it's good to fork things up!
everything here is
beads of time, beads of tine passing through teeth
a configuration of time somewhere,
Welcome to the online
Institute of 4orkological Studies
forkergirl has fun with Mardi Gras beads of multiverse.
Welcome to her forked theory of everything
—limited edition COME ON IN
specializing in Limited Fork Theory
these sites are similar, related, tines of each other; not all information is shared
and information is configured differently —in both Limited Fork neighborhoods:
there's lots to fork around with!
got to love forkology! forkology rocks!
forked home of the institute of forkological studies
Hello to my Toledo Friends! Let us bifurcate together and dine on wonderful ideas; we will bifurcate above and below ground, rather like trees, anchored with roots that cling and spread in soil while our branches spread even between dimensions, temporarily connecting them -–I don’t think that any connection is or can be permanent; that is one reason that we must eat again and again (ideally stopping when we feel full, even though the feeling of fullness is temporary).
We will hunger again. Everyday. Probably several times a day.
Please think, if you don’t mind, for a moment of ceiba trees, or of any tree you have liked –-forgive me, please, for assuming that there is a tree you’ve liked. If you dislike trees, this may not be a post for you, but I leave here a small interest in trees, a small interest that may become something else.
Each tine of a limited fork also functions as a root and/or a branch and may curve, circle, disappear for a while, temporarily connecting things, possibly even snagging something tasty, something possibly nourishing, something that can be ingested –-maybe without harm(ing us), but what is ingested will change during this process, and we may change, so the temporary connections is also a means of exchange: we give something and we receive something; we may not realize immediately that we are different, but we are.
For this post, I use my former match dot com photo, and my former ok cupid photos.
They caused quite a stir. More than I was hoping for actually. More than I really wanted? No;
I wanted more; I wanted to see if it was true that I can attract attention. I really did. I really do. All the time.
“Only dating explained image from this URL: )
My photos from online dating, (by the way, I am 63 years old, have never dieted in my life, have never had any reconstructive surgery, no cosmetic work of any kind. I do not even wear make-up, no hair weave, extensions or wigs, WSIWYG –all the way. I have never lied about my appearance):
I self-identity as mixed race, because that is what I am, and I am not ashamed of this at all. To be honest, I would not mind if more races mixed; for that is true interaction as long as all participating parties agree to interact; all interacting parties leave something behind, and all interacting parties take something different away, do not interact if you are not willing to change, if you must cling to what you were previously, before interacting for interacting will change you if you let it.
a definition of “interaction” states: “: mutual or reciprocal action or influence” –all interacting parties change!
(so stated right here: https://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/interaction
–Sure changed me, and I am still changing. Among the many things Thomas Robert told me, all of them wonderful, by the way, he said: “If ever I change my mind, I will tell you” –an he has said nothing to that effect. So I believe when he say din August 2016, that he loves me–
(I do not feel right about online dating; maybe I will in time, but I cannot rush… I have to take my time. I do not want to make any mistakes; I do not want to feel any pressure, especially just to have a man not so far away as Thomas Robert Higginson is. I also want to be fair to all involved, especially to my own heart. I feel guilty just a bit. I do not want to feel this way, but I am also involved in the promotion of New Kiss Horizon, my most recent book to date, and I want to do justice ti that unbelievable love, and that will take time. I have a feeling that will still be pretty; Thomas Robert was the first man to call me that and mean it. Not just those catcalls I often heard. He spoke from his heart, and I am not at liberty to say right here all that Thomas Robert said to me –over many, many years –as the real man behind that name, to the real woman behind the character’s name. )
What I have come to believe via “Limited Fork Theory (and life experience, to be sure), is that much racial discrimination can and will cease when there is more acceptance of mixture. I do not go back five or six generations, no further than my own father, and his father, both pictured here:
Two of the few photos with my father, I was a teenage bride; I never met my paternal grandfather while he was alive:
Here is some info about these men and my experience with train whistles: (courtesy questions Bracken Hamlet asked me on Facebook):
“My father, those long low moans, my father coming back to me… sounds dissolving in the air, night calls, his bounce becoming a sky. He has a long way to travel, from death and its tucking of things inside itself, called burial, but only him curling his tongue into semblance of an ichneumon fly, and that sound is the curl, chalk writing on the night sky. My father once cooked for the railroad, making slaw, his own recipe under handle of the Big Dipper, making a prayer come true, that is what I hear, my father calling me, and I answer, another train, car of his train switching onto another track, and we speak to each other in those whistles, and train treadles of heart traffic…
Warm, loved, a track itself so the trains could enter the station of my heart and join all other memories of him, whippoorwills answering me, duets and trios with scent of dogwood racing along the tracks, the frogs too, a thick froggy carpet that squishy road between homes of my southern grandmothers, one black and the other something else, oh, those platforms where I would wait for the train. My father often whistled and could sound like a train, like President Kennedy too with a yodel stuck in his throat, that’s what he said, the sound of him cutting cabbage for his slaw with the rim of a tin can as shiny as the rails themselves; that my father was rail-thin was often said, he was traveling the best way he could, those special trains, Nickel Plate and Ollie’s; one even said Saskatchewan
You know, I will always miss my father. Always. I was never spanked because of him; he did not believe in hitting; if something can be loved, you don’t hit, you love it. That is how he raised me , so unlike my mother; how different they were. I don’t think she ever hard the trains. Maybe just a screech of metal on metal, trains encountering obstruction on the tracks, circles in her mind, constricting it. Oh I also recall the magic of being in Terminal Tower when the locomotives chugged into Higbees underground, and the magicians’ smoke filled the space, overlaid more drawings on the luscious artwork, murals (that never should have been destroyed, work sewer rats could do, but I would think that even they would gag on such colorful profundity and drop like tubes of oil paint, potential usefulness squeezed out, fat gray gloves decorating the scene); smoke gushing out of the front silver plate, folded with the fold pointing out like a collar cradled in silvery recollections; this is what irons wanted to be, but not even that Rowenta came close, the steam irons would slobber on the clothes when they weren’t working properly; they wanted to be flattened for usefulness on the railroads, my paternal grandfather built them, hammer and pickaxe, Native American, Caucasian and immigrant from India, dry-land stevedore, oh, oh, oh, these memories….those murals in Terminal Tower railroad station“:
— Some of this deserves, warrants repeating, and some of this will pear in slightly different form in a book I am at long last writing about my father, including a scene I will have to completely imagine since my father’s death in 1980; he got to see not one of my books while he was alive; he never got to see his only biological grandson; he never got to see me truly happy with a man, the way I was with Thomas Robert Higginson, and I wish my father could have seen that photo of me standing beside Thomas Robert on a bridge, happiest weekend off my life so far; (even my son who never met my father, commented that he had never seen me happy with a man before, and I know with all my heart that true.
–Must sidetrack for just a bit right here, because I was married for forty years, and did not know the pleasure I found with Thomas Robert — says a lot about Thomas Robert, I know, and it is not my intention to embarrass him; but when a man has achieved something as special as this, you just do not keep it to yourself,
(If you want to know more, and I hope you do, then by all means read, New Kiss Horizon!
end of sidetracking, but not the end, probably never will be, of feelings for Thomas Robert Higginson)
(find out more about New Kiss Horizon here :
NEW KISS HORIZON LINKS:
Link to “New Kiss Horizon” on Smashwords:
Link to “New Kiss Horizon” paperback on Amazon:
Link to “New Kiss Horizon” Kindle book on Amazon:
Link to Thylias Moss Amazon writer page:
Vashtis Blog (narrator of NKH, maintaining a blog so that readers may keep in touch with developments in the character’s life beyond the book):
Vashti’s blog URL:
Dear Thomas, I sure hope that you do not mind my posting in this blog a photo that said to me was pure “delight’ –that’s what I felt, also; I am standing right beside you where I belong, and you are standing right beside me where you belong, always:
and I am writing a scene in which my father is holding his usual study, his brothers-in-law sitting at the dining room table , table my mother still has, by the way, his lectures on the composition and location of the human soul, a bottle of Old Mr. Boston nearby, pale in the glasses, like my skin when it sparkles (as it did when I was with Thomas, especially whenever he kissed me and I kissed him); Thomas Robert is a drinker too; they would have enjoyed each other very much, and my father would have been joyous indeed to see that I had loved someone like Thomas Robert Higginson.
image from :http://www.liquor.com/brands/mr-boston/
Back to the business of reverie, and repetition, for all of this is true, nothing truer has ever existed:
You know, I will always miss my father. Always. I was never spanked because of him; he did not believe in hitting; if something can be loved, you don’t h it, you love it. That is how he raised me , so unlike my mother; how different they were. I don’t think she ever hard the trains. Maybe just a screech of metal on metal, trains encountering obstruction on the tracks, circles in her mind, constricting it. Oh I also recall the magic of being in Terminal Tower when the locomotives chugged into Higbees underground, and the magicians’ smoke filled the space, overlaid more drawings on the luscious artwork, murals (that never should have been destroyed, work sewer rats could do, but I would think that even they would gag on such colorful profundity and drop like tubes of oil paint, potential usefulness squeezed out, fat gray gloves decorating the scene); smoke gushing out of the front silver plate, folded with the fold pointing out like a collar cradled in silvery recollections; this is what irons wanted to be, but not even that Rowenta came close, the steam irons would slobber on the clothes when they weren’t working properly; they wanted to be flattened for usefulness on the railroads, my paternal grandfather built them, hammer and pickaxe, Native American, Caucasian and immigrant from India, dry-land stevedore, oh, oh, oh, these memories….those murals in Terminal Tower railroad station
copyright © 2017 by Thylias Moss. Published by arrangement with the author. All rights reserved.Online Dating and New Kiss Horizon For this post, I use my former match dot com photo, and my former ok cupid photos.
I have just completed and submitted my essay on “What I’m Reading”
books of influence and comfort, books, ideas and words of propulsion, the books I chose are among my favorites; I own just over 5,000 books and Lisa was generous enough to help organize them for me today.
No longer tight rows of a hundred boxes of books; the books I selected for Tarpulin Sky:
- Sadako and the Thousand Paper Cranes, by Eleanor Coerr
2. Schindler’s List by Thomas Kenneally
3. Contact by Carl Sagan
4. Touch the Universe by Noreen Grice,
5. Song of Solomon by Toni Morrison
You will be able to read my essay very soon, online. As soon as I have it, I will post the link.
I hope that you will want to experience these books.
I live with them, these books form an archway; I had to walk through them just to get to my bedroom, lines a=, imags and words fell down as explos
Tarpulin Sky: What I’m Reading I have just completed and submitted my essay on “What I’m Reading” books of influence and comfort, books, ideas and words of propulsion, the books I chose are among my favorites; I own just over 5,000 books and Lisa was generous enough to help organize them for me today.
Mexico City here I come!
I am a good chica, I think.
I m a good chica, I hope.
More details now about the trip:
DETAILS FOR MEXICO CITY:
allow me please to comment that this will be the second edition of this poetry encounter, that last year gathered 22 poets from the five continents and more than 120 from the Mexico City and other regions of Mexico. This is a link:
Mexico City invitation!
Opportunity for my Spanish-speaking self! Limits! –can do; indeed, I have been addressign “limits” for quite some time, ergo, “Limited Fork” –migration! Duh! cultue, amalgamation of so much; talk about me and you have toa slos talk about migration, and transit systems –talking about those in the book about my father and in my daily life, think Jodie Fostor in “Contact”:
Here I am, I hate to say it, Sea World, interacting with dolphins, veatures and cousins I love , rememberng that my fathe was willing to build a dolphin tank for me in what is now m mother’s back yard.
Perhaps the presence of dolphins swiming and leaping would comfort her troubled heart a bit. For me, just my father’s willingness to rearrange and restructure a bit of grography, no mater how riduculous my original request was, to break yp these animal families, thse mammal families. And yes, I did enjoy the TV show, “FLipper” how coul dI not?
and of course, the Flipper theme:
My father, only a memory now, but one of the strongest and most persistent memories I’ve ever had. I was lucky enough to have him in my life until 1980.
The man who would have built a dolphin tank in my back yard in Cleveland , Ohio in place of the garage:Dolphins and my father Here I am, I hate to say it, Sea World, interacting with dolphins, veatures and cousins I love , rememberng that my fathe was willing to build a dolphin tank for me in what is now m mother’s back yard.
LFMK coming to Outlook Springs!
Three prose poams from my LFMK collection of Prose poams: “Looking For My Killer: Where Controversy Breeds” currently being considered by Jamii, a publisher (I am hoping for the best possible outcome, and for women taking back the night; what sacrfice this woman is.
Let those of us who live thank her every day.
"Almost 63" - a poem
I have just heard from the poetry editor of “The Account:
and my poem “Almost 63” is going to be published in the Spring 2017 edition!
I could not be happier about that for many, many reasons. Yes, another Higginson poem; there are many, probably for the rest of my life, because Higginson still matters, always will.
It is important that I say this.
It is important that we not remain prisoners of the past.
It is important that we acknowledge change.
It is important that we allow anything to become something else, and not hold it to whatever it was.
“Change” systems are the way; once something has changed, we must allow that thing to exist in a form of system is only a temporary stop; I do not want to think that is a final, instead, only an emerging form. What would we really be if we could not change? Think of how you may have been at birth; I would assume that you have changed in some way, and isn’t that the idea, to not remain as you were, and to not continue to be judged as that?
What is it that does not have a past not meant to threaten us like ghosts we are unable to escape?
Do you really think I would want to be what I was?
I happen to like evolving, even from my parents; only my mother remains alive, and she wants me to be “saved” from , I hope, hating myself as much as she hates herself.
If you really know me then you also know I am not my mother, though she would prefer that I was. Although she would prefer me to be someone I am not.
My mother insists on dying as she is, unable to change. There is withering I can do about that, as I do not intend to die her death. I will die my own, and unlike her, I have bio idea what will follow that event.
She is convinced,
however, that I am going to hell; I cannot change her belief system, nor do I think I should, but I can say this, that after interacting with my father for so many years, my mother did not change as she could have.
(half of his father seen below, and half of me)
my paternal grandfather
(Native American, Indian (from India), and Caucasian)
She is becoming increasingly evangelical, and has dementia that is taking the mother I once knew so far away from me.
And I accept this. Even though my own mother, 87 years old right now is unable to accept me.
And please understand that I am okay with this, I just want to live my life, and of course, I will make mistakes some fo the time, maybe even all of the time, but I will not imprison anyone in their past as my mother rimprisons herself.
I allow that all things may change, and in fact I want them to.
Go ahead and change. Go ahead and become. Go ahead and take the risk, or do you really feel that you have achieved an ultimate form of yourself?
I do not, and at 63, I continue to plod forward, ideally emerging as something better by the end of this life.
My thanks to any of you who have contributed in any way to evolution systems of Thylias Moss.
A few selfies of me, all grown up at 63:
The last time I saw her hair. She hates it, and hates herself. Completely missed the back power movement. All that prejudice in the south of her birth, Alabama and Tennesssee, called the little black one and fully believed every denigration, even denigrated herself, wanted her child, me to have the hair she always wanted, and I do, never relaxed. no chemical treatment, except she wanted my hair for herself.
THAT Length she craves.
Evolutions It is important that I say this. It is important that we not remain prisoners of the past.
#loveistheanswertoeveryquestion #gratzis #lunchwithanewfriend #happy #loveisintheair (at Ann Arbor, Michigan)
"Good Hair" Essay live in Mythos!
Very pleased to announce the publication of my essay “Good Hair: an Endordsement of Vanity” in Mythos Magazine! at this link: https://mythos-magazine.squarespace.com/essays/good-hair-an-endorsement-of-vanity
–by the way, I love my hair, and will be going on Wednesday to have my hair done at Penthouse Hair Salon, 561 N. Hewitt Street, Ypsilanti, Michigan 48197.