an empirical inn, to point to the exit, to stand up against a wailing wall of silence built up over the years in the shadow of one monstrous oak, the gallows tree where "dat mothex..x.x a dun try ta take de law in 'er own hans." Of late I think that I've been put here to howl and bark at the moon, until your grudge is out, exorcized once and for all. My door remains open to the land of the living. Decades pass. Can you still ”feel me” now?
to be continued...
Tuesday, June 12, 2007
R.I.P.
Time to go underground, where life is not exploited by insidious onlookers, but offered willingly. Exodus.
Hej då, ha det så bra!
Hej då, ha det så bra!
Monday, June 11, 2007
Your mommie said
Perhaps another key to our Mother Anne, from Mago's treasures, in this excerpt from Grandmother "Gerdie's" undated yellow legal pad (where "Shank's Mare" and other rhymes were also written):
Your mommie says when very small
She had no Mother Goose at all
No book with birds baked in a pie
And witches rode brooms to the sky
where roguish bears stole little tarts
Baked by a dainty queen of hearts
And mice ran up grandfather's clock.
Your mommie says when very small
She had no Mother Goose at all
No book with birds baked in a pie
And witches rode brooms to the sky
where roguish bears stole little tarts
Baked by a dainty queen of hearts
And mice ran up grandfather's clock.
Thursday, June 7, 2007
Tongue tied
A few hundred meters into my run to catch the train today, I could feel glass splinters scraping the back of my tongue and taste metal. Why am I in such a hurry to get to a voice lesson, especially since this rush of dry air down my windpipe may be doing more harm than good? And so I slow down, call to say that I’ll be late, empty my water bottle in a guzzle and put my instrument back in its box.
Those few minutes of elevated pulse and rapid recycling of blood were evidently enough to alert me to another story of my life: struggling with an awkward tongue, a deaf ear. My misunderstanding, or yours?
I struggled later this afternoon during my voice lesson to lift the back of my tongue toward the roof of my mouth and sink its tip just behind my lower incisors – in so doing stir up the warm overtones of my still too cool ”i”. A-ve Ma-ri-i-I-a. The lips/the teeth/the tip of the tongue, over and over again until my body learns what only repetition and a good night’s sleep can teach.
It was that way every time I moved to a new country. Like when I first came to this country too, my entire body seemed to be sandwiched between the folds of a sign that read: “I am deaf and dumb” in big invisible capital letters with the smaller text below: “(Don’t bother to ask questions.)”, like an advertisement for a new Burger King, or the ones used by the first protestors against McDonalds invasion of Café Corso near the entrance to the Main library by Observatorielunden. Good thing I had that sign back then when held responsible for the war in Vietnam.
I had to listen hard to hear, to distinguish, much less be able to pronounce the difference between the words brunn, brun, and bron: well, brown, bridge. I still remember how I struggled in front of the mirror to get my tongue to roll from a “b” over an “r” and into these new vowel sounds. Broom was the key to the 'bron' where I could ride, sweeping the floors of the department store every morning between 5 and 9 a.m. I had two textbooks: Per Lagerkvist’s Gäst hos Verklighet (Guest of Reality, 1925) and Tove Jansson’s Pappan och havet (Moominpappa at Sea, 1965) to help out. I sang their familiar melodies over and over again – my mantras – until I could taste their words, pronounce and repeat them in new constellations.
The trouble is, when it came time for me to say something, something of my own - something that is also yours - I was perfectly tongue tied. So busy pushing the broom and pulling a little red wagon that just got heavier and heavier, I lost it, like the lace handkerchief. Had I looked back earlier, I might have seen that I was pulling dead weight, but by then it was too late.
Those few minutes of elevated pulse and rapid recycling of blood were evidently enough to alert me to another story of my life: struggling with an awkward tongue, a deaf ear. My misunderstanding, or yours?
I struggled later this afternoon during my voice lesson to lift the back of my tongue toward the roof of my mouth and sink its tip just behind my lower incisors – in so doing stir up the warm overtones of my still too cool ”i”. A-ve Ma-ri-i-I-a. The lips/the teeth/the tip of the tongue, over and over again until my body learns what only repetition and a good night’s sleep can teach.
It was that way every time I moved to a new country. Like when I first came to this country too, my entire body seemed to be sandwiched between the folds of a sign that read: “I am deaf and dumb” in big invisible capital letters with the smaller text below: “(Don’t bother to ask questions.)”, like an advertisement for a new Burger King, or the ones used by the first protestors against McDonalds invasion of Café Corso near the entrance to the Main library by Observatorielunden. Good thing I had that sign back then when held responsible for the war in Vietnam.
I had to listen hard to hear, to distinguish, much less be able to pronounce the difference between the words brunn, brun, and bron: well, brown, bridge. I still remember how I struggled in front of the mirror to get my tongue to roll from a “b” over an “r” and into these new vowel sounds. Broom was the key to the 'bron' where I could ride, sweeping the floors of the department store every morning between 5 and 9 a.m. I had two textbooks: Per Lagerkvist’s Gäst hos Verklighet (Guest of Reality, 1925) and Tove Jansson’s Pappan och havet (Moominpappa at Sea, 1965) to help out. I sang their familiar melodies over and over again – my mantras – until I could taste their words, pronounce and repeat them in new constellations.
The trouble is, when it came time for me to say something, something of my own - something that is also yours - I was perfectly tongue tied. So busy pushing the broom and pulling a little red wagon that just got heavier and heavier, I lost it, like the lace handkerchief. Had I looked back earlier, I might have seen that I was pulling dead weight, but by then it was too late.
Sunday, June 3, 2007
Sunday at Maria Torget
Woe unto those who are locked in or out of their homes. Human beings in exile. Thank you Nicole Krauss for sending me Leon Gursky, that angel of a locksmith whom I’m just getting to know.
All of the post-this, post-that and post-it theories and practices and papers we’ve used to crown our lives. So much for all those years in analysis. But what about the plump old lady I saw shuffling across Maria Torget just this afternoon, the one with the green watering can and the withering white chrysanthemum of a hairdo. Everyone heard her bellowing “Anna, Anna” as though she had just managed to escape an overgrown bed of perennials and Anna was some crystal vase in which she was dying to be displayed. I followed her for a while, at a distance, but never saw anyone who looked even vaguely like an Orrefors or a Kosta Boda.
What about all the people whose portraits have never been framed or set atop someone’s chest of drawers, people whom no one has ever attempted to describe or even see for that matter, though they’ve been sitting right next to them on a park bench for nearly an hour now? Perhaps that’s why I was so happy I could leave church early today, before communion, and get some fresh air on a park bench at Maria Torget, before I returned home to write.
It was especially refreshing, since the image of a clergyman - slapping the back of my old friend and proposing a toast to “Bruderschaft” because they had served in the same army - suddenly overwhelmed me like a hot flash. Of course the priest didn’t know, and probably never found out as long as he was alive, that my friend actually deserted that army. And then I recalled only minutes later a remark made in my presence by another one of these priests: “What Californian would ever want to live and work in a cold place like Sweden?" in sympathy of the Swedish-American priest who had turned down an offer to serve in this local Swedish parish. I felt as though I was being skinned alive. I wonder if the trunk of a tree of knowledge would feel anything if it were debarked? And then there was the rapid hammering away at Our Father on the organ to boot. It went so quickly that I coud hardly breathe in between the phrases of the prayer, and so I had to levitate in the middle of it all. Perhaps we’re all invisible foreigners, uprooted from our native gardens to be the blind spokesmen and women of Genesis. I wonder what graves I might be desecrating in the process? As I write I can see the old priest on the sidewalk below my apartment, resting on the seat of his walker with his hands folded reverently on his lap and looking up, waiting perhaps for me to come out and play or at least have a chat.
All this happened such a long time ago that I had almost forgotten the answer to the catechism quiz question: how many sacraments are there? Correct answer: six for girls and seven for boys. Sometimes I wonder why so many of us fail (refuse?) to play the part of the Pied Piper of Hamelin, or at least sing along. Perhaps she’s one of those mysterious treasures, like Anna, the hopeful role that we reserve for the autumn of our lives.
That’s why I’m glad I think I could at least recognize her today, get up off my knees and leave the pew while the sun was still shining. I’m glad I ran into my friend Joy out there and could have a chat, and then watch the clumsy pigeons and the fearless sparrows nibble at the crumbs. I could even chuckle at the tears that little Ervin shed when his mother broke the bun he wanted all for himself: “Ervin, mamma och pappa vill också smaka på bullen,” his mother said.
Postcolonial, postwar, postindustrial, postmodern. If colonialism is the patriarch of a myriad of postcolonial legacies, then whatever happened to his mother, sister, wife and daughter? Postcolonial theory is accused of shifting focus from locations and institutions - to the oppressed and dissenting individuals and their focus. So far so good. And what about the ideas, beliefs, culture, and social order that existed before colonialization? Who were the natives? Poof. Out like a light? Let’s not eulogize or romanticize. One day she just soared off in a gentle spring breeze, like a lace handkerchief or the tousled petals of her mum’s head, looking for her Anna.
All of the post-this, post-that and post-it theories and practices and papers we’ve used to crown our lives. So much for all those years in analysis. But what about the plump old lady I saw shuffling across Maria Torget just this afternoon, the one with the green watering can and the withering white chrysanthemum of a hairdo. Everyone heard her bellowing “Anna, Anna” as though she had just managed to escape an overgrown bed of perennials and Anna was some crystal vase in which she was dying to be displayed. I followed her for a while, at a distance, but never saw anyone who looked even vaguely like an Orrefors or a Kosta Boda.
What about all the people whose portraits have never been framed or set atop someone’s chest of drawers, people whom no one has ever attempted to describe or even see for that matter, though they’ve been sitting right next to them on a park bench for nearly an hour now? Perhaps that’s why I was so happy I could leave church early today, before communion, and get some fresh air on a park bench at Maria Torget, before I returned home to write.
It was especially refreshing, since the image of a clergyman - slapping the back of my old friend and proposing a toast to “Bruderschaft” because they had served in the same army - suddenly overwhelmed me like a hot flash. Of course the priest didn’t know, and probably never found out as long as he was alive, that my friend actually deserted that army. And then I recalled only minutes later a remark made in my presence by another one of these priests: “What Californian would ever want to live and work in a cold place like Sweden?" in sympathy of the Swedish-American priest who had turned down an offer to serve in this local Swedish parish. I felt as though I was being skinned alive. I wonder if the trunk of a tree of knowledge would feel anything if it were debarked? And then there was the rapid hammering away at Our Father on the organ to boot. It went so quickly that I coud hardly breathe in between the phrases of the prayer, and so I had to levitate in the middle of it all. Perhaps we’re all invisible foreigners, uprooted from our native gardens to be the blind spokesmen and women of Genesis. I wonder what graves I might be desecrating in the process? As I write I can see the old priest on the sidewalk below my apartment, resting on the seat of his walker with his hands folded reverently on his lap and looking up, waiting perhaps for me to come out and play or at least have a chat.
All this happened such a long time ago that I had almost forgotten the answer to the catechism quiz question: how many sacraments are there? Correct answer: six for girls and seven for boys. Sometimes I wonder why so many of us fail (refuse?) to play the part of the Pied Piper of Hamelin, or at least sing along. Perhaps she’s one of those mysterious treasures, like Anna, the hopeful role that we reserve for the autumn of our lives.
That’s why I’m glad I think I could at least recognize her today, get up off my knees and leave the pew while the sun was still shining. I’m glad I ran into my friend Joy out there and could have a chat, and then watch the clumsy pigeons and the fearless sparrows nibble at the crumbs. I could even chuckle at the tears that little Ervin shed when his mother broke the bun he wanted all for himself: “Ervin, mamma och pappa vill också smaka på bullen,” his mother said.
Postcolonial, postwar, postindustrial, postmodern. If colonialism is the patriarch of a myriad of postcolonial legacies, then whatever happened to his mother, sister, wife and daughter? Postcolonial theory is accused of shifting focus from locations and institutions - to the oppressed and dissenting individuals and their focus. So far so good. And what about the ideas, beliefs, culture, and social order that existed before colonialization? Who were the natives? Poof. Out like a light? Let’s not eulogize or romanticize. One day she just soared off in a gentle spring breeze, like a lace handkerchief or the tousled petals of her mum’s head, looking for her Anna.
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