Question:
Would Jesus carry a gun?

(I realize this is all a bit off the wall for me,
but I am ruminating about an email conversation
with a family member re: gun control and the religious right.

Here is an excerpt from my part of the story:

I don't understand how anyone who is a follower
of the teachings of Jesus, Ghandi, Martin Luther King,
to name a few, would believe that we have a right to carry
an assault weapon. As an educated, well-traveled,
adult woman who has seen her fair share of the effects
of violence, drug use, life in an inner city neighborhood,
alcohol abuse, mental illness and poverty --
I will stand at the side of those who put down
their weapons and say "Enough.")

A rare moment -- and I believe that it's the closest
they've been to each other without attempting murder.



Raindrops on an orange tulip --

Pizza:
Canadian bacon, green olives, mushrooms,
red onions, mozz., provolone & parmesan, a drizzle
of white truffle oil, a sprinkle of fresh lemon juice.
Can you say "sublime"?

R. and N. came for dinner, and my niece
and her boyfriend stopped by on their way
back up to B'ham. It's so great for the house
to be filled with the chatter of, well,
what exactly do I call them?
Kids? That doesn't sound quite right.
Young people? That makes me sound like an old codger.
Certainly not children.
College students? A bit stiff.
Familial twenty-somethings? Ack. No.
Filled with the chatter of people I love.
I guess that says it.

(And there are pizza leftovers for lunch!)

Kitchen counter icons....



left to right:
-cup from a childhood tea set
-ceramic warthog from Red Rose Tea
-carved wooden terrier,
-plastic Virgin Mary
-espresso cup that belonged to my mother
-paperweight from Hawaii, a gift from my son.

A bathroom should not look like La Louvre.
I'm just sayin'.

My all-black cat chomped down on my finger
yesterday, on either side of the joint. Now it's
a ten-day regimen of Augmentin and my doctor
told me not to use that finger for four or five days.
Said that I want to limit motion in it
so that the bacteria doesn't get into the tendons,
etc. So I shouldn't type or make pizza tomorrow
or go to work which is intensely hands-on
or play the piano. And I still love cats, even
this one. (I tend to get a little wild with the cats,
so I hold myself responsible.) But damn those
fangs are deadly.

Yesterday's treasure...



...from Value Village. Price: $2.99. Silverplate,
made in Italy. I should have taken a "before" picture,
because they were black with tarnish. One of the things
that intrigues me about VV is that they feature
"valuable" items up front on a shelving unit
and in glass cases. I don't know who determines
values, but I'm really happy that they don't know
what in the heck they're doing.

Sometimes a (sleeping) dream is so real & powerful
it inhabits the consciousness the duration
of the following day, and fades only gradually
each successive day, the bits and details
falling off like the last remaining leaves
on a windless November birch. Visitations
from the dead, the lost, the long-silent,
with their long-due messages and apologies,
their fragile and final farewells.

Leonard Cohen tonight, at WAMU Theatre,
home of uncomfortable padded (they try) folding
chairs. I wasn't into LC before Paul turned me
on to him -- and I'll be forever grateful. This
makes me weep, every time I hear it:

Dinner is just a prelude to dessert.

Is it possible for something to smell like goodness?
The first warm air of spring does to me --
it smells like possibilities and loyalty
and love and sex and flowers
and a rosy future.
And just as quickly it's gone.

A few minutes ago, I asked Paul if he had any
Chet Baker -- I was listening to him at work today
and couldn't get enough -- and in less than a minute,
who do I hear singing "Someone to Watch Over Me"?
Mr. Baker himself. Okay -- I'll say it: my husband
is simply wonderful. (And I might add that he's
also wonderful in many complex ways --)

From a fellow blogger/poet on sabbatical in Vietnam,
a philosophical post about the nature of our existence:

Still, even in the absence of the gods, I am here to make my soul.

The thimbleberries are in bloom....



as well as the skunk cabbages --



and the trillium(s).


In early morning light the undergrowth glows
a fluorescent lime. A moment ago there were two rabbits
in the yard, and now I hear the flicker calling
for a mate. A trio of Stellar's jays skitter about
in the dying branches of the photinia: leaf-spot,
and nothing to be done for it except uprooting.

It's good to know that if I need any extra WISEMEN or
MADONNA HEADS, they are available, for a limited time,
at Value Village. And as an added bonus,
the MADONNA HEAD comes with plastic arms.
And instructions! What more could a girl ask for
on a sunny April Saturday morning?

And yet more stamp amusement.

From an interview with Robert Bly on Three Dog Blog:

I can't tell you what we talked about; I need to
save that for my story. But I will share his last quote,
since it was so lovely. I said, Why poetry? Why not prose?

And he answered immediately; he said,
Why dancing? Why not just walk around?

That says it! (And I'll admit that I dance
like a broken egg-beater, but I seem to have
had a bit more success whisking up poems
into stiff peaks.)

I think it's spring.



Vacation property....


Fortune telling:

Oh Deer!

Yesterday after dinner a deer walked right up to my
dining room window and peered in at me. By the time
I could get my camera, it had decided to continue
up the street. And although you can see a lot of trees
in the photos, this is not wilderness! I sure hope it
found a way back to a habitat not populated with
rush-hour traffic and strip-malls.

More fun with stamps....

My son in the Student Gallery at SSCC, and with his
acrylic-on-canvas quartet. (He has never had any fear
of color.)

There is something very calm about Monday.
Monday demands nothing, Monday rarely shouts.
And on this April Monday there was White Stuff
on the ground in Redmond. WHITE STUFF.
Ice. Snow. Hail. Sleet. Frozen rain.
For crying out loud. We are in the post-Easter
phase, we are past the Ham Holidays. Why now?

My son Nelson, whose painting graced my blog header
this winter, has four pieces in a show opening tomorrow
at South Seattle Community College, 1pm. I'll be there!

~~~~

My little tortoise-shell cat Marble Cake
is playing with the strings of an apron
hanging from a hook in my kitchen.
How is it that cats can spring into the air
three and four feet from a standing position?
I am in awe of these sprightly critters.
(And just as quickly she's bored:
that apron-play is just so five-minutes-ago!)

Beautiful Debris

Been thinking a lot about pie lately.
While deeply into one of these reveries
one night last week, N. called me and asked
for my recipe for strawberry-rhubarb pie.
Then Robin served us "bruised-berry pie"
for dessert on her house on Friday. So
today it's Easter Pie Day. And I mean officially.
Unfortunately for N. and myself, who crave
strawberry-rhubarb pie, Whole Floods didn't
have any rhubarb. Fortunately for Paul and R.,
they had plenty of frozen blueberries and bags
of mixed frozen berries, so "bruised-berry"
it shall be. Oh, and by the way, pie is its own
foodgroup.

Vintage Sugar

For some reason, when I received this sugar egg
from my mother 40+ years ago, I decided not
to unwrap and eat it. Glad of that now!
When I decided to post a photo of it here,
I toyed with the idea of releasing it from its
four decades of polyurethane binding,
but decided not to mess with tradition, as it were.
As of today, this Frederick & Nelson ovum has survived
several earthquakes, a fire, young children, a marriage,
several deaths, cats, pollution, seizures, one lawsuit,
George Bush's presidency, four moves and global warming,
among other things.

Happy Birthday Citizen K.!
(Photo, left to right: Paul III, Paul I, Paul II.)
(A plethora & a profusion of Pauls.)

1960-something. This was the week of frantic sewing,
of dotted Swiss and seersucker and sometimes
pink wool, for a coat cinched with a chain belt.
Of dresses passed down, cut down to size,
of rick-rack and hand-sewn hems. Of buttons
plucked from the button-tin, lucky if matched.
All was new or nearly new or new to me:
white gloves soft as a rabbit's ear, stretchy itchy
knit gloves, gloves with a single pearly button.
Shoes to grow-into, and a hat
strapped with elastic under the chin.
At last we marched off to mass, my five sisters
and I, fussy in last-minutes stitches.
Impatient with The Strife is O'er -- the dirge of it!
I wanted only to shed this Easter skin,
this membrane of prettiness, and escape
to the topmost branches of a maple
where I could blast my hymns,
my solo Alleluia's to the treetops,
swaying on thin limbs.

Egg-Play

I learned a nifty trick at work today....

First, you need a bag of this Easter candy:


and a very small spoon (shown with cork for scale).


Place the eggs in a small bowl under a very warm lamp --


Give the eggs a few minutes to incubate
(notice the cracks beginning to appear).


Nearly hatched! And now you can...


...remove the "lids" and scoop out the melted chocolate!


(With thanks to Melinda!)

I have been enjoying Leonard Cohen's new CD
both at home and at work -- hard to believe
that this guy is 73. And please check out Paul's
new blog about songwriters here -- his first
entry not only contains his characteristic
sharp imagery and concise prose, but he profiles --
yep -- Leonard Cohen.

There is a crack in everything,
that's how the light gets in.

It's National Poetry Month and if I were a well-behaved
poet I'd be doing things like writing a poem a day
and doing readings and promoting promoting promoting.
But, alas, I am not. I will not receive any poetry badges
this month. I was not a Well-Behaved Girl Scout
and I am not a Well-Behaved Poet. (Which reminds me
of a reply from a three-year-old I was babysitting
years ago, who said, when I told her she needed to
behave: "But I AM being-haved!" ) And my Girl Scout
leader still owes me badges. From the grave, as it were.
(And I kind of like that, in the "Write all about it!" badge
pictured above, the pen appears to be a red line across
the badge, as in "writing prohibited".)
(I can hear Mrs. Blonski turning over in her grave.)

Bucket & Tulips

There is the fantasy of having a kitchen counter/window
completely free of clutter: plants, marbles, shells;
as well as a ceramic boar from a Red Rose Tea box
and a tiny carved terrier and a jeweler's loupe.
It will never happen.

I repotted all my ferns and geraniums today.
Some of the ferns I've had for over thirty years,
the geraniums possibly ten years. They are my
plant-family. I take cuttings from the geraniums
and the ferns do their spore-thing with amazing
regularity, so I've sent dozens of infant ferns
and geraniums out into the universe over the decades.
After many years of providing residence for a wide
variety of houseplants, I've narrowed my collection
to only ferns, and they thrive and are cheerful
year in and year out.

This sun today -- after days and days of biblical rain --
is a luxury. I want to fold some of it up into envelopes
to save. If one could fold sun, if it would be saved.

There is delight in stirring anything with a very small
silver spoon.

Birthday Boy (I mean Man)

Happy Birthday Bugman! Er, I mean, Reilly!
(Having a son turn 23 makes me feel, well, a bit aged.)
We're having dinner at Cafe Campagne.
Duck confit here I come!

I floated home from work tonight:
1) floated down Rainier Avenue
2) floated across the Lacy V. Murrow Bridge
3) floated across Mercer Island
4) floated onto I-405
5) floated down SR 520.
Floated home.
The rain is fierce.

I love the idea of birds caught in the treble clef.