Blaine Lee Willey

We wish he could know how much he is missed. Although it’s been a few years since we have seen him, we thought of him often and fondly. Rest in peace, friend.

Willey
First and foremost, Blaine was one of my favorite people in the entire world. He always made me laugh, and was always there for a big bear hug when I needed one, as well as some kind words of wisdom. I miss him so much!! We (my husband Eric and I) met Blaine back in 1999 and were friends pretty quickly. It was when he and Amy were in MN. We stayed friends through all of the years, writing letters, emailing, visting him in Duluth, and having short visits here and there once he moved back to IL. I cherish those letters, emails, and memories, and will always. Blaine had the same sarcastic, twisted, snarky sense of humor that my husband and I share, so we were like three little peas in a pod when we were together. 🙂 I will miss his little sayings and nicknames. He gave me one of my nicknames that my hubby’s family still call me (Wendy Sue, even though that’s not my middle name). 🙂 We have so many lifting stories and little “Blaine-isms” that will be in our vocabulary for the rest of our lives.
Willey: you will NEVER be forgotten by Eric, nor I. We love you with all of our hearts, and we always will. Waiting to see you on the other side. Get ready for the biggest bear hug from me when I get there. Miss you TONS.

La Chascona/City of Glass
Blaine — We shared this poem so long ago. It seems oddly appropriate now.

You were one of the most amazing people I have ever known. Bar none.

We’ll talk more later… in the meantime, say hi to Pablo for me. Personally I think you’d get a tremendous kick out of each other. Love always.

[Martin Espada wrote this poem about the Chilean poet Pablo Neruda’s house in Santiago. La Chascona means tangle-haired woman and he named it for Mathilde Urrutia (the love of his life). This is the house where Pablo lay dying listening to the reports of the Pinochet coup on the radio and hearing of his friend Salvador Allende’s murder. After the coup and Neruda’s death the military broke into La Chascona and smashed everything. Mathilde would not let anyone tidy up. I never knew anyone else who loved Neruda as much as I do. Blaine had so much to give and I’m just so sad he lost sight of that. There’s so much more I have to say, but I will just give you this poem instead. He loved it too.]

City of Glass

For Pablo and Matilde
La Chascona, Santiago, Chile

The poet’s house was a city of glass:
cranberry glass, milk glass, carnival glass,
red and green goblets row after row,
black luster of wine in bottles,
ships in bottles, zoo of bottles,
rooster, horse, monkey, fish,
heartbeat of clocks tapping against crystal,
windows illuminated by the white Andes,
observatory of glass over Santiago.

When the poet died,
they brought his coffin to the city of glass.
There was no door: the door was a thousand daggers,
beyond the door an ancient world in ruins,
glass now arrowheads, axes, pottery shards, dust.
There were no windows: fingers of air
reached for glass like a missing lover’s face.
There was no zoo: the bottles were half-moons
and quarter-moons, horse and monkey
eviscerated with every clock, with every lamp.
Bootprints spun in a lunatic tango across the floor.

The poet’s widow said: We will not sweep the glass.
His wake is here. Reporters, photographers, intellectuals, ambassadors stepped across the glass
cracking like a frozen lake, and soldiers too,
who sacked the city of glass,
returned to speak for their general,
three days of official mourning
announced at the end of the third day.

In Chile, a river of glass bubbled, cooled,
hardened, and rose in sheets, only to crash and rise again.
One day, years later, the soldiers wheeled around
to find themselves in a city of glass.
Their rifles turned to carnival glass;
bullets dissolved, glittering, in their hands.
From the poet’s zoo they heard monkeys cry;
from the poet’s observatory they heard
poem after poem like a call to prayer.
The general’s tongue burned with slivers
invisible to the eye. The general’s tongue
was the color of cranberry glass.

“City of Glass” by Martín Espada

Blaine Lee, I will always love you!
Sandy

Blaine,

What happened to you? When I knew you , you were always full of life. I haven’t seen you for the last five years. I don’t understand and I probably never will. I sure wish we could talk now.

Hey, thinking about you today. But what’s new about that?
Big hugs

May the LORD’s Mercy bring you to peace and happiness at last old friend.