So many wonders on my mile walk to work:

--in a back yard, a large white teepee with painted symbols on the canvas
--a sandwich board on the parking strip with paper and pen for impromptu poetry
--a mother reading aloud to her two children in a front yard
--men pushing babies in strollers

---

My tomato plants -- lush and green and nearly fruit-free -- have gotten away from me and now stretch out and down beyond their too-short stakes. And I don't care. We have so little sun this summer, it probably won't matter.

Every evening I try to spend a few minutes continuing my war against the morning glory. Alas. I'm not winning. It's an insidious (this week's word) pest, sending out runners from even a clipped stem, impossible to defeat. If I let it go I fear the house would soon disappear behind curling tendrils.

---

Still attempting to fathom the "silent migraine" of Monday. My family doc and I agree it was a perfect storm of converging elements: not enough sustenance (lack of appetite), not enough shut-eye (lack of sleepiness), plus the surfeit of worries I'm attempting to eliminate from the daily lineup.

Things should ease come August, when the workload will lessen, and the memorial for my mother-in-law will be passed. I've given-in to convenience (and sanity) and decided to hire a caterer. Relief! But there still remain cookie platters to bake and assemble, and I'm on the program to read something -- but what? Possibly some Roethke, or Richard Hugo. I'm open to suggestions.

An Evening of Poetry and One Song

A small turnout at my writing group last night -- only five of us -- and there was the usual abundance of wit and high spirits interlaced with acute yet even-handed criticism. This is yet one of many blessings I am fortunate to lay claim to.

Rosanne Olson (here and here), our house photographer extraordinaire, has of late been writing no poetry, only songs. When it came to her turn to present, she apologized for her lack of a poem, then turned to me and said, "But I wrote three songs for you, T."

Well! I was astonished, and of course we all rallied for a performance, and she agreed to let me film her.

"Can I sing a sad one?" She asked.

I'm a sucker for music that sends most people to a jumping-off point at the edge of a cliff, and, in fact, am more often inspired by a dirge than a jig.

And as yesterday was a day of conflicting emotions -- delight & sorrow, gratitude & keen disappointment -- I was of course moved to tears by this gift of song performed in the last light of a chilly July night.

(Before she began to sing, she said,
"Wait! I forgot the words!" [Laughter.]
And then, "That's okay. I'll just make them up.")

Without further ado:

Tuesday Poem: Ninety-Nine Words

Here is the zing
chiseled words make
when I refuse silence —
listen to me —

what I must say
could overspill a poet’s dozen notebooks,
or maybe just this twenty-one line poem
wrenching its hiss and crackle
into the space your pressed patience allows —

listen — I will hold forth
in all my flame and fury —
these desires, these button-bare
needs — everything
I covet and must place
my hands upon — you
shall listen to me
and from these lips will steam
ninety-nine words of love,
or hate, or something ultimately,
irrevocably wedged somewhere
between us —

© T. Clear

---

Please visit the Tuesday Poem masthead blog for more....

ER

Double vision, tunnel vision, loss of balance, an intense desire to close my eyes....

All this came about shortly after I arrived at work today, and I somehow ended up in the ER at Swedish (Melinda drove me, but all I remember of the trip is streets and cars zig-zagging in front of us, in my ocularly-challenged state.

Once I laid down on a gurney, all I wanted to do was sleep. Intense snippets of dreams: floating on a lake on giant cucumber rounds. No pain, lots of needles, cuffs being fastened and unfastened, a CT machine, and then the obnoxious banging and clanking of the MRI machine ("a clinking, clanking, clattering collection of coliginous junk!") Felt as if I'd woken up inside an off-key marching band with half the instruments missing, and no one with any real knowledge of how to play a damn thing.

Anyway, the diagnosis was Diplopia, most likely caused by a Silent Migraine. (All the symptoms except pain.) NO tumors, blockages, or any evidence of a stroke, thank-you Jayzus!

And, uh, stress, which I've got in spades.

And when the bill comes for this four-hour adventure.....

Cathedral

dit dot dash....

Do other people have favorite punctuation, or am I an anomaly?

My favorite punctuation is the semi-colon; it's unassuming, slightly hesitant, never shouting. Next is the em dash — clean, level & to the point.

(I could be a punctuation snob and say I most admire the çedille, but that might be pushing it....) (And O! Ellipses!) (Settle down now T.)

What about you? Or am I the only one a little bit punctuation-crazy?!

Vocab.

Are there words -- "new words" -- that you use repeatedly over the course of a week or two, then move onto new "new words"?

My current "new words" are disabuse, taciturn and recalcitrant. Tonight at dinner, in attempting to explain to my dinner companion just what it was that I was talking about, I used all three in a sentence:

"I really should try to be less recalcitrant and disabuse myself of the notion of using all three words in a single sentence, thereby rendering myself more taciturn."

At least I think that's what I said.

It might have been something else altogether.

(Previous words include ephemeral, detritus and insiduous.)

That and This

One thing I can never claim: boredom.

Rode the Light Rail downtown tonight to survey the venue for my mother-in-law's memorial. Can't really believe that this is what engages me at the moment -- don't people you love live forever? (Well. I've been disabused of that notion time and again. [And haven't we all....])

People were queuing up for a night at the theatre while we moved from space to space, assessing room size, prep space, tables, etc. Very surreal: a party atmosphere amidst our somber mission, ushers urging programs on us, requesting tickets.

The only ticket I possess is for OUT.

Long days at the Little Glass Factory.
Studio Hijinx.
The conversation today ranged from Amazing Grace to X-Rated.
Go figure.
A to X.
And our new temporary person is an angel.
Thank you, Universe!

Oh -- and have I mentioned -- I love my job?
If you've ever been so lucky as to work at a job you love, then you understand this.

If not, I wish you the same good fortune.

Accounting

There is the forbidder, and the forbidden.

The banisher, and the banished.

The excommunicator, and the excommunicated.

Antony, Cleopatra, two eagles, three bats....

A big bonus of living in the city is that I'm a half-mile from a spectacular park (site of previous owling), and for 23 consecutive summers, Shakespeare plays have been performed in the amphitheatre, free of charge.

Last night was one of those evenings for which we endure winter: temps in the low 70's, blue skies, and a clarity of air guaranteed to bring out even the most stubborn of curmudgeons. I was surprised at how small an audience there was -- maybe a hundred people scattered here and there on the wooden benches or on blankets, dinners spread out in front of them. As our decision to attend was more or less spontaneous, our picnic was a hurried sack of two cheeses and a half-box of crackers. I coveted a neighboring picnic -- plates of roasted chicken, pasta salad, two kinds of cherries, thick slices of artisan bread. (And I nearly plucked up a cupcake when it was clear that there were extras --)

Antony and Cleopatra: intrigue, romance, war, cunning calculations, betrayal and, of course, the denouement of death. One thing I especially noticed was the athleticism required of these (quite younger than me!) actors -- because the stage area is essentially a broad concrete platform surrounded by trees and field, there was constant running and charging, the frequent thrusting of swords in a spirited choreography.


I have to admit that I tune in and out with Shakespeare; I always wish everything was slowed down just a mite. Nonetheless, the bard's ever-present wit and the sheer exuberance of the youthful actors undeniably captivated me.


At "curtain" call (no actual curtain existed other than those four fluttering panels), two eaglets soared overhead, one after the other, barely skimming the tips of the firs. A waxing gibbous moon hung just above us, gauzy, barely veiled by the sheerest of clouds against the dark dusky blue.

Afterwards, in the thinning light we waded through the luxury of unmown grasses nearly shoulder-height to a massive Douglas fir, where, impossibly high up, an eagle's nest perched, its twig-and-stick roost successfully disguised as, well, twigs and sticks. A closer inspection, as darkness began to settle upon us, revealted a cleft in the fir's trunk, and inside was this:

Three bats swooped and flitted above, the twilight air alive with insects. This was all magic, and all within walking distance of my house. My house.

Coming into focus: I count myself as one of the lucky ones.

Revisiting A Labyrinth....

....in a dream, a variation on a previous dream: the ruins of a Roman colosseum/labyrinth, built on a steep mountainside in Italy, a confounding maze of precipitous stone steps which I was forced to negotiate if I wanted to go anywhere. At one point I stepped off the steps to retrieve something I'd dropped -- a watch, I think, and once I departed the solidity of stone I quickly began to sink up to my knees in a mire whose gravitational pull was nearly impossible to overcome. I did, however, pull myself out, minus the lost timepiece.

There existed everywhere strange and startling beauty: fountains sprung from cafe tabletops and a numinous light shone through the triangular sprays of water. I met poets and I slipped through secret passageways into restaurant kitchens where the frantic & fragrant bustle of a dinner rush was in full steam. Steps appeared and disappeared before me, changing depth and height in the moment I raised my foot to move forward.

At one point I turned a corner to a thousand-foot drop-off, the path narrowing to a mere thread of stone. A man close on my heels pushed past me, turned and shook his head, continued on. I backed up and changed direction.

My attempts to capture any of this with my camera continually failed: blurry, overexposed or lacking any light at all, or a mechanical failure. The only record I could take with me was in the retelling.

---

(And yes, it's rife with symbols and metaphors.)

(Caution, Perhaps)

A while back at work, intending to write the word "fishbowl" on a post-it note ("fishbowl" is a name for one of the shapes of glass we use), I, without hesitation or intention, wrote the word "fuck" instead.

Ah. So fitting a comment for every day of the last three months.
Fuck fuck fuckity fuck.
Holy Mother of Fuck.
Feckin' fucking fucker.
Fcek.
Fcuk.

And below it: OMG.

Indeed.

---

With every step I look down into air, off the side of the cliff, the ground no longer present.

I would love it if someone -- anyone -- would FedEx me a patch of earth on which to plant my feet so that there is time to take a breath.

Living The Full Catastrophe, day in, day out.

Post-Independence, The State of the Universe

A friend -- a glass artist & poet -- for whom I used to work, now works for Melinda, and he reports to me. It's not generally a good time, in the economic sense, for artists who survive (or don't!) on their work. In my work universe the stars have been shining steadily; we've managed to slip-slide through this recession, expecting our best year-to-date. But this friend, J., has been just getting by for the past year or so, and as R. suddenly quit last weekend, we had some serious need for help in this, one of our busiest times of the year, and he needed work.

So today, with tables turned, I put him through the preliminary paces, some of which he already knew from his own art-glass experience, and everything glided along smoothly. What could have been fraught was calm; what could have been awkward was greeted with grace, competency and good humor. (Thank-you.)

---

The rabbi's house across the street -- empty for two years -- now houses a new rabbi and his family. Rumor has it that there are ten children. TEN! From ages (I think) four to twenty-four. I cannot comprehend this. From my treehouse bedroom I have a prime view of their house, but so far no action. This might get interesting.

Some years ago, when Mark had a flooring business, we had a two-line landline at the house. After time and circumstance, I no longer needed both lines, so had one disconnected, but still had the two-line phone. Once, accidentally, I picked up the phone (there was a cord!) with the "line 2" button pushed, and there was a conversation happening on my disconnected line. A little while later I called a friend on this "disconnected" line, who identified the caller ID as Soloman Coen. In the phone book (remember those?!), I discovered that Soloman Coen lived across the street from me -- in the rabbi's house. I shared my "disconnected" line with the rabbi. Ha!

Now don't accuse me of not having enough to do, because at this time I was newly widowed with two teenagers and a bakery business, but some evenings when I'd be sitting on the sofa, I'd pick up line 2 just to see if anyone was there. A little entertainment, you know.

Mostly it was teenaged-girl angst, not terribly fascinating, but one time my son and I were holding the receiver between us and laughing hysterically, and the two girls on the line heard us, which of course just pushed us over into paroxysms of even more laughter.

Jesus that was funny.

It all went away eventually -- the land line, the corded phone, the rabbi and his family of girls. I married, moved away, came back, and now it begins again, and we're equipped with iPhones that offer "Facetime" and internet access.

Again, it's an altered universe, and I'm just trying to keep the steady pace.

Grace, on Wings

A most extraordinary thing:

Last evening while I was watering my vegetable garden (the hose too short and no nozzle, a spray generated by my thumb against the surge) a hummingbird flew right up to me --

It hovered mid-air, facing me, then turned in a glinting flash and backed carefully into the spray of water, towards me, about three feet from my hand, and took a bit of a bath, ruffling its tail feathers, lifting each wing in succession.

It did an about-face and dipped a few times, opened its beak and drank while all of perhaps thirty seconds passed.

I dared not flinch and barely breathed while all the time wanting to call out, to summon every person within shouting range to witness with me this vision of something so perfect and so nearly-weightless, so ephemeral.

Just to possess the ability to fly is something extraordinary; to hover: marvelous beyond language. But to dance -- iridescent -- in a stream of airborne water -- who among us has been so lucky?

Saturday

My postage-stamp-sized front lawn is sprouting long strands of dandelion and crabgrass because I've cancelled my mowing service. All rather feral. I like it. Going jungle here on B-Street.

Tomorrow: Tree of Life, by Terrence Malick.

Monday: apple pie.

All windows flung wide open, in high summer.

Friday

At my house, if I choose to sit on the front steps, there are musicians across the street playing Old-Timey American music, anticipating Fiddle Tunes at Centrum, which begins Sunday. Not a bad choice.

In the back of my house, on my balcony, there's a view of the lake and rooftops and mountains, and two giant green parakeets just tweeted (not twittered!) by; and a little boy is running back and forth in the alley, carrying one very long stick. Chanting from the Kollel. (This is where I sit.)

There's a clarity of light whichever location I choose -- these are the spectacular temperate days of summer that we enjoy here in Seattle. Little humidity; it's 70 degrees at 7:33pm, and barely a breeze ripples the grape vines.

My son is cooking a salmon filet, my vodka-tonic is due for refreshing, and I'm trying hard to turn in this new direction away from Mr. Soon-To-Be-Deleted, attempting to delete him from memory. If only I could backspace him from my consciousness....

---

The plans for the funeral trudge, stuck in the thickest of muds. Death makes people fall down, and someone to whom I'm close has fallen down and calls me in the falling-down state, which is difficult. Patience. Someone has a date with the Grim Reaper. (Not me!) (Or, rather, we all do, but just won't look at that day on the calendar.) Some of us egg the Grim Reaper on, taunt him, dare him. (Or is the Grim Reaper female?)

In any case, all plans are up in the air. What I do know is that, in spite of one of the coldest springs on record, my tomato plants have tiny green fruits beginning to swell, and my pumpkin plants, though tiny, have indeed sprouted. A painter is going to schedule some work next week, which will clean up a lot. My dearest of friends Tom has been doing odd jobs for me, and wants payment only in home-cooked meals. The problem there is that I seem to have lost all interest in cooking, which, while it contributes to a reduction in the waistline, doesn't exactly lead to sumptuous feasts.

The kitten continues to delight and amaze. Even when I resolutely Do Not Want To Laugh, she coaxes a giant guffaw from me, unquestionably goofy and cheerful. How did I manage to happen upon this marvelous creature? I am blessed.

Pearls

My sister-in-law -- my late husband's sister -- called me today to express disdain at some family members who've swooped in to sweep up some items belonging to Julie A., my mom-in-law who passed last week.

She is especially bothered by the loss of her mother's string of pearls; she wants to wear them at her mother's funeral -- and should.

What she (and I) didn't know was that Julie had possessed two strands of pearls -- that which was snatched up the night of her death, and the strand she gave me before I married soon-to-be-deleted husband, to wear at my wedding. (Because I already had jewelry picked out, a matched set of earrings & necklace, I wound the pearls around my wrist to make a perfectly fitted bracelet.)

Mr. Soon-To-Be-Deleted and I had a small wedding, sixty people, and my in-laws from my first marriage were first on the list. I felt so honored to be given this gift from Julie -- it was such an act of love and faith on her part. I bless her, now and forever.

She was an extraordinary woman.
She was my touchpoint, my no-nonsense source of just about any info about anything. She rarely cut anyone slack, yet she loved with an honesty and fierceness that was unquestionable. She possessed a formidable intelligence, never minced words, and for many years she intimidated the hell out of me. After we endured the death of her son/my husband, we shared a bond unlike any I've experienced to date.

I recall her sitting on my couch two days after Mark's death, and she said (with the remnants of her New Orleans accent):

"Now T., I don't want you to stay single. You're too young, and you need to move on."

I was stunned. Here she was, stricken with abject grief, and she had the presence of mind to think of me. I was, and remain, humbled by that comment, and by her magnanimous spirit.

We grieve.

Here's a link to her obituary: Julie.

Mute & Thunderous

A silence settled into my brain on Monday, driving out the scream that's been present since April 5th. I'm slowing everything down while at the same time everything is revving up to a frantic pace: I'm working full-time, refinancing my house (in a not-easy way, unfortunately), having work done on my house, planning my mother-in-law's funeral reception, and getting unmarried.

The interior design currently on display is post-hurricane, mid-century tornado, early cyclone.

Tonight in my bathroom I killed a spider that had fur. FUR. (At first I thought it was a black seed-pod that had blown in.)

A turbulent wind blows this late June night, knocking down a broken mirror I'd leaned against the house, on its way to the garbage, cracking it even more. There are now tiny reflective bits on the deck. An image appears in each shard: an eye, a leaf, a cloud. No barefoot midnight prowls for me, apparently. (As If.)

Next Monday we declare our independence in the red/white/blue trio, and I'm attempting to generate a grilling spirit, a watermelon mood, a corn-on-the-cob enthusiasm for a day when I'll end up working because we're four weeks from a Big Show and backed-up with orders. Maybe I'll treat myself to getting off an hour early so I can come home, pour myself a patriotic martini (Russian vodka) in my Waterford (Irish) martini glass. And sing the Marseillaise (en français).

It's all a scatter & a spectacle, turned inside-out and running backwards down the highway.

Tuesday Poem

Harrow


It’s not just buttercups with their essential gold
who reach into the soil and won’t let go.
Not the lemon balm and its stubborn root-stump
that requires more than mere trowel;
not only the invader blackberries, nor bindweed that tunnels
fleshy rhizomes in an underground thicket gone mad—
No: it is also this human heart that refuses to ease
its fervor, long past sense, or obligation.

If only the heart were one of these weeds
whose pith I could sever with the tip of a spade—
Not this fusty tuber, this spud-of-an organ that defies all efforts
to be routed-out and heaped into compost, a pile of bracken

I would set a match to, be done with.

© T.Clear 2011

Weekend and then some....

There needs to be an After-Weekend to allow time for Weekend Recovery. Yikes.

Friday night I dredged up from my long-ago teenage past the vocal jazz skills I was fortunate to learn as a student in Mr. McManus' classes. Although without a nightly dose of diphenhydramine or other such potent anti-allergy med, there is a constant drip-drip on the middle and best range of my vocal chords. Nonetheless, I swung into full "Blackbird" action with piano, and (if I can remember correctly) saxaphone. (It might've been a flute.) Damn, we were swingin'!

Saturday there was Becki's Pie (strawberry-rhubarb, with orange zest in both the crust and the filling) (be still my heart):


And a family of nuthatches cracking black sunflower seeds with tiny beaks:


A container-packed ship slicing the waters of Admiralty Inlet:


Beach and upside-down beach at Fort Warden (it may have just been me that was upside down) --


Finally, a view of what will happen when The Big One (earthquake) strikes Seattle:


I fear we may all be tipped into the Salish Sea (aka Puget Sound).

But now it's time for coffee and a bit of foraging in the kitchen. Apparently the After-Weekend is only a fantasy.

Sigh.

huts'n'more

In looking for a more economically appropriate place of dwelling this weekend (considering present circumstances), I happened upon these gems in the charming "village" of Port Townsend....

This one is in need of a new roof, but I'm attracted to the rather free-form & distressed nature of its design elements (I'm pictured here out on the patio):


The enchanting A-Frame motif going-on here appeals to my love of geometrics, but something about its location makes me worry about tidal waves and gale-force winds. I don't know -- perhaps I'm just a bit of a worrier. What do you think?!


The sturdiness and old world charm of this concrete-block structure -- the way it really feels rooted to its foundation -- has me going back for a second look. I'm concerned, though, that the front-yard landscaping might need a bit more than I'm willing to shell out for. But I'm going to give it some thought. (I'm thinking: xeriscape, low maintenance, no mowing.)


The best part, though, is that no matter which hut I eventually settle on, the realtor will throw in this dead car for free!!!!


All I can say is "Wow."

Just when you think life has booted you down to the lowest circle of hell, jewels like these come along and suddenly the world is a brighter place!

A Bouquet for Julie

Kitten, Death & Kindness

I crabbed around work today, snipping and snapping.

As Philip Larkin says:

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.

---

Working on the kindness thing. Working on being careful when most of the time I just feel like being done with it all.

What I would do for two weeks on a beach with umbrella drinks and white sand, no shoes, no worries, nothing at all to think about.

---

Meanwhile, the kitten acts like a flying squirrel and leaps fearlessly onto the back of one of the Big Cats, who, when pushed and prodded too far, holds her down with a single paw and nips at her belly. She flails all four legs and generally pops free in seconds only to begin the torture again. She is the source of much laughter, beginning with the first light and ending with a pile of purring fur on top of my head at bedtime. I am lucky.

Last night at 6:30 my son and I were on the road to Evergreen Hospice to visit my beloved mother-in-law Julie (mother of Mark, my first husband; grandmother to my sons). Halfway there we received the call that she had passed away.

We would have been there when she died had I not received a phone call from my bank which I've been awaiting and had to take. I rushed through it as quickly as possible -- the loan adviser must've thought me to be some kind of lunatic -- I just wanted to get out the door.

Sometimes we must accept that things happen in their own time. The end.

My sister Mary sent me this last night, from Ann Patchett's new novel State of Wonder:

"There was no one clear point of loss. It happened over and over again in a thousand small ways and the only truth there was to learn was that there was no getting used to it."

I recall a summer evening a few years ago on my back porch with Julie and my boys and my friends Tom and Carol. We were speaking of Mark's death, and Julie (his mother, and who many years ago had also lost a daughter) said, "You don't get over it. You get used to it."

Both Ann Patchett and Julie are right. You get used to it and you don't get used to it. Death of someone you dearly love becomes a part of your every day, enters your body and lives there for a time, then eases itself away, ever so slowly, until a minute becomes bearable again, and then an hour, a day, a week....

I stood outside in Don and Julie's yard last night in the setting sun, on the phone to Tom. I was facing northwest, and the light was coming through the trees in lateral rays. Some local tree has been releasing a cloud of fluffy seed pods, and there were thousands of them illuminated in the golden light.

We are part of something much larger than our individual losses, our sorrows.

I don't know how to end this post

To and Fro

I've decided, on my one-mile walk each way to work through my urban neighborhood, to search out what I consider to be magic, or gifts from the universe. Once I started paying more attention, I realized that no searching is necessary: these gifts lay themselves in front of me in abundance.

This morning, my favorite was classical music -- a Strauss symphony is my best guess -- coming from a house. And that same house on the way home, with windows and door flung open wide on this first day of summer: drums & piano, live.

And one more thing: a man, about 35, walking his bike beside a young girl, and he was wearing a "Joshua Tree 1987 Tour" t-shirt. I'm guessing it's a relic from possibly his dad?

More Owling

This time later, nearly dark, tripping across roots and slipping in apparently invisible mud: after most of the light is gone, everything's the same color. Of course.

A wrong turn, backtracking, light eking into shadow and into less than shadow, logs to straddle, everywhere that damp mossy scent.

We stood in the clearing where I last saw the three babies and the world fell silent save for the panting dog, who for some reason wouldn't stop breathing for our benefit.

Nothing.

Wait!

I whipped out my iPhone and pulled up the blog post from last Thursday with the photo of the owlet on the horizontal branch -- in fact, I was standing at exactly the spot where I snapped the picture.

"Here!" I said, and held the phone up so that if you squinted, you could almost line up the photo with the branch and pretend it was the real thing.

I know: pathetic, but also cool, actually. (In LOVE with my iPhone.)

We decided to head back to the car, and somehow, in our looping up and around, ended up on a wide path parallel to the one on which we started, a few hundred yards and a few hundred bigleaf maples to the east. Crazy dark now, and overcast, so no lunar illumination. And then, there it was -- D. heard it -- the odd whoop-whoop-whoosh of a family of babies, just to our left and part way down a slope. We headed into the murky underbrush, careful of whipping twigs, a tumble here-and-there, until we were nearly beneath the talkative baby; and all we could see was the its dark silhouette against the slightly-less-dark clouds, between leafwork and branch.

In my desire to exhibit my tech skills, I opened a flashlight app on my phone, and couldn't figure out what was wrong until T. pointed out that I was pointing it at myself. Oops. (Not a very powerful light -- at least that's my excuse.)

But no need, really.

There was just enough contrast between what was solid, (and therefore should be avoided), and the open air around us, to allow the trek back to the truck in relative safety.

(Might I point out that I had merely stepped out for a stroll tonight around the block when I ran into T. and D. on their way down to the park; and when I zipped back into my house to put on proper shoes, I entreated my son to tag along. )

Prior to tonight's owling adventure, the day was fraught with events and worries producing a nearly unmanageable level of stress, and most of it melted away (thanks again to the current love of my life: my iPhone) when I received a most welcome text message from son #2: "Yes I'm fine. Phone got wet so was in rice."

And where was I when I read these golden words? I was smack in the middle of the enchanted owl glen where last week the pileated woodpecker so startled us with its deep bell-like boom boom on the snag.

No woodpeckers tonight, no eagles harassed by crows, but I learned on the quick half-mile back up to the house (four of us piled into the cab of a pick-up) that there's a heron rookery almost within a stone's throw of my top-floor window which looks to the southeast, over Lake Washington and beyond to Mt. Rainier.

This bodes well, I think.
For just about everything.

(There's something about bird-sightings that always seems to me a signal of a turn in events --)

Zig and Zag

Returning to yet a new version of life: revised/edited/repainted/rearranged.

So strange, all of this.

I swear, one of these days I'll forget that I live back on B-Street and head over to that other house, that domicile of The Irretrievably Broken. And that, by the way, is not a description of myself.

---

Getting back to the previous post, the night of baby owls:

I felt plunged into a dark and startling tale from Grimm, as if the secrets of some underworld were lurking just beyond my vision -- and not necessarily unpleasant -- but that resonant boom-boom of the woodpecker's beak on the snag, coupled with the eerie wiser-than-thou baby-owl visages urged a giving-over to another world, one with possibilities yet unimagined. Hard to describe, really. But I shiver even now just thinking about it. Shiver in odd delight, almost as if I've not earned this momentary clarity.

I'd not have experienced this had I remained in that previous life.

And would never have chosen this zigzag route, these mine-fields of fickle affections.

I recall asking my mother, when she was in her early eighties, if the spectacle of a dramatic sunrise ever got old. Her reply? Never.

---

And today: relentless soft rain, and so few hours before Official Summer. Pumpkins have sprouted, the leeks have perked up, finally, but the tomatoes languish. (No surprise there.)

These are the last days of Spring in the year 2011, and I sing praise to the friends I hold dear, and to my sisters.

Life in the City

Tonight there was the gift of a walk at Seward Park -- a glorious 300-acre city-forest occupying a peninsula on Lake Washington, a half mile from my house.

My friend C. and I traversed the temperate rainforest of the interior, on the lookout for baby owls. We spotted three juveniles, who keened and swooped about our heads, doing that extraordinary head-rotation-thing while perched, fluffing their baby feathers.

Periodically, a pileated woodpecker struck its beak against a tall snag, the sound resonating deeply and melodically in the hollow trunk. Crows harassed an eagle above the treetops.

The air smelled green -- can something contain the scent of a color?

Our path twisted and curved through glens of ferns, on boardwalks above marshes, through a grove of old-growth firs -- everything thickly draped in moss.

It's been at least four years since I walked these woods, and I felt as if I had come home, home to an enchantment that's been locked in a keyless closet for far too long.

I am the key.
The closet is this life.
The door is open.

Absent.

Busy.

Kitten.

Garden.

Full dance card.

:)

More Distraction

Bear with me.

There's gonna be a while lot of cuteness going on here, like this one:

Tonight the kitten was attacking a spot of sunlight on the kitchen floor. (Sounds like the name of an Edward Hopper painting.)

How can you not fall in love with the simple joy in that?

Okay, I realize you could argue that the spot of sunlight is, to the kitten, something upon which to prey, kill & devour, but then again....

We are domesticated.

Plenty of kibble in the bowl.

It was sunlight, Friday, late afternoon.

It was joy.

June, Thursday.

My mother -- Alice -- has been gone now for nine years, and last night I was sitting alone, in a fidgety mood, and thought: I should call Mom.

Ahhhh.

Don't think that's one I'll ever get used to.

-----

The yard is slowly-slowly-slowly coming into shape. R. and I de-piled and swept that concrete pad where an old-fashioned camping fire pit has been established by enterprising sons. The sunflowers are planted, there are baby leeks just beginning to perk up, the tomato plants aren't languishing, yet.

And the kitten: the first few days I thought I'd made a mistake -- she was cute (of course), but nothing seemed to be "clicking". But now -- well -- of course she's the cutest thing on four paws! The most intelligent! The most clever! The funniest kitten ever! (Of course.) Today she is six weeks old. A baby. She makes me Laugh! OUT! Loud!

It's warm.
There's light.

Chimera

That archetypal dream: unclothed in public --

I was at a large family party, and realized that I was the only person there who was nude. Amid disapproving -- well, shocking, really -- glances, I said, "I thought this was a 'Clothing Optional' event!"

The above-mentioned party doesn't actually happen until June 18th, but it has been suggested that I put an extra set of clothes in my car "just in case".

Evolution

Revisiting, reacquainting around my 'hood:


--the golden azalea, velvety and perfumed
--Stella, who always barks at me
--the plum tree where for years I gathered windfalls in September
--a house on blocks, foundation under construction
--the fig tree on the corner, fully laden this year
--the hedge whose blossoms smell like cocoa-butter
--the Rabbi's house, empty
--the peek-a-boo tree

So many gone now from those lickety-split-quick years of child-rearing:

--Mark, Carol, Marilyn, Pat, Mary, Ben, the Durans, Mr. Nelson -- died, divorced, foreclosed.

And those of us still present:

Candy, Linda, Guy, Tom, Roy, Chrissie, Pam. Assorted young-adult children. Assorted young and spirited new-comers with fresh paint and toddlers, with an energy and endurance I used to claim as my own.

This brief Robert Frost poem came up in conversation at work yesterday, apropos to the subject at hand:

Nothing Gold Can Stay

Nature's first green is gold,
Her hardest hue to hold.
Her early leaf's a flower;
But only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to leaf.
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down to day.
Nothing gold can stay.

Black Market Kitten

I've never had to look for a cat. All my life, they've come to me: a neighbor, sister, friend with kittens, a stray welcoming himself in on my birthday, etc. This time I called a local cat-rescue organization, and was told that they would not let me adopt from them because I already had adult cats. WTF? I came home from work today with one adult cat asleep on my son's lap, the kitten perched on his neck, another adult cat snoring on the sofa. Problem? None that I can see. I've always done it this way. And it's always worked.

Another kitten-adoption site required pre-adoption paperwork, including an agreement I had to sign, and at the bottom it said: This is a Legal and Binding Document. Um. Don't think so. The irony here, of course, is that any woman of child-bearing age can get herself knocked up any old time, but just dare her to try to adopt a kitten! It's PETA gone wild.

This time, as always, the kitten came to me. I'd put out "feelers", and my younger son, in one of his forays to, as he said "check out the hot chicks", heard a "hot chick" mention kittens. KITTENS! His kitten radar picked up the signal, we hooked up (but not N. and the Hot Chick), and Sunday the Hot Chick and I met for the Kitten Exchange. It all felt very Black Market, after the shenanigans I went through with the Official Kitten Adoption Agencies.

And there was no "re-homing" fee. Re-homing! Who thought of this one?! I "rehomed" myself about a month ago. And honestly, I should've collected a massive fee. Like, a pay-off-my-mortgage-fee. Just sayin'. I had to adopt myself. Still waiting to sign the agreement, which, in this case, will be a legal document.

Anyway, this new kitten is probably the best tonic for this battered soul. Her purr rumbles up and out of her tiny bone-and-fur framework, impossibly loud for such a wee thing. She screams when I pick her up. Mutters and squeaks at other times.

If you're a cat person, you must check this out:

My New Distraction

Name: Lucy
Age: 5 1/2 weeks
Weight: 19.8 ounces
Length, nose to tail-tip: very short
Demeanor: curious, squeaky, shaky, goofy
Fur Color: grey, black and white with stripes and spots
Eye Color: blue!

Because she is so young, and should still be on a combination of mother's milk and cat food, I brewed her up some kitten formula: canned milk, gelatin, water, mayonnaise (in lieu of egg yolks) and whole-milk plain yogurt. Mix a tablespoon-or-so into some kitty kibble, et voilà! Mother's milk, in a manner of speaking.

When I woke up this morning, I couldn't find her anywhere on the bed, and didn't move for fear of crushing her. Discovered that she had crawled under the blankets in the night, and was cozily snuggled up beside me. Yikes. (And she's waaaaaaay less demanding than a husband ;)

Post-martini Hat'n'Boots

No, it's not Mars....


Squared-off toe....


Instep....


The whole shebang....


My friend Tom obscured by shadows....


Once a gas station and restroom on East Marginal Way in Seattle and the subject of a Zippy the Pinhead comic strip, these marvelous objets d'art currently reside in Oxbow Park in Seattle's historic Georgetown district: the perfect illusion to light up the grey matter of the post-martini Friday night brain on the first warm evening of the year.

For a more exacting read of their history, click here.

Urban/Escape

No more the twenty-mile commute each way in rush hour traffic. Now I walk to work, through a continually astonishing landscape. And people are friendly. Friendly! They say "hi" and "good morning". Children -- they'll stop on their tiny bikes, look up at me and smile. Dogs wag. Even the cats run down driveways to greet me.

Yesterday, on my walk home, I saw a man playing catch with his son in the street. I saw a teenager using a skate board for transportation. I saw a man jogging, a bulldog at his heels. A woman tending her parking-strip vegetables: onions, beets, potatoes, spring lettuces, carrots just beginning to show their feather-tops. I saw peonies so lush and ruffled and deeply pink they made me want to weep. I saw chickens in an A-frame coop: cluck. Knee-high sunflowers. I inhaled the scent of irises: root beer!

It's the time of year now when I can walk out my front door for a stroll around the block that will generally take at least an hour -- and not because it's any great distance. I am once again inhabiting a social landscape, absent of the cookie-cutter shrubbery, the chemical lawns, the guarded-fortresses of the 'burbs that, for all intents and purposes, have alligatored-moats.

(I've dropped the letter "u" from the word "morning" and have modified it with the word "good".)

Handle. With. Care.

Caught up in the Legal Morass.

I like thinking of The Law as a bog, as swampy ground through which one slogs. Ordinarily I would say there are many things about a swamp that I love, but this one is replete with craggy stumps and sinking subterrain.

Here's something that's been occupying the brain these past two months:
How can a human be a partner in an intimate relationship, with all the reciprocal subtle and affectionate touches and declarations of love and fidelity, and then do a complete 180 in a matter of hours? With no warning? Just a black-and-white flip to the other side: get out, don't want to talk to you, don't want to see you, call my attorney.

As a loving inhabitant of this planet, I've come to the conclusion that this is something I will never understand. I'll get used to the idea of it -- maybe -- and accept that it will remain one of the great conundrums of my life, the puzzle to which I'll never find the missing piece: nine-hundred and ninety-nine out of a thousand.

In the meantime, I've plastered myself with "fragile" stickers: one on my brain, the other over my heart. A desperate attempt at protection, in a world made entirely of glass.

Abandoned.

Tuesday Poem: Kathryn Hunt

The Undiscovered Country

When it came to the end
she would not eat any longer
refusing to take part
in the feast that makes us whole

In the vastness of her being
the broken pieces
floated
unmoored
like a thought or a rowboat

And the bitterness and love
that bound her to the earth
unsettled from her bones

She became smaller still
almost transparent

While outside the window
the moon rose through bare branches
unhinged
inconsolable
in the blue ravenous light

--Kathryn Hunt
Originally appeared in Pontoon.

-----

I am continually enchanted with the ways that poetry quietly slips into our everyday lives and has the ability to make a profound impact on an otherwise ordinary day. I chose this poem for exactly that reason:

Some years ago, I was part-owner in a small bakery/cafe; and on a quiet drizzly winter afternoon, one of our regular customers came in for lunch a little past the rush, the place momentarily deserted. He had brought his elderly mother in for a sandwich -- said he wanted to show her his favorite quirky lunch place.

We had on the counter a small collection of Floating Bridge Press poetry books for sale, and he picked up a copy of the anthology Pontoon. Amid the low hum (and luring scents) of the convection ovens (chocolate chip walnut cookies? Oatmeal raisin? Strawberry white chocolate scones?) he opened the slim volume and read aloud to his mother the poem I've posted above.

Nothing paused in the day -- cars roared past in four lanes on Airport Way, jets from Boeing Field barely skimmed the building tops; there was the clank and clang of pots being scrubbed and set to dry. But I could still hear him read -- every word -- and I could see his mother, in her diminished eighty+ self, absorb all of it.

This was one of those moments where the universe stops, takes a breath, and allows poetry to enter the soul.

A moment when poetry blesses us, and sends us on our way.

-----

This week I have the good fortune to be editor of the masthead Tuesday Poem blog, and have posted an additional poem of Kathryn's, along with a video of her reading it. Please do visit!

Ha!

My brother-in-law Dick (one of my favorite people)
sent me this:


Paraprosdokians

A paraprosdokian is a figure of speech in which the latter
part of a sentence or phrase is surprising or unexpected in
a way that causes the reader or listener to reframe or
reinterpret the first part. Check out the following for
examples:

I asked God for a bike, but I know God doesn't work that
way. So I stole a bike and asked for forgiveness.

Do not argue with an idiot. He will drag you down to his
level and beat you with experience.

I want to die peacefully in my sleep, like my grandfather.
Not screaming and yelling like the passengers in his car.

Going to church doesn't make you a Christian any more than
standing in a garage makes you a car.

The last thing I want to do is hurt you. But it's still on
the list.

If I agreed with you, we'd both be wrong.

We never really grow up, we only learn how to act in public.

War does not determine who is right - only who is left.

Knowledge is knowing a tomato is a fruit; wisdom is not
putting it in a fruit salad.

The early bird might get the worm, but the second mouse
always gets the cheese.

A bus station is where a bus stops. A train station is where
a train stops. On my desk, I have a workstation.

Dolphins are so smart that within a few weeks of captivity,
they can train people to stand on the very edge of a pool
and throw them fish.

I thought I wanted a career, but it turns out I just wanted
paychecks.

Whenever I fill out an application, in the part that says,
"In an emergency, notify:" I always put, "DOCTOR."

I didn't say it was your fault; I said I was blaming you.

Why does someone believe you when you say there are four
billion stars, but always check when you say the paint is
wet?

Women will never be equal to men until they can walk down
the street with a bald head and a beer gut and still think
they are sexy.

A clear conscience is usually the sign of a bad memory.

You do not need a parachute to skydive. You definitely need
a parachute to skydive twice.

The voices in my head may not be real, but they have some
darned good ideas!

Always borrow money from a pessimist. He won't expect it
back.

Hospitality: Making your guests feel like they're at home,
even if you wish they were.

I discovered I scream the same way whether I'm about to be
devoured by a great white shark or if a piece of seaweed
touches my foot.

There's a fine line between cuddling and holding someone
down so they can't get away.

I used to be indecisive. Now I'm not sure.

When tempted to fight fire with fire, remember that the Fire
Department usually uses water.

You're never too old to learn something stupid.

To be sure of hitting the target, shoot first and call
whatever you hit the target.

Nostalgia isn't what it used to be.

Some people hear voices. Some see invisible people. Others
have no imagination whatsoever.

A bus is a vehicle that runs twice as fast when you are
after it as when you are in it.

Farewell, My Irish Beauties II

Farewell, My Irish Beauties

Tuesday Poem: Richard Hugo

The Lady in Kicking Horse Reservoir

Not my hands but green across you now.
Green tons hold you down, and ten bass curve
teasing in your hair. Summer slime
will pile deep on your breast. Four months of ice
will keep you firm. I hope each spring
to find you tangled in those pads
pulled not quite loose by the spillway pour,
stars in dead reflection off your teeth.


Lie there lily still. The spillway’s closed.
Two feet down most lakes are common gray.
This lake is dark from the black blue Mission range
climbing sky like music dying Indians once wailed.
On ocean beaches, mystery fish
are offered to the moon. Your jaws go blue.
Your hands start waving every wind.
Wave to the ocean where we crushed a mile of foam.


We still love there in thundering foam
and love. Whales fall in love with gulls
and tide reclaims the Dolly skeletons
gone with a blast of aching horns to China.
Landlocked in Montana here
the end is limited by light, the final note
will trail off at the farthest point we see,
already faded, lover, where you bloat.


All girls should be nicer. Arrows rain
above us in the Indian wind. My future
should be full of windy gems, my past
will stop this roaring in my dreams.
Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. But the arrows sing:
no way to float her up. The dead sink
from dead weight. The Mission range
turns this water black late afternoons.


One boy slapped the other. Hard.
The slapped boy talked until his dignity
dissolved, screamed a single ‘stop’
and went down sobbing in the company pond.
I swam for him all night. My only suit
got wet and factory hands went home.
No one cared the coward disappeared.
Morning then: cold music I had never heard.


Loners like work best on second shift.
No one liked our product and the factory closed.
Off south, the bison multiply so fast
a slaughter’s mandatory every spring
and every spring the creeks get fat
and Kicking Horse fills up. My hope is vague.
The far blur of your bones in May
may be nourished by the snow.


The spillway’s open and you spill out
into weather, lover down the bright canal
and mother, irrigating crops
dead Indians forgot to plant.
I’m sailing west with arrows to dissolving foam
where waves strand naked Dollys.
Their eyes are white as oriental mountains
and their tongues are teasing oil from whales.

--Richard Hugo

---

In 1980, I had the good fortune to take a week-long seminar with Richard Hugo in Seattle. Hugo, then an English Professor at the University of Montana, was a born and raised in Seattle. He was one of the first contemporary poets I read -- in high school -- and remains today one of my favorites. He was a big man -- think football player size -- yet the tenderness with which he wrote and taught was breathtaking. One young woman in the class repeatedly brought self-disparaging poems to share. After several days of this, Hugo, in front of everyone, very gently told her that she needn't do this to herself. He essentially gave her a poet's version of a pep talk, with the utmost respect and selfless love. I think every one of us was moved and astonished.

He died in 1982 of leukemia, at the age of fifty-eight. Read more here.

(I don't know where the classroom scene in the beginning of this short film takes place, but U. of Montana is the logical answer.)

One more from the jungle....

With an explanation here.

Into the Jungle

Shovel, machete, sword, scythe, rake, axe, cannon, saber, coat of armor -- oops. Got a little carried away there. I probably would have fared better if I had employed everything on that list, but as it was, I employed only a shovel, a glove, and brute strength.

And in the jungle there were treasures:

A Grim(m) Tale

A peasant woman, recently cast off by her husband, was the tender of a small plot of land in the shadow of a magnificent castle. Struggling to till the soil, plant the seeds and tend to the crops in her husband's absence, she sought assistance from the king to help retain her modest means of living. This powerful king, possessor of all the wealth in the land, assigned her to counsel with his advisers.

On the morning of the meeting, in the hallways of the luxurious towers where many other peasants had gathered to attend similar meetings, she was met by great troops of the king's men, every one of them chipper and cheerful, all dressed in rich garments of red and gold. Her humble attire blended with that of every other peasant: a slight rumple here, a wrinkle there, the colors drab and blue.

Her name was taken, she was assigned a number: 1-1015. Now, absent of identity except for this number, she was escorted to a room partitioned with curtains, where an adviser spoke to an assembled group in the simplest of terms: "do this, do that. Believe everything you hear today. And wait for your number to be called."

All around her were the faces of death, of fleeting remnants of hope. Every age of adult was present - some elderly, many in their prime, some just past the bloom of youth. Some with skin as pale as moonlight, others with skin dark as the depths of a cave. There were whispers, voices in languages she did not comprehend; there was nervous foot-tapping and the fidgeting of many fingers.

Finally she heard "1-1015", and was escorted by yet another king's man -- equally chirpy and chipper, and, from the looks of it, well-fed. She wondered if these people had all been dosed with a potion at the start of the day -- their enthusiasm in the face of so much despair seemed impossible for anyone but the drugged.

They entered a massive auditorium -- thick with plush ruby carpets and draperies -- where row upon row of table was set with a crude stump on one side for each peasant-plaintiff. They wove their way between aisles, where she finally met the custodian of her affairs: a slight woman seated on luxurious cushions, garbed entirely in black leather, with a narrow face and hair which fell from its center part like tiny silver swords suspended from a steel line. She did not smile. Had she not partaken of the potion?

For hours they sat, discussing numbers and accounting and accountability and ability. There was maneuvering and repositioning, there was consultation with superiors and communications dispatched from afar. And there was no solution, no recasting of numbers in order to offer assistance. There was only the stance of profit from the viewpoint of the king. The adviser took out her scale, set weights on either side, and let the peasant see that, unless the king could reap abundantly from her toils, no relief would be offered. It was not that the margin was too slim, but that it didn't exist at all.

"But wait!" the peasant woman shouted.
"I've labored long and hard, hours before the spark of dawn, long past the sun's departure, through frigid winters and searing summers. I've kneeled before the taxman, signed every requisite scroll, fed my family and raised my sons to be healthy, capable men. Does this not count for anything?"

The adviser peered at the peasant with slag-heap eyes: "Our meeting is ended."

Again, a costumed king's man rose up to escort the peasant woman out.
"Now we shall go to the exit-room."

The woman, upon hearing that, envisioned a guillotine wedged into a doorway through which one must pass -- or leave one's head -- upon leaving. But the king, in a rare moment of compassion, had decided to be merciful, and the peasant woman made her exit in safety, her heart heavy, her soul burdened with loss.

(To be continued.)

For the record....

I posted this on facebook a few weeks ago:

Circling the wagons, sharpshooters poised and at the ready. (Don't mess with this fierce and fragile woman.)

This was in response to attacks seemingly from all fronts: my cat was bleeding out, my house was (is) at risk, my kids were pissed because I was moving back into my house -- the entire swirl of my planet was so out of control -- it felt as if the only response was to back myself into a corner and arm myself. (A metaphor.) (I don't do guns.) (I'm a pacifist.) I went all Calamity Jane for a moment. (Calamity T.) Leave me the f-ck alone. When feeling vulnerable -- especially as a woman -- protect yourself on all fronts. No dark alleys, nothing exposed. Keep the keys protruding between your knuckles. (I remember learning this in a Women's Empowerment Class in the 1970's.)

Unfortunately, this has been grossly misinterpreted, which makes me very sad.

As my friend Joe said, "Don't shoot the piano player."

No intention of doing that.

Ever.

Tilting. Whirling.

(Photo borrowed from here.)

House

Twirling head.
Spin.

Gathering a shite-load of paperwork to present to the Banking Royalty in an attempt to keep my house. Giant Scary Stuff. On top of all the other Giant Scary Stuff.

A few years ago, I almost lost this house in a lawsuit -- a very ugly thing, in which I was held responsible for something I had no part in except in the legal definition of what marriage is. It was the worst of bad things: death, injury, loss of my business, teenage children spiraling to the depths.

Too many lawyers, too much advice. The bottom line: yes they WILL try to take a widow's home from her. Never tell anyone this can't happen, because it can. After numerous settlement attempts, the plaintiff finally settled for less than my original offer. My bill, after all the accounting was completed? Nearly $200k. And then the plaintiff died of a heart attack shortly thereafter.

Karma gets you.

So now it's new circumstances, a different-shaped chopping block, not to mention I've been around a few blocks of my own in the past few years.

Don't mess with me.
Don't mess with my kids.
DO NOT mess with my home.

And that about sums it up.

Tuesday Poem: Anne Sexton

The Truth The Dead Know

Gone, I say and walk from the church,

refusing the stiff procession to the grave,

letting the dead ride alone in the hearse.

It is June. I am tired of being brave.

We drive to the cape. I cultivate

myself where the sun gutters from the sky,

where the sea swings in like an iron gate

and we touch. In another country people die.

My darling, the wind falls in like stones

from the whitehearted water and we touch

we enter touch entirely. No one’s alone.

Men kill for this, or for as much.

And what of the dead? They lie without shoes

in their stone boats. They are more like stone

than the sea would be if it stopped. They refuse

to be blessed, throat, eye and knucklebone.

Fascinating, these two versions of the same poem, one obviously recorded before the revised version was published.

Necessary/Not-Necessary

I'd forgotten the many chores of setting up housekeeping again. Despite moving back in with my sons, in my own house (!), still there remain gaps and crevasses which I must either fill or straddle, trying not to fall in, lost.

Things which are useful & handy:
1. A bed.
2. Sheets.
3. Blankets.
4. Pillows.
5. An iron. Yes, I still iron stuff. Miraculously, there still exists here an ironing board. It's lonely, though.
6. A broom with a handle attached and bristles. At Lowes: "Giant Corn Broom"!
7. TP roller. (Okay, not exactly necessary, but it prevents escaping rolls from unrolling all the way across the floor to the tub.)
8. Towel rack.
9. Hook for bathroom door.
10. Laundry basket.
11. Rug for cold tile bathroom floor.
12. An old-fashioned push-mower.
13. Etc.
14. Etc., etc.
15. Etc., etc., etc.

Other things which are useful & handy but will have to wait:
1. Lamps. (I really like light.)
2. Living room furniture. What currently exists would really blend well with the decor of the City Dump. And should soon go there. Yikes.
3. Computer -- this one is limping along. Keeping fingers crossed.

I've resurrected an old receiver which I think will hook up to some ancient speakers which I think are all compatible with a DVD player which is, I believe, of the 21st century. My heart be still.

I've repaired the 35-year-old Cuisinart. I've become handy again with a hammer and fixed some falling-apart bookcases. Now I'm gathering courage to wield the Sawz-All to go to work on the remnants of an apple tree which had to come down, sadly. Nelson gave me a Sawz-All lesson last night, showed me the proper way to hold it, the stance I should assume, when to back off, how to lean-into. Gads. Drill, baby, drill.

And Nelson, who just returned from a long-weekend backpacking/fishing/wild-turkey-hunting trip, reminded me that if I lived in a tent somewhere I would need far fewer things than those in my list above. Of course, he is completely right. But no.

(And no wild turkeys, and his fishing pole broke, and the rain started in earnest so he and his buddy returned turkeyless, troutless, happy as ever.)

My sons are the glimmering gems among the detritus of this living.

So many odd chores today:
1. Mop the ceiling.
2. Vacuum the oven.
3. Iron the bacon.

Wait! I didn't really iron the bacon, but this guy does:

Salvage/Salvation/Salve

Today we dug a hole
and filled it back in.
Quick, that.
Acceptance.

Then I wrestled with bindweed and Himalayan blackberries, buttercups and lemon balm -- all clearly in control of the landscape. It's no longer a garden, but I'm wielding my machete and I intend to show it just who's in charge.

It used to be a lovely hidden garden. One year I inventoried the different types of flowers in bloom at one time and the count was in the 80's. That was a former life. A last-century life. Not one of us still inhabits it.

Today.

More culling in the kitchen, more combining of oils and vinegars, of unsweetened cocoa and unbleached flour, of rice both white and brown. Every project I undertake is woven into several other tasks simultaneously. So this afternoon it was drawer/closet/cupboard/another-cupboard/more-drawers: emptied, scrubbed, arranged & rearranged.

So often we are past the pull-date, every one of us.

Let's all recycle, now, every last cell in our sack of skin.