lemon verbena

I remember my untrained palette discerning the difference between the honey I suckled from a purple wildflower behind my house on Marsh Lane, and the sweetness at the base of field grass, chewed against the better judgment of my mother. "Those slivers will go through your blood stream and into your brain." She was great for death threats so far unrealized. She should have warned me about other things.

The smell of lemon verbena takes me home, back to the pastures of my childhood. I try to capture these smells with words and fail. I bought lemon verbena soap for the girls in hopes of sugarplums dancing in their heads, some memory other than the rags and black punk dreds of Portland street urchins who leave their warm homes in seach of meaning. Who camp in the dangerous cold and decay, who do not seem to benefit from our suffering, our rejection of all that we now protect. I lived in trees and hovels. I know poverty like the back of my hand. You can tell the difference between children who have lived in poverty, and those who see it as a alter-lifestyle. They wear better rags.

Ah well. It is Christmas Eve day. I haven't posted in ages... so long that Blogger changed my password for me. So Merry Christmas to all of you out there in blogland. I am warm in my home, surrounded by love and posessions. I love the facebook posts of people who say: you know you've grown up when the things you want for Christmas can't be bought." Fair warning: this encrypted message means you ain't gettin' squat. But it sounds good.