Dearth

The muse has been largely absent, although she's made his/herself known for a few fleeting moments in cognito, saying things like:


There's a pound of frozen venison in my freezer, and I don't know where it came from.

And:

I hate gangrene in the morning.

And then:

I could use some help with this weed problem.

And of course:


He had a cupboard full of Bazooka bubble gum. 
He was always a soldier.
He died in the Beirut bombing.




What to do?

I'm stumped.

The Conversation, Part Two

Tradesmen, and women.

This seems to be my life these days, and it's a good life.

My nephew switched out a weight of old galvanized plumbing for plastic, lucky that it's all still exposed in the nether-regions of the house, the down-under.

I went to the basement tonight to change the wash and I swear -- there was the scent of centuries and centuries of stone, that damp heaviness that comes with October rain. The words ancient and medieval came to mind. Silly! A hundred+ years -- my house was built in 1908 -- isn't a long time by some standards, but I love the notion of this century-old dwelling upon which I've set my life. It's my old workhorse of a house, practical, never fancy. It just is.

I'm just lucky, I think.

My nephew, who I see maybe twice a year, sat down, after his piping-about, to have a beer. He's 35, loquacious, energetic, outgoing -- and couldn't be more different from me. He leans towards the right, whereas my lean is decidedly left. He's an avowed Christian, and I'm anything but. He carries a gun, I'm a pacifist. For the first time, we acknowledged this philosophical chasm between us -- territory that, up to this point, we've dared not approach. We tip-toed out to the edge of the cliff, testing the wide-open air of lives lived in vastly different worlds. We debated and knocked heads together but under it all was the ease that, if one is lucky, comes with being family. Maybe one of us just needed to grow up -- me, perhaps? Perhaps.

Old plumbing, old house: this is how I've come to know my nephew. Being from a large family, he's one of many nephews, but the only one I ever seem to see. He knows his stuff when it comes to pipes, and he's a sweetheart to do work for me. The boy -- and I'll never think of him as anything but a boy, despite his age -- has a generous soul borne out of equally generous parents. He tries to insist, often, on just charging me for parts, and I insist on paying him for labor. He give me a deal. I get to know him, he gets to know me.

After an hour+ of spirited kitchen-table talk, I herded him towards the door. Wasn't he as tired as I was, after a full day of work? Probably not. We'd covered politics, religion, The Constitution, the American banking system, gun-control, the value of family, revolution and, of course, plumbing: toilet models, pedestal vs. vanity sinks, clawfoot tubs and then-some. I'd illustrated my POV with a black sharpie on the back of an envelope: arrows and charts and numbers, including some odd squiggles and underlinings (although, the next morning, I couldn't for the life of me tell you what any of those black marks meant). 

Upon leaving, he was loaded down with tools, and I got the door for him. Now, I am 99.999% certain that he doesn't read my blog, and so would have no idea that this week I'd already written of the delight I take in chatting with the various repair/handy-people that seem to be making my house a destination. And yet, as he was going down my front steps, he turned and looked back up and me, smiled, and said, "I liked the conversation."

No need to say that I did too.

New

There's a man in my bathroom, with a saw, cursing at old pipes which will not ease their rusted grip on the century these eleven years past. (I quickly learn that it's not necessary for me to come running when he expounds on the state of This Old House.)

O ye useless pipes.

A new floor, a new sink, new toilet, new trim. The old clawfoot tub, about a million pounds and an ornery bastard to negotiate. The carpenter and I moved it on Saturday, careful to not crush toes or arches, bones. Devised a way to drag it, on a second-hand rug and a length of cardboard box found in the garage, and flattened. Now the tub sits in the kitchen and looks embarassed, like a woman caught bathing on a riverbank. Surrounded by the chaos of Home Improvement. Paint. Drop cloths. Etc.

It's always an adventure having someone work on the house. There's the conversation -- or sometimes not. I prefer the conversation, the digging beneath the hired skills to discover the fallibility of the human on the other side of the tools. The half-spoken clues to a life lived elsewhere. Every soul with his/her story.

This particular soul exclaims loudly and often. The same man that I heard cursing and conversing with a 40-year-old Toyota engine in the process of repair, parked on the street outside where I work, a year or two ago. How contained and finite our world seems, at times. Now he's making his commotion chez-moi, amidst a new floor which resembles cork but is actually vinyl, and was a beast to install. But it's my new floor and last night I was tempted to lie face-down on it and extend a warm embrace. Good-bye old life. Hello new faux cork.

Hallelujah.

My days once again are spent often in the presence of carpenters/contractors/builders with a cultural and intellectual intelligence that challenges stereotypes. It's something I missed sorely in my recent life afield. Glad to be back among the literati carpenteria. The woman who, last spring, installed my new shower, just began law school on a full-ride scholarship. Goddamn.

Easier, with this backdrop, to process the curt note from NoGoode which arrived in the mail. His explanation for Things Neglected. I would prefer not even a microscopic specimen of his DNA in my home, but perhaps in this tying-up of last details I can look forward to a fall-winter-and-onto-spring with a horizon clear of turbulence.

In The Moment: Gratitude

I listened to Melinda, yesterday, speak of a transcending moment -- one of those moments of clarity that arise, seemingly, out of the ethosphere: god and physics and the collision of science and faith and the notion of we-are-a-single-organism and we only exist right at this moment, right now. No past, no future, everything flowing and rippling simultaneously. I recall the word hallelujah being spoken, and we discussed religion and the existence of god or a god, and trying to define a notion of "god".

The bookkeeper arrived and dove right in, told about having belonged to a theosophical society at one time. This stuff fascinates me.

We often converse like this -- in the midst of a certain level of chaos -- a million tasks all screaming for attention simultaneously. I don't quite remember how many orders I packed and prepped for the UPS pick-up, but there seemed to be a constant going in-and-out, up-and-down stairs from house/factory to garage/studio, the locking and unlocking of doors, the hefting of unwieldy boxes. The careful wrapping of delicate glass pieces so that they won't break in shipping while attempting to keep shipping costs down -- a constant challenge, and something which I puzzle over daily, because glass inevitably breaks, in spite of the utmost care. And then there's the re-imagining of recycled gin/whiskey/tequila boxes into suitable shipping containers. (One must conceal any reference to alcohol on the exterior of the box.)

At one point in the day a heavy binder slipped onto the computer keyboard and activated "voice-over" (what the?) and suddenly a male voice was narrating every key stroke that Melinda made:

"You are pressing the shift key. You are now in a window. You are scrolling down...."

On and on. And oddly, the voice speeded up, and Melinda couldn't figure out how to turn it off. I began to laugh, of course, and suggested she google "turn off voice-over" and she did, all the while with this narration blaring at her. I descended into one of my laughing fits with tears streaming down my cheeks. So absurd! I half expected the voice to scold me for laughing and (according to reports) drooling on the keyboard. (I contend it was a hilarity-tear.)

Out. Of. Control.

She finally was successful, and Mr. Voice-Over was silenced. Phew!

(Thank you, Mr. Anonymous-Voice-Over, for that moment of wild abandoned fun!)

But to focus back on the subject I intended to write about here, I received an email from my friend Candy this morning with a link to this TED video. I so love when the theme continues, from unconnected sources! (But then again, we're all connected....)

Week of Nonsense

B of A, that behemoth American money-grubber, is once again figuring prominently chez-moi. To date, they have rejected my loan-modification application for the following reasons:

1. I don't make enough money.
2. I make too much money.
3. I don't have enough assets.
4. I have too many assets.
5. I don't (according to them) live in my house.
6. I pay my mortgage on time.

I've been laughed at, yelled at and lied-to.

And I'm not giving up.
The giving-up is what they're banking on -- while they're pocketing their share of the bailout.

---

In other news, at work yesterday, in the interest of caloric-awareness, we decided to measure just how much "liquid" would comfortably fill one of our martini glasses. The astonishing and most unwelcome revelation sent both Melinda and I into a gloom-state: a whopping 584 calories, not counting the de riguer three olives.

The gloom-state persisted into today.

I've decided it's time to invent the Meal-in-a-Martini: lay a slice of bacon and a single skinny grissini across the top of the glass for another 150 calories. But the problem here is that now I'm up to 734 calories, and it's only one martini. Defeat around every corner! Ha!


Time to switch to plain water. With a twist. Hold the bacon.

Other

Bear with me while I fan the fires, or tune me out if you so desire . (Just no lectures, please. I gotta run this stuff through its paces.)

Awaiting my arrival home from work yesterday was a big sloppy, falling-apart box, opened at the bottom, the slim strips of tape performing only what their paucity allowed: next to nothing. Affixed to the box was a nearly illegible customs declaration form, as well as this stamp:


Let's see....70 euros is equal, at today's exchange rate, to $95.06. Or 35.78 dinars. Or 606.69 yuan. And what does that get me, the Ex-W. (W. stands for wife)?

Well, in this case it got me:

1. Four books of poetry (Sean Lysaght, Ger Reidy, Lorna Shaughnessy, Knute Skinner), a book of stories by John F. Deane, as well as a hardback book of stories and illustrations by Tess Gallagher and Josie Gray. Fair enough -- all books I'd purchased in Ireland and had kept at the house there to peruse on future trips. (But, alas, not all the books I'd left there.)

2. Three very worn out (and several sizes too big) pairs of pants.

3. An equally unwanted shirt.

4. Assorted art supplies, including three vials of dried-up glue.

5. A bag of white ribbons.

6. Five Q-Tips.

7. A plastic cutting board.

8. Two packages of tampons.

9. Scraps of paper.

10. A package of pastels and a package of colored pens.

11. A cardboard box which originally held six wine glasses.

12. A tube of antibiotic cream.

13. Three vintage tablecloths.

14. A poem, "Our Lady of Flotsam", that I'd hand-written on the back of a brown envelope, and that stood vigil beside a plastic Virgin Mary holy water bottle on the kitchen windowsill, along with assorted flotsam & jetsam gathered on beach walks. But why only the poem, and not the beach glass, shards of porcelain? Why only mail me the brown envelope? (Because it contained more of me than a bit of broken shell.)

15. Assorted "other", as was specified on the customs declaration. (Exactly what is specific about "other", anyway?) (I can only imagine the postal clerk saying, "What's in the box?" And the Ex-H. replying, "Other.") (I think I know what I want for Christmas this year: other.)

Well. Wasn't sure what to make of all of this. I'd specified in the Final Pleadings just exactly what it was that I wanted returned from the Carrowholly house, and the only things from the list that were in this box were the books & tablecloths. Perhaps I can look forward to yet another sloppily-patched-together package? Filled with broken crystal and pottery? One would not wish to be Held In Contempt Of Court. An agreement is an agreement.

I'm just kicking myself for not specifying that I wanted the pie pan, the cupcake pan, the rolling pin, the salad spinner, the salad bowl, the marble cheese board, the cheese knife and the three small glasses that I bought at a charity shop for 25 cents each.

But tell me, who spends 70 euros to ship two packages of tampons and 5 Q-Tips 6000 miles?

It defies logical thought, and just might have its own chapter in the DSM.

Maybe it's time for a conflagration in the fire-pit out back, time to light up the darkness.

(The last time I conflagrated in the back yard in this manner was several months after my first husband's death, a cold winter Sunday afternoon and ream of cancelled checks that had to burn. In the midst of my not-at-all-sorting, I plucked from the stack a life insurance policy that I hadn't known of -- surprise! -- and submitted to Those In Charge, who rejected it. A brief lawsuit followed, in which a California judge denied me the meager benefit that should have been guaranteed me. My attorney told me that this was so very, very wrong, and that the attorney for the other side was in the back pocket of the insurance company. Inside information. A whole lotta good it did me.)

Otherwise, life is good.

Fire

I awoke to this in my (virtual) mailbox today, from my friend Cz., who always knows what it is I need when I need it (I am blessed in friendship):

Saturday:


Sunday, all hell broke loose.

First this:



Then this:


Yes, it's my house.
Yes, it's my bathtub.
Do I know what's going on?
No.
But my fear is that Big Trouble is afoot.

All I can say is, god help me.
And pass the wine.

Yanked & slashed the honeysuckle --
ravaged with leaf blight --
reeled in all the sinewy tendrils.
Clipped & sawed.
(No more honey to suckle.)
I should just resort to poison.

But no.
(Some better/worse part of me stops, and considers.)

A few late last blossoms persist in spite of the imminent demise.

Buh-bye, honey.
Your suckling days are over.

---

Tonight the breeze shifted, suddenly, the day's heat expired.
Summer's finished.

There's always the fear that, once the fall rains begin, we won't see another sunny day until next July.

Anyway. It smells like rain.

Tomorrow I'll pick bowls-full of grapes, just now ripe. A handful of blasted starlings stood vigil with me this afternoon, awaiting that final sugar surge. They've done it before -- beaked every vine clean -- a gorged frenzy of them and sounding like every language being spoken at once in their cackles and gurgles, their whistles and whoops. I love them, I hate them.

A color plate illustration from Ernst Haeckel's Kunstformen der Natur (1899), showing a variety of hummingbirds.

My season of hummingbirds is almost over. Tonight a pair of them flitted in and around the apple tree, the hazelnut tree (every nut gone to squirrels) -- very close to where I was standing. I've gotten pretty good at imitating their ratchety song, and they respond by drawing closer and settling-in on a branch, facing me. There is little in my garden to attract them this year, and yet they are daily present. I imagine that soon they will begin their aerial trek southward, and the humming of wings will lie dormant in memory.

hmph.

And then that inevitable sadness sifts down, a mist from a cloudbank that lowers and lowers until it exists inside me, part of every cell. Becomes tissue and marrow.

I saw a bed of pink petunias this morning on the way to work: simple and not trying to impress any living soul. Made a note to plant pink petunias when the planet spins around again to this side of Spring. Right now we're down to one last day of summer: glad to be done with this season, sad for summer's waning.

Inevitable.

So many gone so recently, and will I see them again? No. So many kinds of death, and the absence of those we love takes its time filling its space. And who am I to exhibit sadness? The most basic level of gratitude is that of taking the next breath, and the next. No severed spinal cords, no wasted body. Not here. No slow sinking in a bathtub, the water rising above the final gasp.

My current obsession with hydrangeas will go on until every purple, blue & burgundy has faded from every drooped stem. For this moment -- right now -- they contain everything I need.

Postcards from Here

Dotty

I don't do this all day, but sometimes it feels like I do....

A Litany

Six police cars in a church parking lot, Friday night, all cockeyed angle, no time for care. One officer walks the field beneath an electric grid, head down, as if pondering the uses of power.

I'm only passing by in a slow line of cars, each of us craning at the scene. (I'm late for my martini, three olives.) I won't know who or what violation occurred to summon this caravan of guns, or why this god-house lot warrants this army of blue & billy-clubs.

Later, it's crowded with ordinary vehicles and I imagine, inside, someone preaches that in the end, all will be forgiven if you will only give it up for Jesus, amen.

Rodentalia

I called one of my sisters today and asked her if I really did buy her a hampster for her 20th birthday when I was ten, or did I just imagine it.

She said that yes, I did.

Good god. Why did I do this??!

She said, "Because you wanted one."

I don't know how I payed for it -- and my mom would have had to drive me to the store, so it wasn't something I could have done on the sly. Why did my mom let me do this? Crazy!

Then the hampster -- I don't remember what my sister named it -- had babies and ate them.

When I was telling another sister this story tonight over a martini and tater tots in Georgetown, she brought up the gerbils that yet another sister had for pets. The cat (Alex) used to sit on top of the cage, which was atop a dresser. And the dog (Sarah) would bounce up and down repeatedly to get a look at the gerbils when the cat was harassing them from above. I can hear that exercise wheel turning like it did in the middle of the night, spinning to nowhere. And I believe there was also another incident of rodent infanticide.

Once my brother and his friends brought a garter snake into the house to scare my mother, and it got loose and wound itself around one of the legs of our piano -- unbudgable -- while Mom shrieked a high pitched elongated EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE.

The sole rodent that my children kept was a summer-loan of a white rat from their elementary school. I remember thinking, why am I feeding this rat diced carrots while I'm baiting the rats in the basement with poison?

Why I Love Where I Live/Work

Yesterday (on the job) I was down in the studio attending to the details of the most recent batch of glass -- shaving off stray paint with a blade, taking a diamond sander to the inevitable nicks and chips that show up along the path to the finished product. The studio is a converted garage which opens to a sidewalk, and as it's still warm, the door was ajar. I was respiratored-up, tied-into my protective apron, when two men walked by and poked their heads into the door, curious about what went on inside.

I invited them in (they appeared harmless enough!) and showed them a few of the pieces I was working with, briefly explained the process. One of them said he'd lived in the neighborhood thirty years, and remembered the transformation of the space from garage to studio. Of course, I couldn't (and didn't) claim ownership, and extolled the talents of Melinda (who was upstairs in the house aka The Factory, cutting designs).

I'm always amused at what people notice, and they oohed-and-ahhhed over the compressor. Men! Machinery! (Stereotypes!) The vessels of colored glass rods -- remnants of Melinda's flame-working days-- also caught their eye.

These were lovely men -- bright & inquisitive -- and in a less-than-ten-minute interval we managed to chat about not only the glass at hand but politics, urban gentrification and the shared joys of living in this eclectic community. Would I have experienced anything even remotely resembling this in my recent suburban stint? Hell no! This is not the landscape of lives fortressed behind modern facades, not the environment of garage door openers and conspicuous consumption. Nope.

Here on these urban streets exist the details of lives lived among the breathing, among hearts conscious of the fragility of existence. Where, in the house next door, a ninety-something woman gardens in a wig and pearls, chickens cluck in the yard across the intersection, and a mechanic working on another neighbor's circa 1970-something Datsun (Toyota?) curses with great color and passion. A sun-bleached Tibetan prayer flag flutters, strung across a driveway. Troupes of school children chatter by.

Two blocks to the west I can dine on Mexican, Thai, Caribbean, sushi, pub-grub, Sicilian-Soulfood and Subway sandwiches. I can imbibe ale, stout, hard cider, sake, gin, Bailey's and a glass of decent Sauvignon Blanc. In abundance are lattes, cappucinos, Americanos, drip(s!).

A block further and I'm in a Carnegie library. A mile to the east and I'm home.

It's gritty, sometimes noisy, busy, embellished with parking-strip vegetable gardens and the occasional broken-down car.

Yet in the brief conversation yesterday with two strangers I was reminded of just how lucky I am to have landed -- albeit by a kind of default -- back into a place I can genuinely call Home.

Welcome.

Nelson the Rug

After a rousing dinner tonight on the back porch in the dark with both my boys (gumbo, cornbread, greens, etc.), Nelson went down to change his laundry, and came back up clutching some fancy pillow of his that had sprung a leak while in the dryer, spilling white specks the size of pinheads everywhere.

He was covered with them: his (white) t-shirt, his shorts, his shoes, caught in his arm-fur and leg-fur. I told him not to inhale -- he'd have that stuff in his lungs for the rest of his life. What to do?

Aha! Vacuum!

I vacuumed my son: his shirt, his shorts, his arms, hands, legs, shoes. It was ten o'clock at night and there we were out on the porch, vacuum in full roar, me in full laugh-roar, Nelson rolling his eyes, saying, "Mom, that feels really weird."

And he was right. It did feel weird: I was vacuuming my 23-year-old son's appendages. Can't say I've ever done that before. Hope I never have to do it again.

(I sewed up the hole in the pillow.)

Tuesday Poem: Jeff Crandall

After the Papers Are Filed

The laundry's tumbling comes to a stop.
Now sheets are white like so many smiles.
Slowly, slowly the hands of the clock

have wring each shirt, each mismatched sock.
We've finally sorted our dirt into piles.
The laundry's tumbling comes to a stop,

demanding folding, order. And, too, the mop
in the corner needs to be held, enduring these trials
slowly, slowly. The hands of the clock

cover its grinning face. How easy to mock
failure. How easy to reach for the scotch while
the laundry's tumbling. Come to a stop

now and you'll never start again. I drop
softeners in the machine: Cold. Low. Pull the dial.
Slowly, slowly, the hands of the clock

point to me. It's no worse than learning to walk
after a bypass. So join a gym, get a spaniel --
The laundry's tumbling comes to a stop.
Slowly. Slowly. The hands of the clock.

---

Jeff Crandall is a poet and glass artist living in Seattle. I'm a big fan of his Poet's Bottles --


Jeff's other sculptural work can be seen here.

For more Tuesday poems, please click here.

Heavenly Bodies

Summer, so newly arrived, so late we thought we'd not see it until 2012, lingers gloriously. Few are the nights in Seattle when you can sit at the lake's edge after dark and not shiver.

Last night was such a night, and we sat with our feet in sand, the moon one day shy of full. A dull roar from traffic on the Evergreen Point Bridge. Curious -- and we talked about this -- that in daylight the roar is so less evident. Is it because in the dark there are so many fewer stimuli to occupy the brain that the auditory intensifies, grows more immediate?

Swimmers in the dark periodically popped their heads up, otter-like, each trailed by a triangular wake. On a pier just at the edge of sight we watched a shadowy group begin, one at a time, to dive into darkness. They moved across the water like a flottilla of cormorants, black beads strung across moonlit water. One by one they hauled themselves up to shore, an evolution of young men emerging from the lake. In the dark there is only contrast in the absence of color, and each sleek body was lunar-pale, with that tell-tale patch of loin-fur: nary a stitch of clothing. Their boy-bits dangled in silhouette, backlit by the moon.

I giggled at the show in spite of a sense of awe at the primal beauty of it all.

The naked boys retrieved towels
and skirted their mid-sections.
Show over.

Encore! Encore!

The New Status

Apparently the Final Pleadings have been filed and I am once again
a free woman, although I've not seen the Final Paperwork
with all of the Final Signatures.
Final Final Final.

Divorce is ugly.
It gives birth to anger and all sorts of unwished-for sentiments.

I hope you are never faced with it.

It has dragged a tonnage of sadness into my world, which lingers,
having set up house deep in the heart.
In my heart.

And now here's a space for silence:









































And that about wraps it up.

On the Water

Part of me desires nothing
but the thrill of slicing -- human-powered --
through the wakes of million-dollar boats.
No fuel but muscle on my humble craft.

And then the rest of me is content to linger
close to shore, skimming over water lilies
with sapphire damselflies in midday heat.

Late summer, and a single melody
repeats itself with every lazy stroke:

Tuesday Poem: When Spiders Come in From the Cold, by Kathleen England

It's not that I hadn't seen you: darting
under Orion, spiraling up book spines;

dodging vacuum and duster; scrambling
across ivories, like a kitten; climbing

on the mantel for a peek into the mirror
to check the condition of your spinneret;

then reel down to explore the fireplace
and play hide-and-seek in the kindling.

I must say, I was amazed one morning
to discover that you had set up house-

keeping, weaving an elaborate network
around-and-around in-and-out, putting

all you had on sentinel rabbit ears
atop our television set. Charlotte

was never half as clever, nor as lovely
as you, your emerald and ebony striations

gleaming in light filtering through
an eastern picture window -- eight

twiggy legs, almost as long as Daddy's.
With your green and black striped Pippi

tights you could be the pride of spider
follies. Tres chic, critics would cry.

Alas, a homestead was too soon abandoned!
Not because we tangled. In fact, I became

accustomed to your tacky ways. Perhaps you
didn't like the reception, weird vibrations

from channel eleven. Was it the news
or Spider Man cartoons that upset you?

No doubt you didn't realize that talk shows
and sit-coms can draw flies. No sad fare-

wells though you have found new digs
and I'll miss you on the air. I've noticed

a webby settlement with quilty eggs sacks on
the back of my piano. Soon spiderlings will

hatch without rude noises to abuse their
tiny ears. (Or is it tympanic membranes?

I'm a poet, not an arachnologist, so please do
excuse me, dear.) Lines threaded through, stuck

to spruce sounding board spines -- no bad vibes
here. These strings have not been struck in years.

~

(Spiders "hear" with slit-organs and trichobothria; both are on the legs.)

~

Kathleen Juday England was born in Oroville, Washington, June, 3, 1923 in an unfinished, non-plumbed, non-electrified shelter being built from a hay shed standing on five acres of alfalfa field purchased by her father who had just moved his family from Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, to bring religion to the Okanogan Valley.

Educated at Eastern Washington College of Education and the University of Washington in the 1940's, Kathleen held Bachelor's degrees in English and Education/Journalism, as well as a Master of Arts degree in Creative Writing.

Although, sadly, no collections of her work exist in book-length form, her publishing history in magazines and newspapers spans decades.

Kathleen and her late husband Rollo England raised their three children in Seattle, and I've had the pleasure of knowing the England family for going on thirty years. Now, at the age of 88, she suffers from advanced Parkinson's disease.

I've long admired Kathleen's precise language coupled with her never-ceasing sense of play. And listening to her read her work was always to step back into the history of Eastern Washington State, each piece rendered with authenticity and a clear passion for the written word.

Her daughter -- my long-time friend Karen -- came to dinner last Friday, and brought along two of her mother's poems. We sat on my deck, sated with blackberry cobbler and blackberry ice cream, a bottle of Vinho Verde emptied. I read each piece aloud in the late summer night. My only complaint is that two poems weren't enough! Nonetheless, the evening was a gift, and I count myself lucky to have friends that come to dinner bearing poems.

Night Houses

Grill Heaven

Halved peaches, nectarines, plums & whole figs on skewers over a charcoal fire.
A drizzle of olive oil, a splash of balsamic vinegar.
Brown sugar at the end.
Tossed with gorgonzola.

How could I have thought there would be leftovers?

More Tunes

A pleasure I've returned to in this recently-adjusted life is that of hearing live music on my street, especially during summer when people play in their yards, or with every door and window flung open. Many a morning I've awoken to my lovely friend/neighbor -- the venerated banjo player Candy Goldman --

-- on her porch plucking at strings. I've had the treat numerous times of drifting off to sleep with my bedroom window open, a party at Candy's still in full-fiddle. Sometimes a trio or quartet of musicians will spill onto the driveway or parking strip, and it's a veritable symphony of old-time music, free for the listening. It's heaven.

So imagine my surprise when Candy called me this week to say that she'd heard what sounded like Italian music coming from my house. My house?! I tried to recall what I've been listening to, and scratched my head. I had no idea what she was talking about.

"T.," she said, "it was you playing the concertina. Felt like a I was in a Fellini movie."

Me???

Um, well. I do recall practicing my key of C, and then some messing around with improvised tunes. But Candy was listening to me play music?!! This was quite the turn-around.

I was stunned. I thought, I can do this?!

Needless to say, she made my day. My week, actually.
And yesterday, my Handbook for English Concerina arrived in the mail.

Looks like I have some practice ahead.

My Rip Van Winkle Day

What Was Missed:

The wedding procession, up from the glen (the dry riverbed, in August, wavering with new grasses).

Red lanterns strung from Douglas firs and cedars.

An apparently windy speech from the Father of the groom.
(Snickering from his divorced wife.)

A taco truck.

Hours of dancing and spirits flowing as fast as the river in spring runoff.

Costumes (sequins, glitter).

Clouds of mosquitoes.

A male guest, in search of swimming trunks, passed out in the back seat of a rented car. His distraught girlfriend.

Tent sleeping.

Uncontrolled controlled substances.

Uncensored, unfettered Bacchanalia.


What Was Seen, Smelled, Tasted, Felt:

Paper-cut banners slipping from their pinnings, limb from limb.

An unlit pile of red lanterns in the dirt.

Unstrung strings of lights.

Empty bottles.

A box of masks and hats, some with purple feathers, spilling.

Very-slowly-moving people, hungover people, danced-out people, I-slept-all-night on-a-deflated-air-mattress people.

A teensy silver Streamliner trailer: nest for the bride and groom.

Tents clustered, flaps flapping.

Citronella on the breeze.

A ziploc bag of peanut butter cookies on a picnic table.

A towel airing on a huckleberry bush.

Ninety-four degrees.


Nine hours later and ninety miles to the west, more to be missed:

The band played and was gone before we arrived.

And in the late summer dark on the saltwater beach: large groups of revelers hunkered around campfires, each temporary territory bounded by tiki lights, some green, some yellow. Ribald & boisterous merry-making in the cool breeze beside the Salish Sea in a public park.

Where had I been for so many years to not know this was going on each summer in my city? Everywhere, up and down the stretched-out beach, clusters of people knew what they were doing -- it seemed as natural for them to camp out here of an evening as to plunk oneself down in front of the television and settle-in for an electronic three hours.

This was not my party, yet I so wished I could go back thirty years and stake my claim on this sand with a candle on a spike, gather my friends into my own circle of light.

---

And afterwards, the longing for a life not lived, a sense of loss so profound and bittersweet it was as if I'd missed summer, forgotten Christmas, skipped tra-la-ing past birthdays and holidays, mired in the drudge of ordinary living.

Note to self: DO NOT pick blackberries with slip-on sandals. (Is that blood or blackberry juice dripping down my leg?)

Silly me, thinking that I am still sixteen and nimble as a doe, stepping into the thicket to reach the most juicy berries, when an errant thorned branch whips my calf, causing me to lurch backwards and lose both shoes, ending up with thorns on the soles of my feet. OUCH.

(Don't do this.)

---

A steady & sustained tension this week, awaiting the resolution of Big Things.

Tuesday Poem: Kitchen Mischief

Best when used by. Rich
and creamy. Extra virgin.
Those with sweet flavors.
Double-acting. Will perk up.
Only cold water should be used!

Add hot juice. Beat. Bring to a boil.
As desired. Grease lightly.
Until completely dissolved.
Shake well.
May explode if heated.

A pinch or two.
Gives zest to.
Adds pungency.
Fast rising and active!
Questions? Comments?

Do not use delay timer.
Knead. Let double in size.
Even the most delicate.
Most unadulterated.
Raw & real. Honey.

© T. Clear 2011

(I opened one kitchen cupboard and took notes....)

Fig/Mint/Hubris

Gold to pink to blue to pink again and then blue again: the sunset sky from west to east, a set of mountains on either side, a city wedged in-between and a lake just above sea level. This is my home.

I took my customary dusk walk around the block tonight and no one was out, not a soul in sight. So many are gone and more are leaving soon. I could hear the hum of televisions and muffled music from behind wavering curtains. I stole a spectacularly ripe fig from a tree I've known for 24 years and I've not stolen from it before. It hung limp and testicular from the stem, green as an immature lime. Inside was all lush red seeds -- a blush of seeds. It did a disappearing act on my tongue, the perfect follow-up to raspberries and whipping cream. If fig theft is a crime then I stand not only accused but guilty. Cuff me, throw me behind bars. It was worth it.

The kitten is experiencing, at four months of age, her first summer heat. She stretches herself out long and flat on the cool bathroom tiles and stares at me glaze-eyed: patient suffering. O, youth! Suffer! Suffer!

There's been a dearth of play in kitten-land this week; summer, although close to its end, is finally fully present and in fully-fledged feather.

Everywhere outside the air is suffused with late-summer fragrance: wilting rose, dried-up mint, hardy lavender, woolly thyme. I want these days to go on and on.

---

I've been pondering my darker sides, in the absence now of what I've always felt to be a censoring audience, now gone and gone for good. This is the freedom that death grants us: orphaned to our own means, the voice begins to tune its own tenor. There exists still a new song with a yet uncharted melody, a yet unwritten harmony. And while it may not delight in terms of "niceness" (but then, again, who can say?), it will tap into a deeper and more concise truth. This, I venture to say, is the path I've long sought as a writer. And although all may be mere hubris, the song feels imminent.

Two new poems this week -- one dealing with the ravages of grief; the other confronting the abuses of power in the soul laid bare, the self one risks in sexual intimacy. Nice? Nope.

In a poetry workshop years back led by Sam Hamill of Copper Canyon Press, I remember that he said this: the poem that scares you the most is the one that you must write.

These poems scare the shit out of me.

Five Sisters, 13 Suggestions and STILL NO LUNCH.

One of my (many) sisters will be in town the first weekend in September, and four of the other sisters and I have been trying to organize lunch out with as many of the sisters as possible, in the same place and at the same time. This has proven to be a particularly challenging task.

A few days ago, I sent out the following email:

Thought I'd throw an idea out there
for getting together....how about we meet for Chinese food at Sichuanese Cuisine,
at 12th and Jackson in Seattle, 12:30 or so?
Open to other ideas also.

And here are the responses (edited slightly), in the order that they arrived:

Hi Sisters, I would prefer eating somewhere else, but thanks T, for initiating the proposed get-together. Although the prospect of ordering Ant on Tree is quite tempting, I'm still a bit gun shy about going back there. The last (and only) time I dined there, I was not well the next day. Enough said. So my suggestion is that since M. is still recovering from surgery, why not give her a break with the driving and eat somewhere on Bainbridge Island? There are several restaurants within close proximity to the ferry dock in Eagle Harbor, ie, Doc's Marina grill, Harbour Public House, and depending on the ferry schedule for those coming over from Seattle, we could still meet around 12:30 or so. --L.

Okay. That's the extent of my planning. M.? Ideas? --T.

There's also Green Leaf Vietnamese restaurant, on 8th Ave S in the international district and Pyramid Ale House on 1st in SODO. --L.

I love the idea of ethic Chinese in the International District! It's not an issue at all for me to hop onto the Bainbridge/Seattle ferry and meet up with all of you over on the Seattle side. Perhaps Shanghai Garden would be suitable? I'm up for other suggestions, hopefully with good parking available. --M.

Check out this place, at Tofu Hunter's blog: Seven Stars Pepper. --T.

Checked out the tofu hunter blog....looks delicious and I am sure it is to most but I cannot eat soy, msg and most oils. Do they have a good old American salad sans dressing? I find that always works for me when I am out. Meeting halfway sounds great. --A.

Why don't we just meet somewhere around Southcenter? Heck, the food court AT southcenter would be fine with me. Everyone just orders from wherever and we eat in the middle. Or Zoopa's. There's something for everyone at Zoopa's. Bottom line: where we eat is secondary to visiting, but there have to be food choices that work for all of us. --L.

How about a delicious lunch at Spiro's Greek Restaurant in Kent? It is located in the old downtown area, not at the new mall, which is at the north end of town. The food is really yummy and A. could order a green salad with or without a lovely dressing, to her liking, I'm sure. I would much prefer eating here to the food court at Southcenter. I have eaten at Spiro's a number of times and have not been disappointed. --M.

M., you are the one who would need to come from afar so what is it you need to do considering your knee and all? I know you mentioned Kent so you must be doing really well. Maybe we need to pick the area and then the restaurant. We are blessed to live in an area where there are so many choices. I am really looking forward to seeing everyone. All six of us...my that will be an accomplishment. This e-mailing back and forth has been fun. Oh, and there are numerous sit-down restaurants at Southcenter with fabulous menus beyond the food court. BJ's is one. Spiros might be good because once the lunch crowd has left they probably wouldn't care if we stayed for hours. So ladies, any more suggestions? --A.

Hi - Would anyone be interested in coming down to my place that day for a potluck luncheon? Everyone could bring a favorite dish, excluding P. She could set the table. I'd provide the drinks, some bread or rolls plus the dessert, as well as free parking, outside dining and male entertainment. That would be (the husband) doing the daily sudoku. Oh and T, could we maybe use your i-phone to skype K. since she'll be out of town? K., will you be somewhere with reception? Ant takers? --L.

I have been driving for a couple of weeks, mostly just around here....After lunch with the sisters, P. and I are headed over to Yakima, so, meeting on your side of the water makes sense for me. I vote for an early lunch, around 11:30. That would allow us time for a nice visit before P. and I head out. By the way, I will be taking the ferry to Seattle rather than driving around....

I made a reservation for the five of us at Caesar's Palace in Vegas.
For those of us that can stay later, I plan on catching the Rod Stewart show.
K., it's not too late for you to join us.
See you on the plane. ( Southwest.)
Cheers. --T.

Sounds awesome and just as well since our male entertainer has ditched the sister luncheon engagement in lieu of a backhoe and 12 yards of fill for our sinkhole out front, and my previous offer of food, free parking and outside dining rapidly deteriorated in no time flat! Vegas, here we come! --L.

---

(I was joking about Vegas.)
(And I might be busy that day.)

Night Garden, Full Moon

Tunes

My new toy, on loan from my old friend Pam who is relocating to south of the border. I've wanted to learn the concertina for ages and couldn't be more delighted. Unfortunately, it's sat in its black case for the past 6 weeks while things settled down enough chez-moi for me to attend to its confounding keys.

Tonight I sat on Pam's porch -- our hottest day so far this summer, 85 degrees -- and learned the key of C. Oh lovely notes!

Now it's practice practice practice. My goal is to be proficient enough by next summer to sit on my balcony and not irritate the hell out of any neighbors. I have in my possession my dad's O'Neill's Music of Ireland (sheet music) and can't wait to dig into its eighty-year-old pages....

High Summer

Stepped out my back gate this afternoon to thickets of Himalayan blackberry vines, hot and spider-webbed. I think the spiders are nearly ripe. Certainly the berries are, abundant this year for all the rain, high in sugars for all this recent sun.

There are few things more glorious than an August afternoon in Seattle.

My old cat Tip -- sixteen years plus -- followed me to the alley and plunked himself down in the midday sun. He's getting to that straggly-old-man-cat stage, at times more cranky than his usual cheerful self. He's a big guy still, but drinking water excessively which points to deteriorating kidneys. He might have another year in him, might not.

He strayed into my house (full-grown) the night of my 40th birthday party, an uninvited guest, and decided it wasn't a bad place to spend a life. His patience and sense of humor have sustained my boys and me all these years, and we'll miss him when he's gone.

When my boys were young, and in a quandary over how to react to this situation or that, my advice was often, "Be like Tip": chill, think about it, laugh a little, practice good cheer, have a little catnip. (Well, not the catnip part.) Hard to go wrong with those attributes.

The bowl of blackberries on my kitchen counter will go well with my son's homemade, fresh coconut ice cream. It's dinner party time again -- seven of us tonight for Margaritas, carne asada, pico de gallo, etc.

These August days are golden.

Roast Lamb

On a honeymoon in France in 1983, I was responsible -- with my five years of French language schooling -- for asking for a hotel room on our spontaneous jaunt through the countryside. My skills were such that I could say nearly anything (except a joke, which was a challenge ) and understand nothing, while Mark, my new husband with his one year of French language schooling, could say nearly nothing and understand just about everything. There ensued, in every new town, a hilarious three-way conversation where the hotel clerk expected "The Husband" the do all the talking. There was always a double-take when I began the conversation, a quick swivel of the head, and then a second double-take when Mark had to translate for me.

But my favorite tale from that three week lune de miel came one night when Mark, ever-mischievous, picked up a menu at dinner and said,

"Ah....Gidget of Agnew! I think I'll order that."

He knew damn well how to pronounce Gigot d'Agneau (jee-joh dahn-yo) [roast lamb] but never missed a chance to be hilarious.

Gidget of Agnew it was.

From then on, at random moments in our twenty years of marriage, he'd manage to sneak the words Gigot d'Agneau into our private conversations. Of course it had the effect of making me fall off my chair with laughter, and bring an end to any serious point in the conversation.

Bottom line: there were few serious conversations.

Now, all these years later and Mark long scattered -- ashes to ashes, dust to dust -- in Thornton Creek -- there exists the Gidget of Agnew Club.

I'm the president.

Members include one dead husband, one nearly-divorced husband (who expressed only disinterest when I informed him of his membership status), a son, a sister, a college friend (who remains yet to be informed of her membership) and a former employer. The only requirement is that you travel somewhere with only me.

I was reminded last night that my sister and my son (that would be the aunt-nephew relationship) periodically have secret luncheon meetings! In Chinese restaurants! In Seattle! And I've never been invited!

Remind me to put this on the agenda at the next General Board Meeting. (That is, if we ever have a General Board Meeting.)

And while you're at it, pass the lamb.

I'm not making this up....

Tara, an old friend blogging at Out of the Lotus commented,

I have read that the hummingbird is a symbol of resurrection, T. Try that one on for size.

So during lunch today I googled "hummingbird resurrection" on my iPhone, and happened upon this marvelous piece from the NYTimes by Diane Ackerman, who writes,

"...in American Indian myths and legends, hummingbirds are often depicted as resurrection birds, which seem to die and be reborn on another day or in another season."

Well then.

And a little further on,

"While most birds are busy singing a small operetta of who and what and where, hummingbirds are virtually mute. Such small voices don't carry far, so they don't bother much with song."

Why was I so lucky to hear that tiny rattly trill?

Fast forward:

I left work early to get ready for sis-in-law-Shelley's memorial, and while the iron was heating up (so I could press those insistent wrinkles from a linen dress), I charged down to the basement where most of my books still lie packed in boxes, looking for Making Certain It Goes On, The Collected Poems of Richard Hugo, looking for a poem to read in Shelley's memory.

She and I shared a passion for poetry, and when I married her brother Mark, back in the last millennium, she read The Trout, by Hugo, at the ceremony -- an odd choice, which still perplexes me. We gave her full rein to choose something to read, and for some reason never asked why she chose that particular poem. Who knows? I'll never know now. (It doesn't matter now.)

But I veered here somehow, somewhere, from a funeral to a wedding....

Back to business: I had about four minutes to find the book I desired, and was thanking myself for organizing this stuff last week when I went in search of my jewelry (found!). BUT NO RICHARD HUGO. Rats!

Lots of small press stuff, lots of Floating Bridge Press stuff, lots of Copper Canyon Press stuff.....lots of poetry, but not what I was looking for. Running short on time, I grabbed Raymond Carver's A New Path to the Waterfall -- his last book, published posthumously, in 1989. Ran up two flights of stairs, ironed my dress, combed my hair and sat down on the bed, for, what? Ten seconds? And the book opened to this poem (which I ended up reading at the memorial):

Hummingbird
for Tess

Suppose I say summer,
write the word "hummingbird,"
put it in an envelope,
take it down the hill
to the box. When you open
my letter you will recall
those days, and how much,
just how much, I love you.

---

Is there anything else to say here?
Well, yes there is.

In the midst of writing this blog piece, my email dinged, indicating some new mail. From my friend Cz., with a link about -- yes -- hummingbirds, including these words:

In many traditional cultures of the western world the hummingbird has powerful religious and spiritual significance. In the high Andes of South America, for example, the hummingbird is taken to be a symbol of resurrection. This is because each hummer becomes lifeless and seems to die on cold nights, but it comes back to life again when the miraculous sunrise brings warmth.

I'm gobsmacked.
And on the lookout for that sunrise.

Connecting Dots

More evidence of strange things afoot:

I was checking my email, and the subject line on one was "Mortality".

The email directly above it was from the public library, informing me that a book was in that I'd reserved ages ago, one that Shelley (my sister-in-law, whose funeral is tomorrow) had recommended to me.

The title: "Disappearances".

And my Astrodienst horror-scope short-term forecast, from last April:

Valid during many months: This influence signifies encounters that cause various aspects of your life to be transformed. Most commonly, this transformation will take the form of disappearances of persons, circumstances or even possessions that you have become used to.

Mortality.
Disappearances.
Transformation.

And then there's that hummingbird, seemingly always present....

I was sitting outside today eating lunch under the hibiscus, and directly above my head heard an odd trilling song, one I'd not heard before. Without looking, without really knowing, something in me knew -- knew for certain -- that it was a hummingbird.

I sat very still, not wanting to disturb it. In slow motion I unwound myself from my chair so as to look backwards and up, and sure enough, about three feet above me, was a hummingbird perched on a limb, singing its tiny heart out.

My steps seem to be trailed by hummingbirds: they hover and bathe in the spray from the hose, buzz my noontime dining, attend to my outdoor suppers on the deck, in and out of tendrils of kiwi vines, of grapes vines.

They snatch insects mid-flight, gather nectar from crocosmia. I've never seen so many in a single summer. I have not planted anything to particularly attract them, and I'm no more attentive than I've ever been.

But still.

They're present in full-on iridescence, with a song that I couldn't hear until today, in a language I don't yet understand, but singing nonetheless.

I'm listening.

Tuesday Poem: Mortality

We are contagious.
We will sneeze on you,

spit on you, breathe on you.
Shake hands with you, exchange

fluids with you, be where you will be,
touch what you will touch.

We will give you scabies, warts,
chicken pox, measles, hookworms,

hepatitis, meningitis, mononucleosis,
influenza, ebola, gonorrhea.

We come with pathogens, cankers,
seizures, parasites, germs, fungi,

infections, plagues, microbes,
epidemics & pandemics.

You wear latex gloves against us,
mask your faces from us, antibacterialize us,

quarantine us, burn us.
Yet still we weep, we deposit, we exhale.

We push buttons, hold railings, suck
our thumbs, wipe our eyes, pick our teeth.

We lie down upon, we touch,
We are intimate. We love.

You will contract, come down with,
sicken, show symptoms of, begin to itch,

to seep, to bleed. Be afflicted with,
fall victim to, develop, succumb to.

We are the last gasp, the final touch,
the ticking second.

We are you.

© T.Clear 2011

---

More Tuesday poems can be found here.

This makes me happy....

Sand, highly magnified, photographed by Gary Greenberg:

WTF?

In my dealings with the behemoth that services my home loan, it was officially decided by them that I don't actually live in my house, therefore they will not modify my loan.

I don't even know how to respond to this.

My forehead is bloodied from banging up against the foundations of the powers-that-be, and now for them to proclaim something so entirely absurd is beyond all logic.

Certainly other, more interesting truths can be brought to light which may further convince them to deny my request for modification, such as:
1. a red door
2. the presence of a poet on the premises
3. horse statue collection in basement
4. absence of Kraft cheese products
5. buttercups
6. too many books
7. etc.

But to state outright that I don't live here?!

If there is an explanation to this fuckery, I'd like to hear it.

If not, then the revolution starts here.

Some Lines From Raymond Carver

"And did you get what
you wanted from this life, even so?
I did.
And what did you want?
To call myself beloved, to feel myself
beloved on the earth. "

"Dreams, you know, are what you wake up from."

"I've crossed some kind of invisible line. I feel as if I've come to a place I never thought I'd have to come to. And I don't know how I got here. It's a strange place. It's a place where a little harmless dreaming and then some sleepy, early-morning talk has led me into considerations of death and annihilation."

"Honey, no offense, but sometimes I think I could shoot you and watch you kick."

"there isn't enough of anything
as long as we live. But at intervals
a sweetness appears and, given a chance
prevails. "

"But I can hardly sit still. I keep fidgeting, crossing one leg and then the other. I feel like I could throw off sparks, or break a window--maybe rearrange all the furniture."

"Booze takes a lot of time and effort if you're going to do a good job with it."

---

(I always come to RC when the depths are unfathomly deep. He gives a shape to, gives definition to that which is unshapeable, undefinable.)

From a letter to a friend:

Most days, now, I feel pretty good. I’m happy being back in my old neighborhood where so many of my friends still live. This urban ‘hood is humming with life, and I am sustained by the pulse of the universe it contains, and the genuine human friendliness of everyone I meet – both friend and stranger. What a gift that is.

But then, out of nowhere, that immense grief comes and knocks me down, and I have to sit with it for a while, let it do its time. I hate it.

---

Clenched, anxious, waiting on courts and banks and funeral homes.

---

On another note, I had to reroute my pumpkin vines around the fire pit. They seemed inclined to grow directly into-and-over it. Bad pumpkins! Urban gardening, by the square-inch.

And hundreds of tomato blossoms, a dozen or so actual fruits. Sun, wherefore art thou?

A Chorus of Angels

For Marie from Achill Island, who wondered what to say at her friend's funeral, and, like me, had a moment of sudden music while driving, inspiring her to begin the process of contemplation --


For Marjorie in Oregon, who told her husband to "read T.'s blog", who responded "Puccini speaks to many of us. You should ask if she has heard Mirella Freni do the honors":


For Rosanne in Seattle, who said "I had a similar experience of music appearing out of nowhere at a monastery in France. Gregorian Chants out of thin air. I looked all over for the source and found none...." (Perhaps this odd little video answers her query):


And finally, for Cz., also in Seattle, my soul-sister, who wrote, "my wall post, but with you in mind, too. We have indeed been rearranged, it seems" --

Day

Life unfolds and unfolds, an intricately designed envelope viewed ad infinitum in a mirror....

This morning I got up at the crack of seven, drove onto an early ferry to Port Townsend to meet up with some friends for coffee, then continued on to my poetry group, which meets once a year in PT. Typical August cloudcover, hoping for a burn-off before afternoon.

I'd just arrived at the nestled-in-the-woods home of K. and G, was admiring their art collection, when my phone rang. A call from my son. His aunt, my sister-in-law, had suddenly passed away. (My late husband's sister. The daughter of my mother-in-law whose memorial we attended just ten days ago.)

She's suffered compromised health for a number of years, but had been doing well these past six months -- in fact, she took responsibility for much of the care-taking of her dying mother, and just this past week, attended to her father, who suffered a stroke on Monday. Details are sketchy, owing to the stroke-impaired speech of her dad, but it was sudden, and I'm guessing it was heart-related. A broken heart, in more ways than one.

So I got back into my car and drove the two hours back to town, picked up my son, and headed out to the house.

But something extraordinary happened as I left Port Townsend:

As I was passing through a favorite valley (site of the Betty MacDonald The Egg and I books), my earphones from my iPhone were on, and I'd just finished a conversation perhaps five minutes prior. There was silence in the car, no radio, no CD -- just the hum of the engine and my own very noisy racing brain.

Suddenly my head filled with a Puccini aria -- this one --


I nearly drove off the road.
I hadn't switched on my iPod, hadn't put in a CD, hadn't turned on the radio. All was silent until -- PUCCINI!! --

Maybe it was a random glitch in the world of technological wonders -- I don't know. What I do know is that the first time I heard that aria was when my mother-in-law, fifteen years ago, gave me an aria CD, and I fell in love with Un Bel Di, Vedremo.


One fine day, we will see....

The music was coming from my iPhone, on its own.

I don't know -- maybe I accidentally pushed the iPod icon, looked up Madame Butterfly, pushed "play" -- but I don't think that I did. My hands were on the wheel, my car was humming forward in my quest to get back to Seattle.

I did do one thing, though: I turned the volume completely up.

And in those few minutes, as I listened to this exquisite piece of music, I felt alternately saddened beyond despair and euphoric with joy.

Angels, afterlife, benevolent spirits, pixies, sprites -- any name will do. The message was clear: you are alive, this is one fine day, so take in this moment, savor it, breathe it in, and it will be okay.

When it finished, I pulled the earbuds out, drove for a long time in silence.

The sun had burned through the remnants of clouds, the Douglas firs on each hillside to left and right were brilliantly green, the meadows rich with summer grass.

The universe had sent me a message, had burned through the ruins & rubble in my head, told me to stand up and take notice -- and I listened.

---

It's late now, approaching midnight, and there are rumors of solar flares, of visible Northern Lights in the night sky. There are two lanterns lit on my porch, and the noise from parties down the alley has waned, the traffic eased.

It's been a helluva hard day, hard month, hard year. And shit happens, to every one of us, no matter what, no matter who. My favorite adage: None of us will get out of here alive.

Yet as I turn my eyes towards this cloudless, starry sky, I know, I know -- in every cell -- that no matter what it is that life throws at us, there remains the possibility for love, for magic, for, indeed, one fine day.

And yes, we will see.


Shelley Anderson
March 31, 1958-August 6, 2011

(And please, tell someone you love that you love them.
And be kind to someone you don't love.
And do it again.)

The Life That Is Waiting For Me

I've been remiss, and here is my apology.

Back in early May -- in a limbo between lives, living in a friend's vacant apartment -- I was invited to a wine-pairing dinner hosted by the fabulous Catherine Reynolds of Queso y Vino.

(Read the story of her heroic recovery from a brain aneurism here). I met Catherine when she was the wine buyer at Spanish Table in Seattle, and in conversation discovered our common interest in poetry and wine, and the friendship blossomed.

But back to the story: while updating my new circumstances in an email, Catherine invited me to her latest event, as her guest, if I would blog about it. At that time I was literally still shaking from the dumping out of my life into the middle of the freeway, gasping and bewildered, barely able to carry on a coherent conversation about anything. Without giving it much thought, I accepted.

Not such a good idea -- I'd just discovered that the tabs on the car I was using -- owned by my estranged husband -- were five years expired. (Yes -- five years. I'd only been using it a few months, when I lent my car to my son after his engine went out, and this car was sitting unused in my husband's driveway.) So I had to borrow a car, and venture far from my current comfort zone (which encompassed about one square mile -- I panicked when I went any further), and eat dinner with a group of strangers.

Yowza.

And to make things even more complicated, the restaurant was/is located in Renton, my hometown, which I prefer to avoid. A known entity, but much disliked.

Situated in a new development on the former site of the Shuffleton Steam Plant and beside the former industrial complex of my youth (Boeing, which has long since relocated) the recently-opened Peyrassol is a lovely, European-inspired cafe just steps from Lake Washington and the expansive Gene Coulon Park.

Catherine regularly hosts wine-pairing dinners at Seattle-area restaurants, and for a fixed price, one can enjoy a multi-course dinner with generous pours of at least five different wines, plus, all the wines are available for purchase by the bottle. I've enjoyed previous dinners at Gaudi, Art of the Table, and a Mexican-themed dinner held at a winery in Woodinville.

This particular dinner was Italian-themed:
Bigne Salata -- savory Italian gougere
Involtini di Coppa -- locally cured coppa rolled with shaved mushrooms, arugula & parmigiana, drizzled with extra virgin olive oil
Sformato de Erbe con Fonduta al Tartufo -- flan of wild greens served with white truffle fonduta

Pappardelle con Ragu di Fagiano -- hand cut ribbon pasta tossed with a pheasant ragu of porcini, white wine, tomato & sage

Bistec al Pepe Verde -- pan seared steak with green peppercorn salsa
Semifreddo de Arancia con Crema de Miele -- orange semifreddo served with a honey creme Anglaise, layered with amaretti, orange curd and whipped cream

And then the wines:

Castelle Carboncine Prosecco
2009 Falchini Vernaccia di San Gimignano "Vigna a Salatio"
2009 Castello Carboncine Cabernet Franc
2008 Casa Emma Chianti Classico
La Fiera Moscato d'Asti

Be still my heart! Delighted tongue!

This is clearly not the Renton of my youth, where dinner out was either pizza at Vinces or almond-fried chicken at the single Chinese restaurant (whose name escapes me) or a badly fried steak at the dive Rubatino's. My childhood was a Renton of horse pastures and post WWII project housing, just this side of White Trash.

All I could think of, on my way home, was "Damn. Renton is all growed-up."

I managed to make it through a three-hour conversation with strangers -- not my forte even in the best of circumstances. But the menu, the wine list, and my guilt at not immediately blogging about this have stared me in the face for three months, until today.

Catherine provided the wine for my mother-in-law's memorial last week, and last night I drove to her house to pay her. Her home office is lined with shelves of poetry, and amid the expected bustle of a home-based business (much like the bustle of the home-based business that employs me) and the glorious scent of curry, there was on her wall the same E.M.Forster quote that has become my mantra these past four months:

"We must be willing to give up the life we have planned, so as to have the life that is waiting for us."

(If you look up to the right hand corner of my blog, it appears directly above my picture.)

A delighted chill ran up my back -- I keep seeing this -- on facebook, in my reading online and in books and magazines. It seems to be everywhere, and pointing at me.

Catherine sent me home with a sackful of leftovers from a weekend party that she and her fabulous-cook husband hosted: curried crab legs, banana curry, and a watermelon/golden-raisin salad. My son and I feasted last night on Catherine's generosity -- and enjoyed refreshing sips of Tour de Poce Sauvignon Blanc, a perfect summer wine -- available from Catherine. And yes, she delivers. (Free with $150 order, in the Seattle area.) Thank-you, Catherine! And apologies for the delay in blogging about the Peyrassol dinner!



If this is the life that is waiting for me, then I feel as if I have just found the door.

And it's wide open.

"But no, I was out for stars...."

Coming back to life, albeit extremely slowly, after the equivalent of four fifty-hour work weeks in July, most of it the last week. Besides work, there was the catering for my mother-in-law's memorial to coordinate, cookie platters to bake, decorate & assemble; a eulogy to present at the memorial, a paperwork nightmare with Bank of A. in an effort to make my house payments sane, a divorce to endure, one five-hour visit to the ER (to the tune of $20k), a booth at a weekend arts & crafts fair to staff, and my neighbor's garden to water while she's off tending her late father's estate.

That last bit, the watering, has actually been more a respite than a chore, but tricky to fit in considering the unpredictability of the sun here plus my schedule. But there have been raspberries tucked away between flowers, and the occasional tiny strawberry. Her garden is a joy, abundant with perennials, and there are generally at least two cats present for company.

At this hour, just past sunset, I sit on my balcony, in view of Lake Washington and the Cascade foothills and, if I stand on tiptoe, the Olympic Mountains as well.

A tent hangs airing from a neighbor's cherry tree.

A kayak sits upended two doors down, on saw-horses.

Through someone's open window, I can hear a small group singing "Happy Birthday".

There's an unfinished fence project across the alley and, somewhere close, someone is grilling beef.

Out front, a couple of dads throw balls to children, the air alive with their laughter. The new rabbi's house is quiet.

My back gate swings wide, worn past latching, open to all the world.

Come in.


(Somewhere in a box is the sheet music for this that my sister L. "borrowed" from girls glee in tenth grade. It's a Robert Frost poem set to music -- we'd sing it and play the piano -- always on a summer evening much like tonight)....

Come In

As I came to the edge of the woods,
Thrush music -- hark!
Now if it was dusk outside,
Inside it was dark.

Too dark in the woods for a bird
By sleight of wing
To better its perch for the night,
Though it still could sing.

The last of the light of the sun
That had died in the west
Still lived for one song more
In a thrush's breast.

Far in the pillared dark
Thrush music went --
Almost like a call to come in
To the dark and lament.

But no, I was out for stars;
I would not come in.
I meant not even if asked;
And I hadn't been.

--Bob Frost