May I rant? May I express less-than-complete-happiness
for at least one paragraph? Youngest son + automobiles = :(
1) Son's first car, purchased from relative: engine went out after five months.
2) Son totaled Mom's car, which Mom paid to fix. Mom = :(
3) Third car, purchased at auction in Fife last May: entire coolant
system is rusted = $$$$$, therefore Mom + Son = WAAAAAHHHHHHHHH.

Thank-you.

Boo.

My New Boots, Continued

Nelson: "Those look like Wizard-of-Oz boots."
Reilly: "Ooohhh....Witch-of-the-West."
(Spoken independently of each other.)
(And the best part is, [other than the pointy toes
and three rivets at each ankle] is that they come
with a pink satin bag. Just in case.)

My New Boots

"And the day came when the risk it took
to remain tight inside the bud was more painful
than the risk it took to blossom"
- Anais Nin
(borrowed from Esther Helfgott's blog)

Pilchuck Auction: Party at the Westin

Expectations of glass toppling, so many people
with so many drinks (my favorite was the Pole Turner,
signature drink for the event: Belvedere vodka with
a blueberry infusion, twist of lime, edge-of-glass dipped
in crushed-grahams/sugar....deadly); glass fused, cast,
blown, blasted, painted, twisted, collaged. Some pieces
in the live going for $35-40k. Chocolate in my cleavage.
Genevieve with her fuschia-pomegranate hair, Michael
with a scarlet rose in his lapel. The woman who went
from table to table collecting a platter-full of magnetic rocks.
Individual ice-sculptures of Pilchuck architecture with a hollow
for a single scoop of cucumber-lime sorbet. (Completely
recyclable serving pieces!) Middle-aged women with
backless dresses (too many) (cover it up). Thin crisp
candied orange slices: edible garnishes. Some of the glass
was almost edible.

All Bran

If you haven't seen this video yet.....

His Apron Strings

Tangled, wrenched under the agitator,
they won’t budge. (Neither will my son,
asleep after his night shift at the restaurant
plating salad after salad.) I won’t pay
a hundred dollars for a stranger
to do what I can figure out,
and I won’t resort to scissors.

I pry up a plastic disk to reveal
a single screw, not quite rusted.
It unwinds with my turning
and the washer mechanism lifts to reveal
the offending string coiled to the core.
Oh easy I sigh, greased to the elbows.
More difficult to extricate the son.

Last night The News Hour with Jim Lehrer ran a segment
about the poetry "biz" in Seattle, featuring our very own
Floating Bridge Press, and *starring* Jeff Crandall. Check it
out here.

From an article at Boston.com:

"Since the Red Sox won the World Series in 2004, more and more families across the country are birthing their boys into Red Sox Nation with the name Boston. In 2004, for the first time in a century, Boston appeared on the government's list of the 1,000 most popular names. Rallying from virtual obscurity to 626th place, the name has made a comeback, spawning a modest bumper crop of baby "Bostons." According to the Social Security Administration, 856 boys named Boston were born in 2004, 2005, and 2006...."

My children are lucky that this trend to name kids after cities wasn't popular back in the late 1980's -- how could I have resisted naming one of them Renton?

The Monster Egg

Break a dozen or two of eggs and separate the whites from the yolks. Tie the yolks in a pig's bladder, boil them hard, and remove them. In a larger pig's bladder, place the whites. Into the midst of the whites, place the set yolks, and tie the bladder tight. Boil the whole until the whites harden and then remove from the water. Serve the Monster Egg on a bed of spinach.
--from Schott's Food & Drink Miscellany

I met a baby last night -- Darragh William Payton --
nearly six months old, a bruiser, with what looks like
apricot dust on his head: soft orange down. (A night out
at Brad's Swingside Cafe on Phinney Avenue.) Darragh
was passed contentedly from person to person, entranced
by red helium balloons and twinkle lights, shells suspended
in a net strung in the window. He dined on mother's milk
and rice cereal. The rest of us dined on mussels, calamari,
bow-tie-pasta, chicken, lamb, steak. Limoncello mousse.
And a hell of a lot of wine.

Coming out of the Columbia City Cinema tonight
(saw Michael Clayton, very understated role
for G. Clooney, intelligent and complicated story --
I recommend this movie) the rain pelted us
and I tried to wrap my white Pashmina scarf
about my head and it kept blowing into my face
and I couldn't see and then it would fly off
and I could see perfectly but was getting wet.
Oh, such troubles. Pleasurable, simple troubles.

------------

Trader Joe's sells prepared grits-in-a-tube.
Squeezable grits. I want pizza-in-a-tube.
Won't somebody please invent this?

Every fallen leaf has been documented.
Every twig, every apple tossed in the wind.
The toppled dahlias, cosmos, monkshood.
All is noted.

Monday night parties are a good idea.
Today my neighbor Ben turned 50
and we toasted him with wine and champagne
and a potluck-dinner and tres-leches cake
from the Salvadoran bakery in White Center.
Sailed right past those Monday night blues.

Looking for a house is a lot like
looking for a Christmas tree --
you don't want to choose the first one
you see. Gotta look at it from all sides,
shake it to see if any dead needles
fall out (scary to think about a dead needle
falling from a house). Is the color good?
How will it look decorated? Is it tall enough?
Will it fit? Will our star shine brightly from it?

Rules One and Two

"Not a shred of evidence exists in favor of the argument that life is serious, though it is often hard and even terrible. Since everything ends badly for us, in the inescapable catastrophe of death, it seems obvious that the first rule of life is to have a good time, and that the second rule of life is to hurt as few people as possible in the course of doing so. There is no third rule."
--Brendan Gill

Try the pumpkin pancakes at Cafe Flora
on East Madison in Seattle. They are plate-sized,
puffy, fragrant with nutmeg, served with walnut butter
(chopped walnuts folded into softened butter)
and warm maple syrup (the real stuff). I went
at them after Paul had stuffed himself silly,
and still there remained half-a-dozen generous
hunks. This was the kind of pancake experience
where I tuned out everything around me, wanting
only to be present to what was passing through
my lips. Share an order with someone soon!

Yesterday at dusk I lifted heavy vines

to check the sweetness of grapes left out

too long. Ready, I decided, tomorrow.

And while a grey sun rose though October rain

I slept on and on as starlings swept through

and plucked clean each laden stem.

GO AL! (Gore, that is.)
("Go Al" spells goal.)
I'd say he's scored quite a point.

I disassembled my washing machine
in order to unwind the cord of Reilly's
chef's apron. Black grease on my arms
and all. And....I put it all back together.
The symbolism here has not missed me.....

------------------------

The grapes of my childhood were an unidentified
purple variety, most likely for wine. The vines stretched
all the length of the south side of our half-acre, arching
without welcome into the neighbor's yard. (Some of my vines
grow to 24 feet!) Sour, tough-skinned, but I figured out
that, after popping one into my mouth, I could remove the skin
with my front teeth and tongue, spit out its bitterness,
and there remained, between the skin and flesh, a thin
layer of near-sweetness. Not quite a reward for my discovery,
but nonetheless, come ripening season, I'd lie on my back
in the tunnel formed between the fence and the gentle arch
of the vines (this was during my feral phase) and secretly
suck out the juice.

No blast of early October sun to sweeten the grapes.
Even the starlings ignore them as mold begins
its slow invasion. Alas.

"One may still find in remote parts of the west of Scotland,
or in Ireland,the vanishing traces of an ancient culture
once universal, where the face of the land and sea and sky
hold a meaning… Every bird has its own magical quality
and significance; certain wells and springs are holy,
and there are green mounds which no crofter
would disturb because of the spirits which
continue to inhabit them."
--Kathleen Raine, Defending Ancient Springs

(After attending a book launch for Congressman Jay Inslee's
new book Apollo's Fire at Seattle University):

Coming out of The Chapel of St. Ignatius
after a day of rain-drama, the October sky
is bunched with clouds: rag-clouds, torn-curtain clouds,
a steel-wool fringe against indigo. I desire a dress
sewn from these clouds: black and blue,
gauzy, backlit with a threading of gold.
Ripped and mended.
Mostly mended.

Forgot my recycled grocery bags when I went to Safeway
today, and now once again my kitchen is afloat
with brown and red puffy plastic bags. It usually
makes the clerk nervous when I produce my collection
of well-worn canvas bags, with the occasional refolded
brown paper bag included. There is usually a passive-aggressive
sigh, as they fumble with the handles and try to get
them to stand upright. I generally assist, which also
produces a measure of anxiety from the clerk. And no!
I dont' need help out with my gallon of milk! (Which requires
no plastic sack!) In Ireland, and I'm guessing many other
countries, one is required to brings ones own method
of store-to-vehicle-grocery-conveyance, or cough up some
extra Euros for a plastic sack. There are often empty boxes
stacked in the front of the store for customers to use.
This is a great idea. And the funny thing is that I almost
always remember, when I'm there. (Unlike when I'm here.)

"There are a great many sins in the world,
none of them original."
--Bridge of Sighs, Richard Russo

Psychotropic dreams last night, inspired by nothing

other than my own wacky brain chemistry. Kept

trying to wake up and couldn't. When I finally did

awaken, all I wanted was to slide back into hypnotic

sleep. Here's one image: in the main floor room

of a building I used to inhabit in Wallingford

back in the 80's (an old mom/pop grocery-store

building) set designers were building thirty-foot-high

wooden chairs for a Verdi opera. They were encrusted

with rhinestones and were painted bright greens, blues,

oranges, reds. In another dream, an animal-welfare group

captured all the wild parrots in Seattle to save them

from a predicted sub-zero storm, and then released them

to a particularly warm & tropical area of Eastern Washington.

Upon their release, at the edge of a cliff which looked out

over a verdant valley suffused with golden light, an eight-year-old

boy belted out a gospel-ballade about birds and freedom.

"The best way to make your dreams come true
is to wake up." --Paul Valery

Some years ago, I was in the Safeway parking lot.
Just behind me was a young mother with a baby
on her hip, holding a three-year-old girl by the hand.
The girl twisted away from the mother and started
to run, past me, just as a car reversed out of a parking
stall. I leapt forward and swept the girl into my arms.
I vividly remember the feel of her bones, the
insubstantial depth of her rib cage, her thin white
cotton dress. The reversing car continued reversing,
and then proceeded away, completely unaware.
I stood with the very surprised child in my arms
and the mother stumbling up behind me, saying
thank-you thank-you thank-you. It was very bright
and sunny, the kind of day where you dare to believe
that the world is a benign place.

------------------------------

This morning, I was exiting off I-90 to Rainier Avenue
and I saw a car that appeared to be parked (no emergency
flashers) against the concrete pylon, right against the curve.
I thought it was odd, and as I continued on (very slick road,
a dangerous curve if you're going too fast), I noticed that
the car had head-on collided with the concrete and was wedged
against it. This all happened incredibly fast -- by the time I
realized it was an accident (I do not think quickly in situations
like this), I had rounded the curve and was on Rainier --
probably about four seconds. Panic! I called 911 and reported
it, thanks to the existence of cell phones. So much flashed
through my mind, so many possible scenarios, life/death/
transected-spinal-cords/contusions/punctured-lungs.
Autopsies. A knock at the door. I believe I did the right thing.
I want to believe this. Need to. I could not stop.

I walked outside this morning and saw all that rain
and wind and said, "Stop it. It's too soon."
And guess what: the elements ignored me.

The Broken Count

Today:
1) one 9 X 13 Pyrex baking dish, in the oven, very hot,
containing a whole chicken;
2) one circa 1970 highball glass, adorned with a red
and gold paisley design, on my bathroom floor;
3) one fifties-reproduction juice glass, green-striped,
upon unloading the dishwasher;
4) a pair of two-year-old Nikes (sole detaching
from the body of the shoe);
5) one-half of a pair of Clark's sandals: severed strap.

Thinking alot lately about the changing of residences,
exploring what that means, to me and those to whom
I am the closest. Am I particularly enamored of where
I hang my coat, or is it just habit? I am not, and have
never been, overly fond of this current residence.
It's old, semi-remodeled, in need of constant work.
The yard is too small, the basement filled with too
many spiders and exposed pipes, wires, beams, drains.
The living room is, essentially, one long hallway.
The bedrooms are tiny. The kitchen is big and is fairly
functional, but the alley garage is crumbling, leaking, slumping.
(Although my upper-level, my own personal bedroom en suite ,
completed three years ago, is lovely, with a balconey
and a view of the rising October moon and an occasional sunset.)
I love my neighbors, aka my Brandon Street Family.
Can I leave? Absolutely. Do I ever long for long-lost houses
of my past? Never. Don't get me wrong -- it is with infinite gratitude
that I return to my own home each evening. It is a privilege.
As is the proximity of so many treasured friends. I can't imagine
having raised my sons in a better place. But in the end,
it's a structure with a roof and four sides. It houses me and my sons.
And I'm ready to dust out the rafters, vacuum the heat vents,
cart away the used-up memories, box up and save the good ones.
The planet, in spite of our global mindset, is still a big place,
with a lot of room. It is with open arms and a clear mind that I approach
my upcoming new life. Open arms, and joy.

We saw (and heard) George Carlin tonight
at lovely Benaroya Hall where there is so much
leg room that you don't have to stand up when
someone walks down your aisle. We sat high up
in tier three, up flight after flight of stairs, and looked
down, down, dizzyingly down to the stage, where the
seventy-year-old Mr. Carlin, or "the old fuck", as he
refers to himself, pulled out all the stops. Nothing
passes him by -- no cliche, no platitude, no corporate
slogan, no political double-speak, no Bushian mumbo-jumbo.
It's all there to be examined, parsed, dissected and layed
out in cross-section, with all parts labeled. He is brilliant
and raunchy and gut-splittingly funny. Carlin began
the evening by poking fun at his advancing age, then
moved on to three particularly off-color jokes, followed
by rants on subjects ranging from Perfect Children to
What We Say To Widows At A Funeral. There is something
incredibly energizing to be in such a sizeable crowd
of laughing people.

Regret
--in memory, Mark Benchley Anderson
September 28, 1956-November 22, 2003

I have to tell you:
the starlings returned
to nest in the eaves
where you neglected repair.
You never loved them,
yet last year waited to roust
the messy twig and mud jumble
until each fledgling soared
clear of gutter and roof.
Grumbling, glad to be done,
this was your unmentioned gift
and I never thanked you.

Soon summer will spread its benevolent wing
over this unfinished house
where porches and railings
await the carpenter’s hammer and nail.
Our children — nearly men —
will desire to roam the city all night,
and I’ll let them go
one feather at a time,
always holding back
and then releasing, alone now
instructing in the mechanics of flight.

Some cars don't look like hats at all,
but some cars look like fishing caps.

These days begin in fog and end golden.

In spite of the fact that I'm quite fond of the rain
and grey, I am always quite unprepared for it
when it actually occurs. I left the house this morning
minus a coat, with clogs and no socks. Cold! Damp!
Drip drip drip drip drip drip drip drip drip.

P. is going to crack the whip at me tonight as I
get my book-length manuscript in the mail.
This paper-shuffling-secretarial crap just does not
suit me. I would rather mop the floor. Really.
And I despise mopping.

At the bakery a customer once asked me if
there was any meat in the cupcakes. Meat!
My guess was that she was newly-vegan, and
didn't quite have the lingo down yet. I had to
surpress a chortle (actually, more of a guffaw),
and I told her, "no meat in these cakes!"
If I had chosen to include a meat filling in a cupcake,
I could've labeled them "Beef Cakes!"
But now, after my Safeway Tropicana Tilapia/Sardine/Anchovy
experience/inspiration, I could make Tilapia Cupcakes!
Sardine Oil Scones! Anchovy-Chip Cookies!
Endless possibilites.....could be the next food fad....
or perhaps not.

The October issue of Gourmet magazine has a feature
article on Holly Smith, owner of Cafe Juanita in Kirkland
where Paul and I are getting married. (Unfortunately,
Gourmet doesn't post their current articles online.) Last year
Gourmet listed Cafe Juanita in their top fifty restaurants
nationwide. I brought Paul there for his birthday in April,
and not long after we booked it for the Big Event. (It was
running neck and neck with Canlis, which beats Juanita
hands down when it comes to the setting, but the food
got the final vote....) Cafe Juanita is superb.

Yummy Blended Fish Juice Product!

At Safeway today I was looking at the list of ingredients
in some Tropicana orange juice in the carton to see if it
was from concentrate, and this is what it said:
Ingredients: orange juice. Contains tilapia, sardines, anchovies.
Yikes! Fish in my OJ! No way! I am not kidding.
I'm thinking, what, is it pureed? Chunky? Is this
what they mean when the label says contains pulp?
Upon further investigation, I discovered that it contained fish oil.
I DON'T WANT FISH OIL IN MY ORANGE JUICE!
Couldn't the Tropicana people get a bit more
specific on their label??!! Perhaps, tilapia oil, sardine oil, etc.
But, now that I think of it, that isn't much more appealing.
No thanks, no Tropicana for me.

I did some dark driving tonight, from Port Ludlow
to Seattle, unlit roads and unfamiliar curves,
one cup of strong black tea not quite enough
to keep me longing for sleep and the comfort
of blankets. The interminable wait for the ferry.
I could not do this with any regularity.

Paul picked me up for work yesterday
in his new Prius! Man, that is one outer-space
vehicle. It is completely silent on start-up
and when idling. Need I mention the terrific
gas mileage?! I meant to have him pose in front
of it last night when we were dressed to go to
Jazz Alley....he looked sooooooo sharp in his
black slacks, black Hugo Boss shirt and camel
blazer, beside the charcoal Jetson's transport device.
It's a very smooth ride.

Is today the first day of not-summer?
This morning it was not sunny and not windy
and the last of my tomatoes are not thriving.
My pumpkins are not glorious and my grapes
are not ripe. (Although that last statement could
be a lie as I haven't actually tasted them yet this year.)
I did not finish reading Motherless Brooklyn because
it did not have much of a plot. I am not staying home tonight
but hopping a ferry for Port Ludlow where I most likely
will not talk about Motherless Brooklyn at my book group.
Sometimes I am notty, and sometimes I'm not.

A Mitten! A Mitten!

Is this mitten for me?
Is that mitten for me, too?

That mitten is for you, Janet.
This mitten is for you, too.

Is this mitten for me?
That mitten is for you, Jack.

I have a mitten.
I have this mitten, Jack.
You have that mitten.

This mitten is for Janet, too.
Etc.

from Tip and Mitten: Mckee, Paul and Harrison, Lucile M.,
Houghton Mifflin Company, 1949.

No inspiration!

Cast from what dark heaven?

Feasting

Paul made a wonderful soup yesterday, perfectly
appropriate for a rainy Sunday: white beans,
spicy Italian sausage, vegetable broth, tomatoes,
carrots, onion, garlic. (What? No celery?! He doesn't
like celery. I LOVE celery. Must be the French girl
in me.) We ate it with cornbread.

Later, at dinner with my boys, I made a version
of Waldorf Salad, minus the mayo: chopped red-leaf
lettuce, chopped gala apple (they're really good this
year), celery (yay!), green onion, toasted walnuts.
Reilly made a white wine vinaigrette with the addition
of some huckleberry honey. Oh yeah!

And so the rains return. They feel like a blessing,
like holy water upon my head. All the garden plants
bow down, in reverence.

The Troll King

from the American Heritage Dictionary -
troll (trōl) n. A supernatural creature of Scandinavian folklore, variously portrayed as a friendly or mischievous dwarf or as a giant, that lives in caves, in the hills, or under bridges.

The sign outside Mutual Fish on Rainier Avenue today said,
"Troll King Salmon." Wha? Huh?
Who is the Troll King? Where can I meet him?
Where is his kingdom? Is there a Troll Queen?
And why does the Troll King get to have salmon
named after him?

I ordered a dress today online, fancy
with tiny beads sewn all over, very 1920's.
And no, I will not post a photo of it on this blog.
And yes, it's a wedding dress. Or, at least, it's what
this fifty-something chooses to wear to tie the knot.
I had to buy it in a size a bit smaller than my actual
girth, as it was sold out in my specs. So......it's all
simple math, no? A bit of subtraction, here and there?
I love that the color is nude. Both Paul and Nelson
were very alarmed when I disclosed this detail.

Urban

7am. Standing on my balconey, cloud cover.
All the cars on Wilson Avenue rush north,
into the city. I can hear them, but they
are concealed by houses, trees, fences.
Bush-tits in the apple trees, with their
tiny high-pitched ee ee ee. About fifteen
of them, and when they take off they
look like grey butterflies, or a bouquet
fallen suddenly apart, petals lofted.
A squirrel in the maple tree, scuttering
through the canopy. I can see a neighbor
in the house behind me --his back door
is open -- spray a pan with cooking oil
and place it on a burner. I guess eggs.
He's a widower. I've never seen
a visitor to his house. A silent man with a long
horse-face and enormous glasses. Someone else
in another house is putting away dishes. Their
clink-and-clank punctuate this morning stillness.

A List of Things on my Trunk (coffee table)

a box of reduced-fat Nilla Wafers
Pontoon Number Eight
Wheel of Days, by Linda Greenmun
In the Next Galaxy, by Ruth Stone
Old Filth , by Jane Gardam
Straw for the Fire, by Theodore Roethke
Haiku U,by David M. Bader
HomArt, Fall and Winter 2007
Caribbean & Mediterranean Yachting Cruises DVD
Best of the Best, Your 2007 Guide to the
World's Best Hotel Experiences
binoculars
a russet-brown sharpie
Brocato curl-energizing cream
a digital camera
a tomato pin-cushion
a spool of royal-blue thread
(are you still with me?)
my folder of acceptance/rejection records, dating to 1978
One Day on Achill Island
One Day in Donegal
William Christenberry, by William Christenberry
a plastic glitter pear
a package of 100% bamboo fiber towelettes
The New Yorker, July 23 and August 27 issues
Gourmet magazine, May 2007
a blank CD-R
The Whole World Over, by Julia Glass
an i-pod nano
headphones to above
three pencils
three pens
a 6x4" spiral notebook
The Oxford Book of Aphorisms
a stack of photographs (on paper) from Nelson's birthday
the O'Shea Chaplin Academy of Irish Dance Family Cookbook
Bayou magazine
Crab Creek Review
Slant magazine
a bar of goat milk soap, lilac-scented, handmade
in Ballyvaughn, County Clare, Ireland
my hair-stylist's business card
crumbs

(And this is fairly cleaned-up!)

Paul and I saw Richard Thompson at the Moore
last night. Great show. Drummer Michael Jerome
mesmerized me. I'm usually not into drums, but
he made those drums sound meaty. Visceral.
(And he was altogether too gorgeous! Those forearms!)
The music was an amazing blend of rock'n'roll
and British folk, including a sea shanty where
Pete Zorn played a bass flute -- wow! Deeply
resonant, moody, the sound rolled like ocean waves
under a midnight sky. After the show we walked
down to the Virginia Inn, where a woman
was quite peeved that I objected to her
cigarette smoke wafting into my face.
I think she thought it was acceptable
because we were sitting outside.
Nope! Twenty-five feet, girlie!

I've been meaning to write about this. About
getting married. I honestly don't know how
people can do this casually, or over and over
again. It's big. Giant. Moving from one life
to another. There exists excitement and joy
and fear and change and companionship
and patience and faith and, just possibly, contentment.
(Dare I imagine this? Its likelihood?)
For a time, for a short time, or longer,
even many many years, all stretched
in front of me, a steady path.
I anticipate kindness,
I welcome tenderness.

Summer wanes, teases us with heat.
Dinner tonight under the kiwi vines,
grilled salmon, apple-pumpkinseed-red-onion'n'greens-salad,
marinated Yukon golds. Vouvray. Another white wine
with the word "ghost" embossed on the label.
Lavender chocolate, cassis chocolate.
When the light began to ease I lit two candles,
and finally the yellow-jackets ceased
their pestering.

Sea Hedgehog

From Schott's Food & Drink Miscellany:

Aphrodisiacs -- Notable of mention are: orchids
(orchis is the Greek word for testicle);
whirtleberries; snowdrops; partridge brains
(mashed into powder and swallowed with red wine);
and truffles (which were so prized by George IV
that he instructed his ambassadors in Europe to
dispatch any prize specimens to the royal kitchen
by state messenger).....lobsters, crabs, sea hedgehogs,

cuttlefish....frog's bones, sucking-fish, dried marrow,
nail cuttings.....

Friday night we attended The Great Art Party,
a fundraiser for Floating Bridge Press. Paul
acquired four Bamboo Cordials (glass) by
Susan Balshor. I volunteered as an Art Handler...
three hours on my feet in high heels --
it was a blast, but, alas, my poor feet....
The color theme was orange (puke) and all volunteers
were pressed to wear orange construction vests.
My-oh-my what a beguiling effect the color orange
has on the average complexion! (OMG -- an exclamation point!)
Massive orange balloons floated above us
like bloated oranges, and all the food was orange.
(But no Cheetos. Hmm. Damn I love Cheetos.)
For entertainment there were tango dancers,
an interpretive Japanese dance,
a pair of burlesque dancers, a drag-queen dj.
And lots of silly people. Martini's, champagne, helium:
what more could anyone possibly ask for?
I absolutely cannot wait for next year's
Great Art Party. How about you? Will I see you there?

The Daily Spider Sweep

Does anyone else have this problem?
Every morning I go through the house
with a broom aimed at the intersection
of wall and ceiling (in every room),
sweeping clear the accumulated arachnids.
Sometimes I'll release them outside,
sometimes I just do them in. The very
dark, insidious, chunky Giant House Spiders
meet death at my hands at every opportunity.
I have tried, again and again, to make peace
with these creatures, and they are welcome
in my garden. (Although I am not fond
of the nets they string each night
outside my front door and down
the front steps.) But I have not invited them
into my house, nor do I ever intend to.
They are especially fond of the basement
of this built-in-1908 house, inhabiting
sorted piles of laundry beside the washer.
I avoid my basement after sunset.

Absolutely check out Peter's blog today
about Vaux's Swifts in Monroe....it's really quite amazing.
(No exclamation point.)

Vacuuming Spiders

I admire their geometrical patience,
the tidy way they wrap up leftovers,
their willingness to be the earth's
most diligent consumers of small bitternesses.

Sometimes at night I hear them
casting silk threads, clicking their spinnerets,
plucking their webs like blind Irish harpists.
I can almost taste the fruit of the fly
like sucking the pulp from a grape.

But when their webs on the ceiling
begin to converge, and the floor
glitters with shards of insect wings
I drag out the vacuum
and poke its terrible snout under the sofa,
behind the radio—everywhere,

for this is the home of a human being
and I must act like one
or the whole picture goes haywire.

Poem: "Vacuuming Spiders" by Charles Goodrich, from Insects of South Corvallis. © Cloudbank Books, 2003. Reprinted with permission.

A neighbor is quietly cutting down
his apple tree with a coping saw.
He's been at it for about a week.
Every evening he goes out and cuts
for about a half-hour. I'm not sure
why he doesn't get a bigger saw.
But he seems to be coping with the small
size quite well.

I haven't used an exclamation point
since Sunday. I've declared a moratorium
on exclamation points. Exclamation points
should be limited by law.

Listening -- again -- to the Once soundtrack.
Paul gave it to me today. I made meatloaf to it
after work (Oregon Country Beef, breadcrumbs, eggs,
onion, garlic, thyme-from-the-garden, oregano,
basil, Italian parsely, parmesan, ketchup.)
Baked four potatoes, split an acorn squash
and filled each half with butter and brown sugar.
Fresh green beans. Dinner a la Renton 1970,
made each year when summer shifts into September
and the air begins to smell like ripe apples.
And no, I did not make Jello. (But I keep threatening
to get out my Jello cookbook. Gotta love those
cow-hoof products.)

I DID NOT eat the alligator-on-a-stick
at Bumbershoot. Although Paul threatened to.
"It's white meat," he said.

Kultur Shock's gypsy-rock was amazing.
(We did the Paul Goode Bumbershoot Tour.)

Just saw Once, a low-budget ($150,000) Irish film
starring Glen Hansard, singer-songwriter from the
band The Frames (never heard of the band, but that doesn't
mean much!). Understated, passionate, free of cliches
and romantic idealism. This movie opened late spring,
so I'm surprised it's still around, but it's definitely
worth seeing. A perfect little gem of a movie.

Each waking: which day? Which week? Month?
Which house? Which city? Which continent?
Am I seventeen or fifty? Which body, which self?
Am I dreaming, still? Which hour, which minute?
What, and why?

Books and books and boxes of books.
And more. I've never known their titles
and I've never read their words. Some
spine-damaged from the Louisa Street fire
of 1987. Everything M. collected and stashed
and saved and hid. I sort and toss,
take boxes to Goodwill and still the basement
is full, bursting. The first editions I'll
keep, if I perceive value, if they are clean,
or very fine or even mint (although these
are rare). I doubt that more treasures await.
I desire clean-sweeping and blank spaces.
Memory purged.

Words fail me.
Even the crows are silent.

"To each his own labyrinth."
--Theodore Roethke

Out walking this morning, a cool edge
to the breeze, and I could feel it
on every centimeter of my skin, dust
of the universe brushing past me.
Alive, significant, insignificant.

Wild in the 'burbs

A mother raccoon and four teen raccoons
tormented Paul's cat tonight.....luckily
there was glass separating them. Paul and I
went eye-to-eye with them in the dark
(the porch light had burned out) while Sally-the-cat
hissed and charged at the sliding glass door.
They were very curious and unafraid -- of both
the cat and the humans. The very civilized Baguette Quartette
(as seen below) accompanied our encounter with Mother Nature.



I mean, they weren't in the back yard with the critters
nor were they playing live in the house....but on Paul's
fancy-dancy stereo with the FABULOUS sound, they may
as well have been....a little French cafe music from the
1920's should accompany all raccoon sightings,
don't you think?

Tomato moon. Pocked plum moon.
Burnished lychee moon. (There were lychee hulls
on my kitchen counter yesterday morning.)
Nelson and I sat out on the front steps
and watched the last sliver of sunlight ease
from the lunar face. We shared a hand-stitched
blanket, remnant of one of N.'s high-school
romances. For some reason the whispered
conversation turned to moral values,
and their source in oneself. N. spoke of the
profound impact of the deaths he has experienced
in his lifetime. All this at 3am!
Thank-you, universe, for this fortuitous
mother/son/moon/earth/sun alignment!

Eee Clips

It's 9pm, and I can lie in bed and see
the full -- nearly full? -- moon.
A cool breeze drifts in; there is the scent
of fire in the air.
I may set my alarm for five hours hence
so that I may see the eclipse at its zenith.
A desire to blast Van Morrison's Moondance
from my top-floor bedroom window.
It feels like October.

Blackberries are fading. Nelson and his friend Jennifer
visited three sites today before gathering enough for a
pie, said they were mostly dried up, except of course
for those hidden in the shade, guarded by spiders.
The season turns.




Watched the season finale of Big Love tonight on HBO.
Three woman -- er, wives -- all lying to each other and to
their husband. And the husband with his own half-truths
and distortions. The 16-year-old son with his plans for
polygamy, dating identical twins. Ay yi yi!
Why make life any more complicated than it already is?!

Thank-you to everyone who posts a comment!
It's nice to know that connections are being
made in this virtual community. In a perfect
world, (or, at least in an alternate world)
we'd see each other every day at the local
bakery, or pub. (Or coffee shop, butcher,
park, etc.) But this is what we have,
and I like it!

Speaking of perfect worlds, P. and I
went to Crossroads last night to hear How's Bayou.
What a great scene! Granted, it is a mall, a small
one, but it's a vision of community that we rarely
see anymore. There's a smattering of local, independant
restaurants at the "Food Court," a small stage, and
an assortment of tables and chairs. There were people
dancing, playing chess, teens playing Magic --
all ages, Russians, East Indians, a group
of young adults with Downs Syndrome. Bellevue Public
Library has a branch there, which is always bustling.
The restaurants include Mexican, Vietnamese, Indian,
Italian, Korean, American, Mediterranean. Decent food
at decent prices. I do not like malls, but I like
this scene! The music, as is to be expected from
How's Bayou, was great. Ben Lang told me that they've
been together as a band for about thirty years.
Karen on fiddle, Mike on bass, Dave on Concertina,
Mooney on guitar, Jay on drums. Crossroads features
a different band every Friday night -- I highly
recommend this venue!

I got this recipe from Emily Lang
at our Block Watch party:
make old-fashioned macaroni'n'cheese,
enough for a 13x9" pan. (You know --
white sauce, cheddar, pasta.) Add to it
a small can Muir Glen fire-roasted diced
tomatoes and about 1/4 cup minced pickled
jalapeno's. Bake as usual.
It will knock your socks off.

"I" before "E", etc.
Niece.
I used to know all this.
Really! Although in fifth grade
Sister Catherine Eucharia sent
Randy Perkins to the diocese spelling bee
instead of me, because she thought a boy
should go.

Paul, Reilly and I dined last night at the home
of my sister Ann and her family. Gene had caught
a five pound cutthroat trout in Clearwater
(that's a big daddy!) which he grilled...lovely
pale pink flesh, mild and tender. Ann rounded out
the feast with baked chicken, a hot pasta salad,
corn-on-the-cob, and some lovely fluffy, thick-crusted
hot buttered bread. We lingered at the table long
past apple pie, telling some outrageous stories
from our (also long-past) youth, most notably
where Ann said they (not me, thank-you!) used
to play with mercury whenever a thermometer broke.
Rolled it around with their fingers, squished it,
all sorts of good, clean wholesome fun. Yikes!
We finished the evening listening to some selections
on the violin, performed by my nearly-fifteen-years-old
grand-neice, Karisa. (Or is that
great neice? I'm never quite sure,
although she certainly is a great neice!)

This is on my refrigerator,
from The Little Zen Calendar,
dated September 28, 1998:
"Each day should be
passed as though it
were our last"
--Publilius Syrus
(with the following note added at the bottom)
"Happy birthday Mark, love, the Porters."

This year on September 28th the boys and I
are going to see/hear George Carlin at Benaroya.

Meadowsweet, County Mayo


Atop the continental divide of this half-Clydesdale,
half Cobb, I lumber above Carrowholly countryside,
led by eighteen-year-old Anya, keeper of Belle
and holiday-neighbor to me, fifty – decades away
from knowing how a horse moves.

Anya talks fauna, names every flower
Belle covets as we clop down the lane.
I can see above fuschia hedgerows
to cows lolling beside gorse, to sheep
newly shorn, grazing the scruff. Nothing

moves faster than us. Belle startles
at a plastic grocery bag lofted in the breeze,
ignores a tractor rumbling by. I won’t swim
astride this horse as Anya has, accompanied
by seals. Nor will I canter under a solstice

moon at low tide. At fourteen I rode
a borrowed horse bareback all one summer,
pleasure sustained in the ripple of each flank.
Now the saddle creaks beneath me
as we detour down a path through nettles

and gnarled oaks. Beseiged by gnats,
Belle’s tail swooshes, ears flick.
We emerge in an abandoned pasture,
the backbone of Croagh Patrick rising
above us beyond Clew Bay. I won’t ride again

this June. Rainfall will surpass records,
and I’ll fly home six thousand miles
over ice and ocean, over North America
to a house in the city, a craving
for meadowsweet on my tongue.

Yoga cancelled this morning an hour after
I roused myself from the blankets, wanting
nothing but to stay in the valley of my bed
and listen to this August rain, happiness
for pumpkin vines and roses and dahlias.
But I was breakfasted and bathed and coffeed
already, and the cats were fed and snug,
so -- ta-da -- I wrote a poem!
It's always such a high, the best kind of high,
that initial inspiration. Never wanting to be forced,
the inspiration snags me by the neck,
or pulls my hair, and I must follow.
The new piece is set in Ireland,
about being led on a horse by my Irish neighbor Anya.
Middle-aged woman being led on a horse.
Ha!

Went to see Class Act at ACT last night --
one-man show starring John Aylward
about the legendary Northwest poet and UW professor,
Theodore Roethke. Amazing performance by Aylward.
This was no sit-down-and-reminisce experience. Roethke was
bi-polar, and the highs and lows of this psychopathy
were vigorously portrayed. Aylward romped about the stage,
lit fires, pranced with a chair on his head,
ripped pages from notebooks, danced cheek-to-cheek
with a striped bathrobe, invoked the spirit of his father,
and sweat profusely. I was fortunate, in my university
schooling, to study with several of Roethke's former students --
notably Nelson Bentley, Richard Hugo and David Wagoner.
Aylward lovingly and accurately became the Roethke I knew
from stories and his poetry, especially his notebooks,
Straw For The Fire. (I lived and breathed
SFTF in my early twenties; my paperback copy
is now minus its cover, a right tatterdemalion
of its former self.) Written by David Wagoner,
Class Act is a must-see for anyone
interested in the roots of the Seattle literary tradition.
It closes August 26th.

Minute-Cake

So much joy in the impromptu cake,
mixed by hand, ready to consume
hot and crumbly in about thirty minutes....
Last night it was "One-Egg Cake"
from an old Joy of Cooking.
As I was at Paul's, which means somewhat
limited ingredients (okay, he's perfect
even if he doesn't bake), I found a jar
of raspberries preserves in the cupboard
which I swirled around in the batter.
Most of the lovely berry bits sunk
to the bottom of the pan during baking,
but -- oh! Yum!(And yes, it is magic.)

Paul and I saw Death At A Funeral today....
very funny British farce. Well-paced, well-acted,
a lot of hilarious scenes. Definitely recommended!

The Rainier Valley annual parade happened this morning,
and Paul and I were about six minutes late, and I fear
that we missed the best of the drill teams. I just LOVE
those white clickety go-go boots, the pleated, flippy
skirts, the call-and-response. We did manage to view
the Baby Dangerettes -- great name! What I love about
this parade is that it's so low-key. When it first
began, about ten years ago, there would only be
a handful of spectators scattered about. Today
we were in the second row of fans!
One of my favorites today was a group of Vespa
riders, all close to my age, revving and looking
not-at-all tough. No floats -- alas! This is not
The Torchlight Parade. And it only lasts about
thirty minutes. Feels very small town.
After the parade, we wandered about Columbia City --
a "must-see" is the Columbia City Bakery
where the display cases look like museum exhibits
from The Museum of Fabulous Eating (which exists
only in my mind). Their Walnut Levain is about
as good as it gets, their chocolate biscotti
are sold by the bagful and are worth every cent.
Their sandwiches are fresh, delicious, on amazing
soft French rolls. They put a certain G-Town bakery
to shame....

Came home last night from Jazz Alley
and Nelson and his new (girl)friend
had picked blackberries -- enough for a pie.
Last Christmas Reilly gave me THREE
pyrex pie pans....no excuses!
I believe there are few things on this planet
better than homemade blackberry pie
(add a pinch of cinnamon!) served warm
with a scoop of vanilla ice cream.
The 'pinch of cinnamon' came from my sister
Mary (thank-you, Mary!) who had brought
a b-berry pie over the night Princess Di
succumbed. We were sitting on my back steps
in the dark and warm evening, feasting,
when Mark came out and told us.
So now blackberry pie with a pinch
of cinnamon = Princess Dies.
Princess Di B-Berry Pi.
I don't have a Diana obsession!
Really. I do have a pie obsession,though.
Life is better with pie.

Reilly and I went to the Columbia City Farmer's Market
today. Heirloom tomatoes, lemon cukes, all sorts
of peppers, haricots verts at (yikes!) $8/pound.
Local peaches are especially good this year;
I haven't had a single mealy one. Can't believe
that this is my first visit this year. The crowd
was nice there today -- more varied than I remember
from previous years, a good mix of ages, ethnicities.
(I almost wrote eccentricities!) (Well,
come to think of it, that is also true.) Real bread
from Wild Wheat and Columbia City Bakery. The flowers
are always exquisite and the best bargain in town --
plumped-up bouquets starting at $5! At one booth
the scent of the stargazer lilies was intoxicating.
Fresh cheeses -- curds are very in. (And
very addictive! Beware!)Reilly saw an herb called
epazote, which, he says, is the antidote to bean-gas.
Golden beets, purple kohlrabi, orange romanesco.
(One year I grew purple string beans, which turn green
when cooked!) Oh -- and purple potatoes, fingerling
potatoes, Yukon golds, tiny reds. (Sounding a bit
like Ireland here.) Apricots, plums, berries,
the first tart green apples. An abundance,
a multitude of delights.

Why is it that often Monday is so typically Monday?
Crazy early yoga today....how can one meditate
when one isn't even properly awake yet?
I was a bad yogi this morning....lists in my head:
loads of laundry, champagne glasses to wash,
paperwork to fill out & mail. And I would've
traded that garudasana (eagle pose) for a nap.
My body did not want to be a pretzel today.
It wanted to be more like a slice of Wonder Bread.
Limp, puffy, good-for-nothing.

Should I forego yoga tomorrow at 8am
and instead stay awake until 1am
so I can take in the peak of the
Perseid meteor showers? Or do both?
Five, six years ago we would've
been at Priest Lake in Idaho
this week, toasting N.'s birthday
by campfirelight. Listening to bats
swooping between the tamaracks
(whose cones burned purple flame)
and there were more meteors
than we could possibly count.
I camped in a previous life;
now all my gear lies idle, stacked
in the basement. Still each year
the meteors return. I am reading
Boy in the World by Niall Williams:
"...because, it was explained to me once,
as the world is a ball and is turning
and everything is in fact in motion
all the time, doing nothing is not really
doing nothing, it's allowing things to move
at their own pace." Just like my camping
equipment: moving at its own pace.

Nelson's last teen birthday.....apple pie, blackberry
pie, peach pie, white chocolate cake, roasted corn,
polish sausages, vinaigrette potatoes, basil tomatoes,
champagne, vanilla ice cream.....a house full of
youthful men (not really teenagers anymore!)
and then there's Paul and me, upstairs,
sedately reading, blogging. The surprise guest
was my sister Kath, unexpected and delightful,
with her long hair and turquoise skirt.
Photo's tomorrow! Sleep now; I am the
exhausted mother of the birthday-boy.

Happy Birthday Nelson!

8:27am. Still in bed. Making lists
in my head. (Drag a comb across my head....)
Breakfast, then the baking marathon begins.
O splendid cloudless summer day!
Nelson was two weeks late being born
and I remember that August as relentlessly
unending and hotter than a pie-fueled fire.
On my actual due date, I picked blackberries
(I was puffed and swollen and lumbery and wobbly)
and then baked four pies and invited all
the neighbors in for a pie feast.
One of my male neighbors (who shall go
unnamed!) whispered in my ear,
"I should have married a woman like you!"
Me, nine months pregnant, in my sweaty,
smoky, pie-kitchen. Now, nineteen years
hence, mercifully not gravid, it's
once again the hour of the pie.

Anticipating Nelson's birthday tomorrow.
As usual, I insisted on a simple meal
and as usual, it has grown into a more
complicated meal. Or, rather, the desserts
have multiplied from one white chocolate cake
into one white chocolate cake, one peach pie,
one apple pie, and possibly one blackberry pie.
(There is one problem, though: who shall
pick the berries?) I shall bake the pies
and the cake, and Reilly shall make fresh
mozzarella for the caprese, and he'll roast
the corn. I'll marinate the Yukon gold
potatoes, chop the red onion and Italian
parsley. Julie will slice the fruit.
Paul will do the crossword puzzle
and Tom will drink the pinot grigio.
Nelson will blow out nineteen candles.

I love this:

250 anthologies of poetry by WB Yeats were set free in Dublin on Monday, July 9th, 2007 by the National Library of Ireland. The books which were left on trains, buses, cafés, pubs, hotels and public spaces throughout the city were distinctively labelled with an invitation to savour the work of the great poet and a request to leave the book in another public place for someone else to enjoy.

Yeats Book Crossing was inspired by the concept of Book Crossing in other countries. It is hoped that the books, which have been specially purchased by the Library for this book crossing initiative, will be enjoyed by people of all ages, will promote a greater engagement with the poetry of WB Yeats and will lead to visits to the Library’s award winning exhibition Yeats: the life and works of William Butler Yeats.

Each of the books is marked with a unique code. Readers can report a sighting and log their comments here on the National Library’s website. This log will in turn become a record of the journey of each of the 250 books as they wander through public spaces in Ireland and abroad.

You can view the reader reports here.

My friend Carol sent me this poem today:

The Mower

The mower stalled, twice; kneeling, I found
A hedgehog jammed up against the blades,
Killed. It had been in the long grass.

I had seen it before, and even fed it, once.
Now I had mauled its unobtrusive world
Unmendably. Burial was no help:

Next morning I got up and it did not.
The first day after a death, the new absence
Is always the same; we should be careful

Of each other, we should be kind
While there is still time.

--Phillip Larkin

Last night was Seattle's "Night Out"
and we had our annual neighborhood potluck
down at the dead-end of the street.....lots
of desserts, with an unintentional blackberry
theme. Yum! I especially loved Candy's b-berry
cobbler. So many beloved neighbors missing now,
gone forever -- Marilyn, Mr. Nelson, Dave Mehus,
Pat & Mary, and, of course, Mark. And those
who simply moved away -- Jamey, Ingrid, Tony G.,
and Rod & Mary. I absolutely cannot imagine
having raised my boys in a better place
than Brandon Street, where we have been
a community in the old-fashioned sense.
When I was a teenager, and communes were
the rage (or at least we thought they were!),
I used to plan a life much like the one
I've ended up living these past twenty-some years.
Well, there is no communal garden, or orchard,
and the houses are a bit close together,
but the sense of genuine neighborliness
(sounding a bit Mr.Rogers-ish here!)
is as good as anyone could desire.
Last night Ben and Pam carried their fire pit
down to the street, and we sat in the waning light
as sparks flashed around us, and smoke scented
our hair and clothing. Some years a fire truck
paid a visit; once a local news team captured
our event for the 11pm broadcast. In years past
we have enjoyed a talent show, a children's
art exhibit, and lots of live music
by our resident musicians.
As this will be my last "Night Out"
as an official resident, friends
have been asking me how I think it's
going to feel moving away from here,
and my answer is,
"I'm moving away from a life I love,
and entering into a new one
that I'm going to love just as much."
Life doesn't get much better.

Today's Cupcakes

I've been on a baking binge and I am very happy.
The marshmallows turned out spectacular:
white puffy sugar-dusted edible cumulous clouds.
(I know, that's a lot of adjectives, but this
isn't poetry.) The cupcakes are garnished
with chocolate mint, and the tiny pink spheres
are from Paris. I possess a collection
of sprinkles from various countries:
Italy, Ireland, France.

No work today. I mean, no work-for-pay today.
THANK YOU BROKEN SANDBLASTER! I haven't had
a day at home in too long. An ENTIRE day.
There was yoga at 8:30 this morning, then
I made James Beard's "Basic Homestyle Bread,"
made marshmallows, made green gazpacho (recipe
in a previous blog) and then did a very girlie
thing: I got a pedicure at "Fashion Nails,"
where everyone speaks Vietnamese but me
and there was a Vietnamese disco show
on the television. Now it's time to eat
the green gazpacho (with a drizzle of
olive oil and some crab in a romaine 'boat'.)
It's very quiet in my house.

There is a pawn shop on Rainier Avenue
that has a sprawling sign in the window
that reads:

BACK TO SCHOOL SALE!

I mean, I know it's Southeast Seattle,
but what could they possibly offer
a third-grade student? Knives?
Rifles?!

Here are the first two lines of my
country & western song:

There ain't no god in eggplant;
no holy ghost in corn.

I don't know if they use semi-colons
in country-western songs but I am enamored
of the semi-colon, and if I'm going to write
a country-western song, well, dang, it's
gonna have a semi-colon.

Once again avoided the invasion of warplanes
by going to a Mariners/Red Sox game. Idyllic
(is that spelled correctly?) Sunday afternoon,
perfectly ambient temps, in the company of my
two lovely sons, my delightful fiance, and his
sweet son and girlfriend. The world felt right,
felt like I had a complete family again.
Reilly ever-hopeful for a fly-ball with his mitt!
There are so many things about baseball to love --
(let's not talk about the $$$$, please!)
there are the infinite number of stats, the goofy
organ music, the precision of a double play,
the 7th inning stretch, the peanuts in the shell
(there would be a lot less cleanup post-game
if peanuts were only sold shelled!), the ice-cream
sundaes sold in tiny upside-down batting helmets,
the fact that the team managers (coaches) wear
uniforms! They are so cute, out there looking
like overgrown little-leaguers. This sport still
contains a lot of the elements of play,
something not found as often in, say, football.
And there is the communal aspect of the fans,
the striking-up of conversations with strangers
sitting beside you, comparing stats or players
or stadiums. It's mostly good-natured, and civilised.
I like it.

I spent the night in Redmond, a respite from loud boats
and even louder jets (who have been doing a fly-by
every morning this week around 7am -- bastards!)
and the traffic of the hydroplane races, which take place
about a mile from my house and I'VE NEVER BEEN
TO SEE THEM. And damn proud of it. The Blue Angels
fly so low that I can read the numbers on their underbellies.
When they release their decorative plumes of smoke,
an oily residue descends and settles on my garden.

I got this letter in the mail today:

I am pleased to inform you that your name
has now been entered as an Irish citizen
in the Foreign Births Register held here
at the Consulate....

--Emer Deane
Consul General of Ireland
Western United States

Wow! I now have dual citizenship,
and I'm a member of the European Union.
Hee hee!