In heavy rain we visited the World Trade Center site.

Despite all the tourists, it was stunningly quiet. Reminded

me of visiting Dachau when I was twenty.

Stumbled into a great shop called Evolution in Soho --

a single-aisle treasure trove of all things skeletal

and entomological. One of my favorite items was

a life-sized paper skeleton kit! The massive (moving van sized)

spiders set in resin made my entire body crawl....

P. bought me this stunning pendant:

It's a butterfly wing.

***

"In America, you can have a parrot

on a stick and get rich."

     --Lampkin Franklin, cabbie

After a respite stretched across our hotel room bed

(G-rated!) we cabbed down to Greenwich Village 

and walked and walked. Much more my scene than the 

Upper East Side, I must say! (Even if the one-bedroom

apartment sells for a cool million.) Families with strollers,

funky hippie chicks, denim & boots and caffeine.

We supped at Bobby Flay's Mesa Grill -- nouveau Mexican.

Bustling, crowded, humid, with impeccable service

and equally impeccable cuisine. My chopped salad

contained kidney beans, garbanzos, tomatoes, kalamata

olives, generous chunks of Jack cheese and neat tiny squares

of multi-colored crispy tortillas. Traditional with a twist!

Very satisfying. As usual, my friendly husband chatted it up

with our fellow diners, and we met a delightful young couple

from Puerto Rico, as well as some locals. Other than the fact

that we were visibly elder in this crowd, dinner was fantastic.

(When did we become not twenty-something? Or at least

thirty-something? Okay. I'm going to stop right here.)

Jack the Dripper

We spent a crowded morning at MOMA, which seemed

to be everyone else's bright idea also on how to spend

a rainy Saturday morning. The highlight for me was

the Jackson Pollack gallery -- which completely surprised me.

I believe that Pollack is one of those artists whose work 

you have to see in person to completely take in. 

Once faced head-on with those massive canvases 

and the frenzy of colors and paint, I felt like I got him. 

And it was nearly heartbreaking -- an alcoholic, Pollack 

died in an alcohol-related crash in 1956 when he was merely 44. 

Eschewing traditional painting tools & techniques, 

he used house paint, hardened brushes, sticks, syringes, 

indeed he used his entire body to paint. I can only imagine

what he carried in his head day-in and day-out that would

compel him to such epic expression.

***

Last night we saw South Pacific at the Lincoln Center:

talk about wonderful! These were the songs that my sisters

and I sang and played on the piano throughout our childhood.

A fantastic production! (I'm sure you'll be hearing more about

this from Citizen K.)

Live, from New York it's.....

Premium T.! 

A tropical storm is washing over us, and it's warm,

so the city feels like a sauna. Seems that the current fad

among women of any age here is whimsical knee-high rubber

boots, and it looks like they've been itching for a good

downpour so they could pull on their cutesy rubbers

and traipse about the city. I like to think of them as saunas

for the feet. No thanks. Glad I finally outgrew those, at about

age nine, thank-you.

In other news, we stopped for lunch at a French bistro

on Madison Avenue ("La Goulue"), where we sat outside

(dry) under an awning. Town Cars kept pulling up 

depositing pinched & plucked & coifed & buffed

older women who, by the looks of them, still believed they

were, oh, maybe twenty-five. After a while a small film crew

went inside. (I was enjoying my Salade Nicoise, which, with

eight distinct flavors, I could come up with myriad umami 

taste combinations: 8x7x6x5x4x3x2x1 equals A Big Number.)

When I went in to use la toilette, I saw what all the

hubbub was about: there was Bridgette Bardot, rather a shadow

of her former glory, very blond (ya think it's real?!), basking 

in the camera's glow while tucking into a lovely repas Francais. 

Oh, and she wasn't sporting rubber boots.

This is one damn big thrumming honking city.

Laid-over for 5 hours at JFK where there is no AC

and the stench of vomit hovers. Free wif-fi, though.

Can't complaint about that. I'm sitting in the

International Food Hall which is aglow in neon

and overuse. We are all transients.

This airport could use a park. 

Some cool breezes.

A mountain or two. 

And an ocean.

Next time I pass through here I'm going to bring

my own sod and a bench and trees. And a breeze.

Can't forget the breeze. 

I will possibly be off the grid for a few days
as we retreat to Friendship, Maine, to spend a few
days with P.'s dad. A quiet fishing village, slow-paced:
photo-ops! Then it's on to NYC for five frantically-packed
days: food, museums, shopping, food, food, food.

(I LOVE peeling hard boiled eggs.)

Au Revoir

Be sure to check out the baby stilettos on Peter's blog!

Two are better than one.

Any minute now this could end.
Yesterday there was a single breath of coolness
to the air, and then a slight breeze, after days and days
of stillness. These last moments of summer
are hoarded gold, slipping from my fingers --

Dwindling Summer

On the driveway this morning
as I went out to get the paper --

Here's something yummy to make while fresh peaches

are still in the markets:

Put one very large fresh peach in the blender.

(Of course, peel and slice it.)

Add some milk -- about a cup. Add some brown sugar

and a swoop of vanilla. Some ice cubes. Blend.

OH. SO. GOOD.

Feral

Last night at dusk I heard eagles, obscured
in the cedars above me, their keening
less than grand, almost gentle, unexpected
from a bird so exalted, so predatory.

And again this morning from my bed,
the windows flung open, the air a cool nectar.

Scary

One tart. 

Apple tart.

Two apples, 

not Two Tartes.

(And not too tart.)

***

Used my new 6" tart pan.

Flour, butter, sugar, an egg yolk,

apples (two), cinnamon, walnuts.

A side of Greek yogurt sweetened with

brown sugar and a dash of vanilla.

Can you say "perfection?"

The Price of Fun

Fuzzy-headed all day yesterday, after that glorious evening

at The Corson Building. Worth every cent.

The single morning glory plant I have growing

continues to send forth bloom after bloom.

The leaves seem to be fading as more and more

buds unfurl, trumpeting what, lingering summer?

The Corson Building

Ahhh.....we had dinner last night in Paradise.

Er, well, in Georgetown. With planes roaring overhead,

nestled between two sets of railroad tracks, a view of a

soccer field out the kitchen windows and within spitting

distance of the ever-gritty Airport Way:

at The Corson Building, an offbeat, two-story

tile-roofed "house" built by an Italian stonemason

in 1906, which now houses Seattle's newest haven

for foodies. (It sits nearly under the Michigan Street

offramp, also.)

When I heard, almost a year ago, that Matt Dillon,

of Sitka & Spruce, and partner Wylie Bush were launching

this endeavor less than a block away from the former

love-of-my-life, Two Tartes (I mean, non-human love....),

I was skeptical. Especially when it would mean gutting the

existing structure and pushing out the back for a new kitchen.

(And I think this is a leased property, but I'm not sure.)

Would people shed dusty jeans and Carhartt jackets

for an evening of $ prix fixe dining? In Georgetown?!!

Well, the answer I got last night was a resounding Yes! --as we

sat down with 3o-or-so other guests at three large communal

tables. We had already enjoyed white wine/huckleberry-

infused aperitif and a watermelon & tuna amuse bouche

in the oasis-like garden, where caged doves and chickens

cooed and pecked beneath a laden Italian prune tree.

Inside, Paul and I scooted down a lengthy bench elbow-to-elbow

as dishes of pickled, spiced cherries and currants were passed.

Too tart! --but strikingly beautiful, they certainly woke up our palates.

What followed were seven additional courses served family style,
save for two plated entrees:

--tahini flatbread with yogurt

--roasted eggplant, peppers and onions with Interlaken-grape raisins

--two salads: dilled green beans & diced beets with crispy fried garbanzos

tossed with an assortment of nuts and seeds and coriander

--breaded squid and artichoke hearts (YUM!!)

--mackerel and heirloom tomatoes on sauteed raddichio

(I refuse to say "on a bed of....")

--black cod sauteed with chanterelles and fresh corn

--whole, butter-infused roasted chicken and quartered plums

--herbed toasts and flageolets

--honey-roasted nectarine slices with crisp pastry squares

and creme Anglaise.....

PLUS wine pairings. Are you full yet?

The wine (that I'm able to remember):

Pinot Blanc

Pinot Noir

Meursault

Muscat

Oh my.

I kept asking myself Where am I?

The only drawback is the din. It's a cavernous space

with lots of brick and concrete, and although Matt Dillon

apologized at the beginning of the meal for their unfortunate

ability to find suitably-aesthetic sound-absorption, I observed

a lot of blank wall-space clamoring (literally) for tapestries.

For the price one pays for dinner here, one should be able
to carry on a conversation comfortably.

And The Corson Building is not for the timid:
there is no menu.
You sit.
You eat.
You are happy.
Trust me.

Again

I want to live in this blue, this Heavenly Blue.
To exist inside its other light: not golden,
not bathed in holy rays. An hour or so
before dawn, perhaps, still in the tumble of a dream.

****

I thought the headline said:

"Man found not guilty in massacre of 80 poets"

when it really said:

"Man found not guilty in massacre of 80 pets."

In any case, poets: watch out.

More fun with flowers --

Been thinkin' about some new restaurant concepts

the past few days -- 

Reality Dining: for the Active Pursuit of Food!

Here are a few notions:

1)  Forage: 

This exciting new venue is situated

in a several-acre greenhouse/warehouse, where, upon paying

an entrance fee, you can then indeed "forage" for your meal.

Discover chanterelles in the Hidden Mushroom Glade, pluck 

thimbleberries  in the Organic Berry Patch,  gather apples 

in the Vintage Orchard.

What could be better? Or fresher?

2) Lasso: 

Perfect for carnivores, this ranch-themed

eatery allows you to rope your own heifer! 

Wrassle that porcine to the mud!  

Pluck your own fowl! 

All free-range (that includes you), 

all-sodium-free, all the time.

3) Cannabis + Carnivore: 

Taking part in the "Live Food" Movement,

you'll begin your culinary adventure with hors d'oeuvres

in the Cannabis Lounge, where you'll be encouraged

to breath deeply. Then move on to Carnivore,

where we believe deeply in consuming only live food,

where no plants or animals were killed to feed you dinner!

Allow yourself to graze the grassy knoll, munching

on greens, before you snag yourself a mouthful of

passing antelope, elk, deer or moose. Little bites only!

No weapons allowed save for your very own canines!

Just a thought.

The heart of this blue star is on fire --

Huff and Puff

Paul and I actively trudged up the trail to Rattlesnake Ledge
this afternoon: two miles up, two miles down, two hours total.
Busy trail of many languages! (Chinese, Hindi, possibly Arabic,
an Eastern European language and English.) Because the ascent
is all on the eastern slope there is little afternoon sun in the
shady forest, and massive boulders as well as low-slung branches
are festooned in moss, draped in ferns. Lush!
Upon reaching the top we discovered, rather than a ledge,
more a huge stone knob, upon which entire families lolled,
taking in the sweeping view north and east. A brisk breeze
quickly took care of residual sweat, and I filmed a 30-second
panorama:

Dinner

These were the scents in my kitchen last night:

cardamom
bay leaves
cinnamon
turmeric
onion
garlic
cilantro

And then there were also golden raisins, pistachios,
tomatoes, saffron, jalapenos, red lentils, yellow split peas,
basmati rice, mangoes, dried red peppers, yellow mustard seeds.

Colors:

red
yellow
green

Did I mention that I love to cook? And eat?!

The Great Art Party....

.....you should've been there. Floating Bridge Press,
which began in Peter Pereira's basement in 1994
when a group of us goofy poets decided we wanted
to do more than just poeticize, last night staged
the 2nd Great Art Party. Or, I should say, the inimitable
Jeff Crandall staged it, as the major force behind his
endowment drive in an attempt to free FBP from the
never-ending grant-application process. (I might add
that FBP has been in the black for the duration of its
existence.)

But here the best part: it's not an auction.
And it's fun.
You pay your $100 (or $300 for access to high-end
art) and you get to take home a piece of art. Period.
No drunken out-of-control bidding where at the end
of the evening you find yourself the owner of a very
expensive gadget. Instead, when your number is called,
you get to choose your piece. And the selection is fantastic!
There is a no-host bar, complimentary munchies,
and great entertainment: the evening opened with a
selection of arias sung by soprano Lucia Neare, accompanied
by pianist Matt Goodrich. The emcee is hilarious and keeps
the action rolling at a fierce clip.

This year we didn't stay for the entire event, as we just
purchased guest tickets ($25): we don't need any more art.
(Paul donated three pieces from his collection.)
Next year, faithful readers, I'm going to hit all of you up
for tickets. Well, that is, if you live within 100 miles
of the South Lake Union Armory Building in Seattle.
See you then! (If not sooner.)

What's the difference between Sarah Palin and Barack Obama?


One is a well turned-out, good-looking, and let's be honest, pretty sexy piece of eye-candy.

The other kills her own food.

Dismissed from jury duty after two mornings
sitting in a hot stuffy room with about a hundred
other reliable voters. No need for jurors this week.
Yay.

Glorious September, afternoon temps hovering
around seventy degrees. The best time of the year to be alive.
And finally, finally, having been out of school since 1980,
there was no pit in the bottom of my stomach
as the school year swung into action.
(One of the benefits of being grown up. At last.)

Favorite time of the day: when I'm making dinner.
Nothing special, just your mid-week whatever.
No stress. A nice glass of white Rhone wine
and the Wednesday crossword as the red sauce simmers.
Croutons crisping in the oven. Fennel and parmesan
shaved, tossed with romaine. The last of the cherry tomatoes.
Some fresh basil. Some Italian parsley.
This is also my favorite kind of meal: to come home
and peruse the supplies and just work with what is there,
no last-minute run to the store. Making-do.
Of course, one must keep a relatively well-stocked larder
for this system to be successful, but it's even fun
when shopping day looms, and the shelves are approaching
vacancy. And dessert? Blueberries, butter, sugar, flour....

(For extra zip in that red sauce pinch-in some cinnamon
and some cayenne. Just! A! Pinch!)

P. made me go to the gym this morning even though
we consumed lots of inebriating beverages last night
at our friend Kylie's house. I was the Grumpy Sit-Up Queen.
And the Grumpy Weight-Lifting Queen. Waaaah.

This is funny: last night at dinner, P. went out to the car
to get his sweatshirt. When he headed back to the house,
he accidentally went in the wrong house. (Next door.)
He said, "there was a white dog, and Kylie has a white dog.
There was a teenager sitting on the couch, which seemed
a little odd. I didn't remember a teenager at Kylie's.
I walked all the way through the house to the backyard,
and there were strange people sitting outside having dinner!"
Ha ha.
That wacky Paul.

I have jury duty this week! All the way out in f***ing Kent!
At 8am! And I receive $10 per day! The same as last time
I served on a jury, twenty years ago! Hee haw!
And I've been provided with a bus pass!
If I leave my house at 4:32am I just might get to Kent
by the crack of eight!
No thanks! I'll blow my Big Pay on gas and drive myself!

The idle pursuits of Labor Day --

Heavenly Blue!

Just bloomed! I checked it about a half-hour ago
and it was still closed. If I had watched it continually
would I have been able to observe that infinitesimal
movement of blue-petal-upon-blue-petal swirling open?



I am in love with this flower....

My favorite childhood cookbook --



-- and my favorite recipe.

I love this painting, by Kathryn Ace, which hangs in our home:

The blog-brain has been non-functioning of late.
But I will say that I've discovered Trader Joe's
very chocolate Mini Meringues
and they've become something of an addiction.
P. won't touch their lovely chalky crunchiness,
which is fine by me. Please! Take them away!
(They remind me of the strawberry freeze-dried
ice cream I took with me on a week-long hike
when I was 15, which I did not reconstitute.
It was sooooo good dry. Like the charms in Lucky Charms.)

***

How about that Sarah Palin, huh?! Heard that
she's a member of the P.T.A. Now that's an impressive
CV. Go Sarah. (Go back to Alaska. And please,
take Johnny Wattles with you.)

Ooohhhhh.....we're shifting into autumn and my
Heavenly Blue Morning Glory hasn't even bloomed yet.
Still sleeping with the windows open and still wearing sandals
and getting my feet wet and walking outside in the rain
in sleeveless tops and loving every minute of it.
Refusing to give in. Heck, if this is what we're going to get
in the way of Seattle weather, I may as well be in Ireland.

Vote for me!

PLEASE click on this link!!

http://www.thelopezfamilyonline.com/play.php?first=Therese&last=Clear

You never know when you'll need a recipe like this:

Ideal for those late summer patio parties!

Revisiting What have you saved from childhood theme....
so much sadness there, from my readers: fire, abandonment,
disposal. Today I threw away LOTS of "memorabilia",
most of it NOT AT ALL WORTH SAVING. But for some reason
or other I saved it. And now it's gone and my heart is untetherered.

Five big boxes for the recycling.
Three big boxes of garbage.
Many Goodwill donations.
And still there remains countless more.
But finally, it feels like progress.
I told N. that I felt as if I had gone back
at least five lifetimes. (N. -- bless his heart --
carried out the recycling. In heavy rain.)

Perhaps the most amusing item I ran across
is a newspaper accounting of my first wedding
by my children's great-grandmother, Edna P. Couch,
who wrote for the Kentwood News Journal. (That's
Kentwood, Louisiana, home of, yes, Brittany! Spears!)
(Or is is Britney!? These things are difficult.)
Anyway, the cleansed accounting of the festivities
included, apparently, a "nice ham supper after the wedding
at the home of the groom's parents." Hmm. Not exactly
as I remember it: no ham, lots of alcohol. And, during the
ceremony we were serenaded by the "Seattle Symphony Band."
Huh? Never heard of them. Well. Louisiana is pretty much
another country, and who's to question the 1983 doings
of a Seattle wedding? And I have to admit that there is
some kind of Southern charm at work when the journalistic
account of a farway event is edited to fit the mores
of the community in which the article appears. Bad journalism,
yes, but is it really journalism in the first place?


Oh. Quaint, I suppose, all these years later.
And it's not exactly CNN.

Guess what's for breakfast....

Spilled Figs

I now have a scanner that works.....

...and I'm going to have lots of fun!

Not really a problem, and yet....

Do other bloggers have this problem? --
Since I started blogging 570 posts ago,
when I run into friends I haven't seen in a while
and we begin to talk about what we've been up to,
their response to my news (about whatever) is usually,
"Oh, I know. I read it in your blog.
(I know that already.)"
Aaaauuuuuggggghhhhhhh!

But! Wait! I don't write about everything (thankfully!)
that happens in my life! Don't you want more details?
More embellishment?! Does writing a personal blog
mean that I can speak aloud no longer?!

Thank-you for reading this blog.
But there is more, much more.
I'm just sayin'.

Detritus

It's August and it rains like the world has given up.
Seattle. I worry about my sons, both no-longer-teens.
Who, what, when will they be? How?
We go on and on.
I try to remember to be compassionate.
To approach the universe from a loving perspective,
but sometimes that's just damn hard.
But the rewards, the rewards.
At night with the window open and in this wind
I can hear P.'s wind chimes, intoning the moment.
There is comfort in that. Presence.
Again, I give thanks.

You or I could end at any moment: a fiery crash,
or something far less dramatic. And who would sift through
all we leave behind? Who would care? Most everything is doomed
for the dump, the transfer station, the paper recycler.
Doomed for Goodwill. What objects that I have saved, coveted,
will go in a heartbeat for 99cents? Which will linger in the bottom
of a forgotton bin: postcard, earring, plate?

Vat Grown Meat Product

Aka, In Vitro Meat. Check it out.
You could win a million bucks.
My friend M. wants to grow some in his basement.
He has prenamed his product bork.
MMMMMmmmm.

Happy Birthday!

Donald and grandsons.....



...and granddaughters.

I am one of few very fortunate people who has not one
but TWO wonderful, very dear fathers-in-law. Donald,
who is #1, turns eighty today. Paul Sr., #2, celebrated
his eightieth birthday last May. I can't tell you how delighted
I am to have these two witty, articulate and bright men
in my life. Blessings counted!

We saw Vicky Christina Barcelona last night, the new 

Woody Allen Lite movie.  He has most definitely 

lost his wit, his comedic edge. Paul found it dull, 

but I was, at least, entertained in a not-too-deep 

kind of way. Javier Bardem was dreamy to watch, 

even if his character was a tiresome stereotype of an artist.

And I'm really tired of those puffy lips on all the

female actors these days! 

****

My potted (not pot) plants are really loving this heat,

although I fear these fully furred felines feel fussy.

As do I.

***

One of Paul's Ireland pics made skull-a-day.

(Scroll down to the puddles.)

Story: we were cruising the bumpy back roads

of County Mayo one rainy July day when suddenly

Paul screeched to a halt. What the? 

"A skull! A skull!" He shouted. With Gaelic glee.

I was looking everywhere but the road,

but there it was, glaring up at us from the slick tarmac.

Boo!

An Evening in Paris....

...from what I've saved from childhood.

All the ensembles (which you'll notice I've gathered

together by theme, color, etc.) were painstakingly

sewn (and knitted! Dig the yellow bathing suit!) 

by my mother during the month  of December, 1961. 

I was five. She sold dozens of these ridiculously tiny 

articles of clothing for, I'm guessing, ridiculously low 

prices. She netted about $60. Everything was made 

with leftover scraps. (By the way, the doll is "Midge." 

Don't know what happened to "Tammy." Don't care, either.)

One of the red sweaters belongs to Ken.

Ken left.

A question:

How many things are in your possession from your childhood?
Three? Three boxes? A houseful? None?
I'm talking ages 0-18 here.
Fluffy bunny kind of stuff.
Run, Spot, run kind of stuff.
Headless Barbies, etc.

How much?

I want to know.

Birthday Boy (er, Man)

Alas, I can no longer proudly announce that I'm the mother
of teenaged sons. Oooohhhh, the grass is always greener
on the other side! To be truthful, though, I am delighted
to be the mother to two wonderful young men and
step-mother to two other wonderful young men.
Boys! Men! Yikes! Aswim in testosterone.

My favorite part of N.'s birthday dinner was hanging out
with his friends. I rarely see them anymore, and they are
hilarious and bright and full of life. And there was chocolate
cake with ganache, and vanilla & coffee ice cream. Oh! Oh!

It's Nelson's 20th birthday and he has asked for an easel.
This delights me to no end! So he's getting an easel
and a box of Interference Acrylic Paints. It seems
that these days nothing makes him happier than the
act of painting. All throughout his K-12 school years
he drew, painted, sculpted, acted, played the flute.
And then it stopped, when his father died.
Nothing for nearly five years, and now it's back.
Nelson is back.

I bow my head in gratitude.

Amazed at how joy alights, a plain brown bird
blessed with the gift of wings.

Another day spent in the depths of the Brandon Street
house, sifting through box after box. Advice: throw
stuff away. Do it now. Do not leave it for your heirs.
I know I should've done this a few years ago, but just
couldn't. I'd go down there and look at the piles and piles
of boxes and feel defeated, before even opening a single
box. So. My recycling bin is full and N.'s car is full of
stuff for Goodwill. Yay! (Unfortunately it still looks
like nothing has changed. Damn. But I know it has.)

And yet, in the chaos: treasures. A stamp album
from the fifties or sixties (Around! The! World!)
In this album I learned about San Marino,
a completely landlocked country in the Appenine
Mountains of Italy: San Marino claims to be the oldest
constitutional republic in the world....it was founded
on 3 September 301 by Marinus of Rab, a Christian stonemason
fleeing the religious persecution of Roman Emperor Diocletian.
San Marino's constitution, dating back to 1600, is the world's
oldest written constitution still in effect. (Wikipedia.)
I don't know who this stamp album belonged to,
but I think it's something M. picked up somewhere
and stashed away.

I also found a packet of correspondence between
Mr. Elmer Miller of Seattle and Miss C.V. Garmon
of Aberdeen, Washington, dating from the early 1920's.
Page after page of stylized penmanship, detailing their
pre-marriage longings for each other, including his
distaste for her meddling mother. Who are/were these people?
And why were they in my basement?

In 1979 I spent the summer in Paris, and many hours were passed
perusing the bookshelves in Shakespeare & Company. While digging
through some boxes of books stacked up in a corner, I came across
an old address book where the original addresses had been crossed
through, and new ones entered. Inscribed in the front is:

Carnet d'adress de mon grand pere M Andry - 80 r de Longchamp
continue par Mamam, which translates to:

"Address book of my grandfather Mr. Andry, 80 Longchamp Street,
continued by Mother."

When I asked George Whitman, the proprietor of Shakespeare & Company,
how much for the book, he turned it over and over in his hands, asked
himself, "do I need an address book? No. You can have it. No charge."

It's a lovely little book, well-used, with a burgundy-colored embossed
cover and marbled end-papers. I've kept it now for nearly 30 years,
and used it for the first time last night in the collage pictured above.
Like the cancelled stamps, it too carries with it the secrets of many
lives. I intend to give this address book an additional life in images
cobbled together on paper: torn, copied, cut, glued, trimmed, matted.

At this time twenty years ago I was nearly two-weeks overdue
with baby # 2, and my doctor asked if I wanted to be induced
on 8-8-88. I declined, not wanting to mess with numerology,
and Nelson was born on 8-11-88, which I much prefer, seeing
that it's an equation: 8x11=88. I admit to being somewhat
intimidated by numbers; in fact, when stretching, instead
of counting to sixty, I say the alphabet twice.
Never been one to study advanced mathmatics,
although the notion of imaginary numbers intrigues me.
Is there an imaginary alphabet, also?

A funeral this morning, in the church where I made
my first communion and where I was present
at many other hocus-pocus Roman Catholic Events.
What's with the consumption of flesh, of blood, anyway?
The confessionals are gone. The organ is on the stage.
(Er, I mean, the altar.) And the Latin, where has all
the Latin gone? (Okay, you're thinking I'm a bit senile
so I will admit to remembering that Latin disappeared
from the Catholic stage sometime around 1962 --)

Today I saw my childhood friend Mitch
who I last saw in 1975. I'm having a difficult time
reconciling my memory of him with the man I saw today,
very tall, deep-voiced, adult. How? When?
We climbed trees together, searched for bird's nests.
I need to find the photo of the two of us
dressed as a priest and a nun. We were about seven
years old. Stay tuned.

I fear that I expended all my blogging energy
that month we were in Ireland.....
now all I want to do is Blaaaaaahhhhhg.

The air smells good here in Redmond.
Lots of trees. Smells like I'm camping
except that I get up every morning
from a king-sized bed, as opposed to a queen-sized
rapidly-deflating air mattress. And we have
flush toilets, here in Redmond.
And I don't have to prime the stove.
I just turn the knob and bingo, it begins to glow.
Just like that!

***

I just made myself a martini
and dare I say it's damn good.
Stoli. A wisp of Vermouth.
Shake 55 times. Three olives,
preferably stuffed with jalapenos.
Pour.
Enjoy.

Last night I rode a rusty tricycle to Snoqualmie Pass.
(Well, in my dreams.) All the way up I-90.
Needless to say, coming back was a helluva lot quicker.
There was the worry of the front wheel loosening,
wobbling. And the cramped aspect of the size ratio,
me being fully-adult-sized & all.

I received my little packet of French stamps
and they make me delirious with happiness.
Why? I'm not sure.

Ridiculously tiny wisps of paper,
liable to take flight in any breeze.

I want to know what message each one
helped push forward, what payment, what
tender mots.
Sincerement.


Ton Amie,
Therese

Manya Shapiro

An overnight jaunt to Portland (Oregon) to see
Big Sam's Funky Nation and Powell's Books.
Overwhelmed at Powell's probably because I didn't
have any lunch other than Chex Mix from a mini-mart
and Pepsi with ginseng. What was I thinking.
Anyway: books and books and books.
I was looking for maps to use in my collaging
but most modern maps are now water! proofed!
Not so good. Guess I gotta hit Goodwill etc.
Did pick up two William Trevor's, though.

We chanced into a teeny alternative bookstore
which was more my size and energy-level
and discovered all sorts of delights, including
a lot of handmade books, small-press and
self-published stuff which was thoughtfully selected.
Can't remember the name of the store!
But it's worth another trip to Portland.

We supped at Blue Hour in the Pearl District.
Sat in the bar, and everyone I could see was wearing
black and white and sipping pink drinks. Paul said,
"Maybe there's some kind of theme going on...."
Hmm. AT LEAST we weren't the only customers
over 45. Ha. This was decidedly not one of the
younger hip crowds. Older hip, perhaps, yes.
Or at least as hip as older can get.

Had breakfast with some friend's of Paul's
who live on the top floor of a palatial downtown
Portland condo = views and views.
Charming, witty, gregarious people: Howard and
Manya Shapiro. Manya is an artist who "knits" dresses
from soft, pliable wires; weaves baskets -- more like nests,
really -- from similar materials. I was entranced
and couldn't resist taking out my camera:




This last dress is actually constructed from screening.
Amazing pieces!

How It Is

(from The Dishwasher's Tears)

It is true that we are terrible creatures. Even those of us who are really trying to be good fail at it more often than not. You are more likely to meet with success if your aim is evil and badness. Despite the horrors, though, we keep on going.

You would expect that it would actually kill you, the stuff that goes on.

It comes as a shock sometimes that it doesn't.

You just keep waking up.

*

We bang along, I guess. Mostly in the middle somewhere between the extremes of beauty and horror. I do not know what it says about me, but I am determined to make room for all of it.

I love the macabre.
If you do too, check out the Mr. Potato Skull
at skull-a-day.
(You might have to scroll down a little bit.)
Ghouls!

Haven't felt much like blogging lately,
but here's a good salad:

lettuce greens
heirloom tomatoes
sliced avocado
hearts of palm
Gorgonzola vinaigrette.

***

Eagerly awaiting my packet of old French stamps.
(And I love that the shipping on them is only $.50.)

***

Dinner outside tonight, beneath the cedars
and bigleaf maples, under the shadow of clouds.
A good white Bordeaux: pleasing, always,
but especially after slogging it home in SeaFair traffic.

This is a fun game: grab a book, randomly,
and open it randomly, and read a paragraph aloud.
Tonight we heard from Emily Post, E.B.White,
Kaye Gibbons, Larry McMurtry, Mark Twain,
Patricia Highsmith and Margaret Nordfors.
And others.
What joy in being read to, aloud.

My new obsession with collage art has turned me
into somewhat of a Stamp Geek. Not rare stamps,
but those that appeal to my sense (I hope it's sense)
of what I'm attempting to create from these scraps
of paper spread out over my table. I've been collecting
paper(s) most of my life, with some (until now) unknown
ultimate goal other than the filling of empty shoe boxes.
Been gleaning techniques from the various artists for whom
I have toiled. Taking notes. Going to art museums.
Storing up, and the stores are bursting.

I am not here to please you.

***

Well, not necessarily.
No rules. No requirements.
It just is. (The Blog.)

A few years back I was walking through the Safeway
parking lot, and noticed behind me a young mother
with a baby in her arms and holding a perhaps-four-year-old
girl by the hand. The girl broke free and began to run
just as the car in front of me began to back up.
I leapt forward a few very quick steps and scooped
the girl out of harm's way. Her mother, when she caught
up with us, kept repeating thank you thank you thank you.
I can still feel the nearly weightless body of the child,
her bones beneath so little flesh. I can feel the pattern
of her white eyelet dress on my arms. The reversing car
continued to reverse, seemingly oblivious to the drama
being played out in its rear-view mirrors, then lurched
into drive and disappeared from us.

I can't help but wonder how many times a scene just like this
has been played out, how many vulnerable beings pulled clear
in the seconds before certain impact? And how many times
has it been me behind the wheel of that car?
How many times has it been you?

Eat at this Restaurant!

Ama Ama Oyster Bar & Grill in West Seattle, where
on Saturday and Sunday nights, Reilly is King of the Shuckers:

I was delighted to learn that one of the owners used to be
my customer at Two Tartes! The ambiance is kind of
retro-Miami, with fifties beach-blanket-bingo movies
playing in the bar, and a giant marlin mounted on the wall.
Excellent food (even if you don't like oysters), and possibly
the best martini I've ever consumed. We had drinks sitting
at the oyster bar, and Paul and Nelson shared a dozen
while I was sitting between them, which meant the platter
was in front of me, and no one wanted to shift seats. Huh.
Reilly whipped up a sushi roll for us (my son knows how to
do this?!!), then we moved to a very comfortable circular booth
where I feasted on the marinated steak salad: heavenly. Nelson
had scallops, Paul the halibut ceviche and a fried tomatillo salad.
Oh Yum! They've been open for less than a year, and deserve to
be around for a long time.

Art is Glamorous...

...or, rather, working for an artist is glamorous.
We get to sit around all day and create pretty things
and eat bon-bons. What? You don't believe me?
And are not the above photos evidence enough?
On Thursday morning we met at 8am sharp to set up
Melinda's booth at the Bellevue ArtsFair. I must admit
I was fairly amazed that we produced enough work
in the past six weeks to fill these shelves. (Granted,
I was gone for four of those weeks but let's not talk
about that here.) The show opened Friday morning
with a bang and M. had customers lined up with dollars
bulging from their wallets. When Paul and I stopped by
Friday afternoon, I couldn't even get into the booth.
There is nothing even remotely resembling her work
anywhere else at that show -- lots of paintings, lots of
blown glass, lots of textiles, jewelry -- but no other
functional vessels which have been painted, masked,
blasted, peeled, dremeled, dotted, baked and polished.
Phew! (Is that really what I do every day?!)

I've been a bit absent this week....getting back
to the Pacific time zone.

Was at JoAnn Fabrics this afternoon
and caught this girl twirling in the bolts --

Another Ireland photo, this one from the beach
in Carrowholly....

I spent a good part of yesterday cooking:
pulled pork shoulder with homemade BBQ sauce,
vinaigrette potato salad, cabbage-yogurt slaw,
buttermilk biscuits, and a Pavlova for dessert.
The meringue for the Pavlova wept, then stuck
to the parchment, so it cracked and crevassed a bit
when I attempted to pry it free, but piled with whipped
cream and three kinds of berries, it utimately was glorious.
I'll never fail to be amazed that you can begin
with four egg whites -- slimy, translucent goo -- and end up
with a thick white puffy delicately-crunchy sweet
cumulous-cloud confection. I could have eaten
all of it myself. (But didn't.) Paul, PK and Ashley
shared it with me, sitting on the newly refinished deck,
pots of my new herbs surrounding us, in the generous shade
of maples, Douglas firs and cedars. Happy to be home.

From the wrapper of Lily O'Brien's
Half Milk Chocolate Coated
Double Chocolate Chip Cookies:

Contains Wheat, Gluten, Milk, Eggs, Soya.
Manufactured in a Nut Environment.

Paul is doing his Marsellaise thing again,
tapping his foot to it. I expect marching
any minute now. Mais oui.

Today I asked for things:
1) Please remove the $89 late fee
on my mortgage payment as I was out of
the country and my son, who was in charge
of bill-paying, claimed to receive no statement
from the mortgage company.
2) Please remove overdraft charges from other son's
bank account and credit the fraudulent PayPal charges.

The squeaky wheel does indeed get the grease.

Amen.

The drive home tonight, 18 miles of traffic:
nearly unbearable, the tonnage of too-little-sleep
bearing heavily on my consciousness. The cars
and the cars. Thousands of them. Zip zip zip.

And now, on the deck which I'd call pastoral
if there were a pasture of any sort in sight:
a neighbor girl practices piano, elementary,
one, two keys at at time. Plunk plunk plunk.

Back to the routine of work and the handling
of fragile objects, only now there is a 12-week kitten
skittering in and out. Long-bodied, ear-fluffed.
Rather too cute. And not mine.