Saturday

 ~~Today the moss-strung woods of the park were trilling with birdsong, and everywhere ferns were unfurling into the warming afternoon. On a secluded interior trail I found it absolutely necessary to stop and linger every few steps, to take note of lichen on tree trunks, or the heart-breaking translucent green of May leaves, the utter fragility of new growth.

No rush, there. Nothing but the present.

I spotted a blue heron in flight, a pair of flickers pecking at insects in bark, and an eagle circling its massive nest woven high in a Douglas fir. I found a branch curved into a perfect "C", the complicated and upended root system of a toppled fir, as well as an altar in a hollow at the base of yet another evergreen.

Some of the trees are 200-250 years old, scarcely babies when one considers that before white settlers arrived and began their systematic deforestation, there were entire forests of conifers in what is now Seattle, ranging in age from 1,000-2,000 years. A character in Annie Dillard's novel The Living, set in early Bellingham, Washington, lives in a "cabin" fashioned from a stump (very Wind in the Willows). I often ponder the fact that I exist on land that was once old-growth forest.

Walking these trails with my friend T., our conversation — which began 20+ years ago and has included in its ongoing narrative possibly every subject worth speaking of — turned to the notion of "going home" and all contained therein. He's just back from a sojourn to his midwest hometown, so it was fresh material from which to draw. He's come to the conclusion that he needn't go back again — of course, only time will tell. But at what point, if any, does someone decide this? I almost don't qualify to even state my views on this, as my hometown, ten miles to the southeast of my current home, is visible from my bedroom window. I believe, though, that it's calming to arrive at a place where one can comfortably say, "That was a life unto itself, and complete. I don't need to revisit it."

I no longer yearn for the woods I roamed as a child, nor for the maples in whose windy branches I swayed. Both my parents are buried in my hometown (just footsteps from Jimi Hendrix), and any sting of loss has long since faded. And while the details of that life in the late 20th century are rich and nuanced, I'm able to recall their all of their complexities — both in shadow and in light — while continuing to move with a surprising ease in these early years of the 21st century.

As a passenger in the car riding back from the park (the long way home, looping up into the switchback roads of Frink Park [many thanks to the Olmstead brothers]),  I kept my face turned to the passing scenery (while the conversation, of course, missed not a single beat) because there was so much to see, so many scents to breathe in, all of the wide, bursting world presenting itself with all the new life that this change of season allows.

And I thought: it's grand to be alive, in this city, with my friend T., at this single perfect moment~~

I was in-and-out, in-and-out and up-and-down stairs in the rain today at work, head-down, getting the job done, with no regard for anything but project completion. When I got home I glanced in the mirror and — GOOD GOD — who was that frizzled crazy woman peering back at me?!

It's been a day without any frantic text messages. I'm mighty grateful. The only frantic today was our attempt to get orders shipped to arrive pre-Mother's Day, and we were moderately successful.

Off to dinner.
Yay.
No kitchen duty pour moi.

She was beautiful.
I brought her blackberries every morning
but never knew her name.

May Day: toot toot

Tonight I brought my sister, who is ensconced in the hospital, a green glass vase filled with Spanish blue bells. She said, "I don't know if I can keep them when they move me to the oncology ward later tonight."

She's very weak, can't walk. Is on a heart monitor and enough big-guns pain meds to sedate a much larger mammal. Decided not to shave her head just yet — I put away the barber's clippers I'd carried in under my arm.

We talked about heads: heads shaved, heads with odd tufted hair, heads in prim crocheted caps and heads wigged in pink spikes. She's going to opt for the odd and funky: Yay sister! I'm taking on the task of searching out compelling head "treatments".  Nothing conservative or reserved for this one!

Chemo begins tomorrow, incidentally our father's birthday, he who left the land of the upright 46 years ago, half the age he'd be tomorrow.

Each day is another wave of the unexpected, another surge of new information. It baffles, it confounds. I go to bed each night cursing my inability to fix everything.

A fragment of the hilarious: the "stolen" dirt was taken by my younger son. I suspected him, but my older son, who was home all day, said that N. hadn't been by. I guess he did a drive-by. Grabbed the dirt and ran! Ha. He's already planted carrots, and has plans for a white peach tree in a big barrel.

And amidst some incredibly frustrating painting (at work) on a cylindrical piece of glass, I ended up with some perfectly stunning — if I may toot my own horn here — leaves and berries. I've mentioned before that painting has never been my forte, and I'm stunned with the completely unexpected joy that arises when I manage to do it right — and beautiful to boot. So: toot.

Sometime today someone pulled up outside my house and helped themselves to my pile of $$ planting mix, which has been waiting for me to assemble the remaining boxes. So....I enlisted my son to help me tonight after work — in a fierce spring wind — and we got the job finished. Carrots and beets seeds are planted. My chard hasn't done much of anything, alas. But at least it's still alive. We've had odd spring weather: one day sunny and balmy, the next with winter's lingering hiss.

My attempts to rouse the muse have fallen short. Always feels like a stifled silence when she's gone, fists stuffed down my throat. Ack.  

O absent muse.

Again, or Not

A subject keeps coming to mind of the inability to completely comprehend the fact that I was married to someone and now, most likely, will never see this person again. Not that I want to see him again — the man did me wrong — but it's such an unsettling notion that I once shared intimacies with a man who, for all intents and purposes, has voluntarily vanished from my life.

I'm guessing that the passage of time enables one to become accustomed to any change in routine. The new life unfolds with its own new habits and reoccurences, whatever they may be, for good or not. I'm lucky in that I won't run into my ex-husband on the street: he now lives 3,000 miles away. But just as we possess a curiosity to see, say, high-school friends at a years-later reunion (or not, as is my case), will I desire an end-of-marriage reunion in 2031? What an odd thought that is.

The picture I keeps in my mind of long-ago friends is my last, ultimately embellished, memory of them. Last summer I rendez-vous-ed with a high school friend I'd not seen for 23 years — and I didn't recognize her when she walked into the restaurant. In high school, she was plain, pale and awkward, dressed like a boy with a head of short kinky hair. The woman I met for lunch had long styled straight hair swooped to one side, and was chic and confident. And who was I, I wonder, to her?

The ex-husband I won't see in 2031 will be an old man. And I guess that would make me, equally, an old woman. Who will I be in twenty years? Who do I want to be?

Cut loose from domineering men, that decision is now completely my own.

Can I say that it brings me a profound measure of joy?

Yes, I can.

And it does.

The Job

The artisan glass business continues at a frantic pace. We're down two people, behind on orders and every day we are writing re-orders. Such problems! Today I unpacked 22 cases of blanks, broke down the large boxes, bundled them together for recycling, bagged-up the bubble wrap. When UPS delivered, I asked the delivery man to stack the cases on the front porch. When I finally got around to unpacking them, I discovered that he'd stacked them flush up against the front door, so the only way out (that way, at least) was to unpack the very heavy boxes = a sizable caloric burn. I guess I lucked out.

It's an ever-evolving adventure — though we work with glass and paint, which would seem to be fairly contant without a tremendous quantity of variables — the variables each day are numerous. Paint reacts to temperatures, glass is cranky when it's been stored out in the cold, the masking we use requires that we handle it with kid gloves. All is temperamental: every client has particular notions, wants this color and that shape in this pattern. And what color is Champagne, really? All that matters is we guess right.

I think what is not well-understood (even though we communicate this often and well) is that every single piece is painted, by hand, one at a time. By real live people. On this planet. By Melinda and me.

The pace and the on-going variety of tasks holds great appeal for me, though. And at the end of the day today, I walked down to Columbia Library before heading back home through blossom-scented streets, a lunch-sack filled to overflowing with CD's and novels.

(I would request these colors.)

A Remedy

As medical bills once again begin their upward spiral chez-moi, as a privately-insured citizen I suggest that Costco — known for volume discounts — get into the healthcare business.

Imagine this: while shopping for your gallon-jar of salsa and 24-pack of toilet paper, you could also pick up a six-pack of knee replacements — instructional DVD included! You could share the extras with friends and family, or save them for yourself. Fast and convenient, without the hassle of a hospital stay!

Need some talk-therapy? Not a problem: Costsco can offer a 12-session (what most insurance plans in this country cover) DVD that you can use IN THE PRIVACY OF YOUR OWN HOME. When you feel the need to speak, just press "pause", and you can talk for as long as your heart desires. And the best part: you can use it over and over again.

How about this, available only in February: buy one human heart, get one human heart free. For an additional fee, installation could be arranged.

And for issues dealing with infertility, a septic pack of fertilized human eggs could be marketed in the refrigerated case beside the 48-packs of fresh chicken eggs. Easy! Long shelf life! No need to check expiration dates!

It's sick — I know — but then, so is our healthcare industry. 

All weekend I dug in the garden and sawed and clipped and transplanted and pulled weeds and cursed morning glory, called it by its more appropriate name bindweed. The Chehalis apple tree is blooming and it's a considerable bit of heaven, just outside my kitchen door. Out the front door the clematis blooms pale pink and I think that maybe some bushtits or wrens are building a nest in the tangle just under the eaves — time will tell. Cats attend to my tending, Kitty Boy from across the street or Oliver from who knows exactly where these days, he might be calling my house his home. Flip and Lucy, mine, patrol the deck and pretend to be fierce but we all know that they're not. I can hear neighbor children pounding drums and laughing. Someone has grilled meat three nights in a row — I want a bite.

This benediction with the earth keeps me steady in a week where foundations have been cracked and sundered. My sister L. has lymphoma, and is still in the discovery stage, on heavy-dose pain-killers that render her a bit loopy. I visited her Friday night, and left feeling helpless, mortal.

(My own health is well. Thankfully.)

There have been lots of phone calls and text messages, one from my younger sister K., who wrote, I always thought that you, L., and I would live together when we're old. I texted back we will.

Damn it.

I hate this.

---

I planted sunflowers in little starter pots, and gave the wintered-over geraniums new soil and a tincture for health and vitality. I moved mint, ripped ivy, trimmed violas.

The nursery man at Holly Park Greenhouse said that he might have heliotrope this year (I count on him for this) and maybe cosmos — sales have declined, and only the oldsters (I'm assuming he included me in this category) ask for them. We'll see. I've been shopping there for 25 years — it's time I asked him his name.

Everything grows — tumors and parsley and collards and, if I'm lucky, heliotrope.

---

On another note, my son left for work today when I was working in the garden, and he locked me out. Oy. ("Oy" is my current favorite new word.) A back window was unlocked (bad in general, good for me) and I climbed through it onto a winter's accumulation of plastic sacks and assorted cast-off debris. Landed, balanced, got on with the business of being alive.

I do not live here.
    I buy seeds here.

   There is little that isn't run-down,
   but still it's beautiful.

Good afternoon, Napoleon.

Once I walked into a little shop in Orvieto and announced "grazie" to two very confused sales clerks. No context — just this goofy American feeling overly confident with her newly-acquired four-or-five word Italian vocabulary, and stuttering out a completely incorrect greeting.

Thank-you!
Thank-you!
Thank-you!

Oy.

Cursed with blushing, I turned around, exited.
Once outside, I nearly fell down laughing.

And then there was that bakery in Paris, when I was twenty, that I visited daily for my croissants and baguette. Desiring something sweet, I asked for a Napoleon. The crowded boulangerie suddenly became very quiet, and the girl behind the counter delivered an arch glare.

What? Did I say something wrong?

She looked me in the eye and said, "Il est mort."
Whereupon loud bursts of laughter erupted from everyone in line.

"Mille feuille," she said, "a thou-sand-leaves."

Oops.
I'd just ordered a dead emperor.

Tuesday Poem: My Papa's Waltz

My Papa's Waltz

The whiskey on your breath
Could make a small boy dizzy;
But I hung on like death:
Such waltzing was not easy.

We romped until the pans
Slid from the kitchen shelf;
My mother's countenance
Could not unfrown itself.

The hand that held my wrist
Was battered on one knuckle;
At every step you missed
My right ear scraped a buckle.

You beat time on my head
With a palm caked hard by dirt,
Then waltzed me off to bed
Still clinging to your shirt.

—Theodore Roethke



For the past week, I've been struggling (and not blogging) with writing about a subject fraught with terror and sorrow, a subject that has pushed itself — once again — into the center of my daily life: the plague of our times — cancer.

A week ago my co-worker C. underwent major surgery for removal of her stomach and spleen, with evidence discovered of a more extensive diagnosis than what was originally anticipated. At work, we've had the delightful company of her dog, who runs in first thing and jumps to my lap. Melinda takes her on jaunts around the neighborhood, and the resident feline has decided to be the dog's new best friend. This was our upside to the darker side of what C. has had to endure, and is now recovering from, one day — one hour — at a time.

Who among us has any real inkling of the future? We can plan, guess, schedule, anticipate, etch in stone, and in the end life will hand us its own version of What Will Be. In the end, the only thing etched in stone will be your name, and mine.

Late last week I received news that my sister L. was diagnosed with stage 4 cancer. She is still in the discovery phase, but the grim evidence shows large masses in three locations, one of which has caused a fractured spine. I spent Saturday in Urgent Care with L., her husband, and their youngest child, who is a sophomore in college. It was all very surreal, and then also frighteningly real, with the awareness that this is it folks, it's all we get.

My sister asked me to pick up her son from college and drive him to the hospital, which I was more than glad to do. Now, I come from a very large family, and there are many nieces and nephews with whom I've not spent more than a few minutes visiting at a hectic family gathering. Such was the case on Saturday with K. Although the larger part of my thoughts were focused on L., I did wonder what I'd talk about with K., and whether there would be awkward aunt-nephew silences.

During the 30 minute drive, the conversation veered to an English class K. is taking. I asked him what he's reading, and he said so far it's been mostly poetry. Said he'd read some Roethke — My Papa's Waltz — and was required to analyze it word for word. Had to look up each word and pay attention to not only the etymology, but also every meaning, and the nuances of every meaning, and how a slight shift in nuance could shift the direction and understanding of the writing. I'd entered into this conversation with the knowledge that K. excelled in high school in math and science, and here we were talking about one of my favorite subjects, and talking about the poet on whom I cut my teeth. I was astonished, thrilled.

Soon we'd settled into an easy banter. We talked a little about James Joyce, and Conrad's Heart of Darkness. We got lost trying to find the hospital. And then we sat for long hours in the waiting room, run out of conversation. We each drank a can of vending-machine soda and ate cashews from a teensy plastic sack. Ran the batteries down on our phones. Took photos. Sent texts.

It was a protracted afternoon, but a mere blink compared to what my co-worker C. faces, and what my sister also now faces. The silver lining to Saturday was that I got to know my nephew, at least this little bit. He's contemplative, tender, smart as all get-out. I wondered, how did he get to be twenty without really ever being on my radar? Life has a habit of getting in the way, and we are led from day to day minus enough intentions to do the things that are most important. A cancer diagnosis enabled this closer acquaintance with my nephew, and, while I felt a filial glow afterwards (shadowed by the terror of the larger issue at hand), I also felt a little ashamed. There are delights and riches everywhere, if we would only pay better attention.

Sleep didn't volunteer Saturday night.

And then all of this has pushed my own surgical procedure (on Wednesday) to the furthest reaches of my consciousness. More discovery, more waiting for results.

But my new planting bed in back of the garage is ready for sunflower seeds. I dug out the rocks and glass shards and chips of vinyl, made a tidy edge and lined it with the unearthed stones so the garbage collector will (hopefully) avoid crushing seedlings with his giant wheels. Last night the air outside smelled like spun sugar, like a bakery, like a million flowers in bloom at once.

So say a prayer, cross your fingers, stroke a good-luck charm. And maybe we'll all be here for a little while longer.

It has been observed that men, in their aging, for the most part have thrown off their feathers; while women, largely, remain in full and absolute plumage for many, many years.

This is an issue, for those women among us who still stand with feathers fluffed and ruffled, those of us still seeking a complement of feathers no matter how dark and muffled. There is the disenchantment of the jowly neck, the rubicose nose, the sprung-steel brows.

A long time ago, in another century, there were peacocks late on a summer's night, with their solitary cries traversing hill and gully. I recall how that piercing tone caught my imagination, a lonesome teen penning poetry by moonlight. I could see in my mind's eye that fan of iridescent plumage, while my own want & adolescent desire threw off sparks that failed to ignite even the most tenuous of tinders.

Oh.

Oh.

Gardening by the Square Inch

In my cardboard-box planting beds, bright slips of rainbow chard and ruffled lettuces (red, green) have taken root. A part of me wants to just grow flowers: clarkia and bachelor's buttons and godetia and nasturtiums. To hell with vegetables. But no. Instead of delphiniums and larkspur and portulaca there will be tomatoes and bush beans and beets.

A neighbor tonight raised an eyebrow to my project and said, "Oh, I see you've done some, uh, landscaping."

I told him that it wasn't landscaping but an eco-hip edible garden plot made entirely from recycled materials, which are also 100% biodegradable. This neighbor, an epidemiologist, looked at me and said, "Oh! Okay!" Then he flashed a barely-discernible twinkle. He got it.

And although he generally seems to take zero interest in gardening, this evening he was engaged in hand-to-thorn combat with the Himalayan blackberry vines which were threatening to overtake his shrubbery. (God Save The Shrubbery.)

My son and I recently took shovels to the roots of blackberries back of the garage. (The falling-down garage.) For 25 years I've put that particular swathe of earth at the bottom of the to-do list, and it felt good to finally get out there and make something happen. It'll be the perfect spot for some giant Russian sunflowers.

My brother's red barn
at the end of the orchard —
.

East of the Mountains: Abandoned

It's been that kind of week....

This space intentionally left blank.

We Intend To Have Fun....

....and we do.

Tuesday Poem: Reilly, Escaping

A blur of blond curls between houses,
scrape of an elbow, heel of a shoe around a corner:
Reilly runs from any open door.
When we install trick locks
six feet up, he opens them
with the tip of a plastic sword,
a wooden spoon, anything long enough.

Today he runs panting from the alley with
a branch of apple blossoms torn from a neighbor's tree,
its pink extravagance waving in the blue May air.

How can I be angry:
This child plies me with flowers.
At five, already he knows about love,
which gifts to bring,
what small penance we must serve.

© T. Clear 1991

---

At a party last Saturday was a woman to whom I hadn't spoken since a conflict arose between her husband and my late husband, many years ago, concerning a flooring installment gone bad and the ensuing repayment. There was intrigue and deception (not on my husband's part) which resulted in late-night threats of violence. Scary stuff, which has lingered and left me uneasy whenever I'm reminded of it.

So when she entered the party, our eyes met, and I offered a courteous hello, hoping to avoid her after that. But no: she sat down across from me, said hello again, asked me how I was, and said,

"I have a wonderful memory of you, T. There was a neighborhood party, and you read some poems, and I remember one particularly, a poem about your son Reilly, and his running off, and apple blossoms. In fact, it's stayed with me all this time. It really touched me."

I think my mouth dropped open in amazement. The poem (appearing above) was written years ago, and I'd long left it forgotten in a box in my basement, not even in the current roster of work on my computer.

I told her as much. I was stunned — both that she'd remembered the poem and that she'd decided to sidestep the uncomfortable issue between us and moved instead directly to something founded in love. I told her that I hadn't thought of that poem in years, and expressed gratitude that she mentioned it at all. I know that, without saying, the unmentionable incident was dancing in front of us, flashing red lights.

Instead, she offered a gift of inestimable worth.

She added, "It's so rare that one remembers a poem so clearly as I remember that one."

And even better: it's my son's birthday tomorrow.
I can't believe I have a 26-year-old son.

Poetry — with all its mystery and enduring power — healed a long-simmering feud.

I bow down
at the altar of the poem,
in humble gratitude.

When the corpse of a dream lingers....

Have you ever awakened from a dream still so completely entrenched — flesh & spirit — that it's nearly impossible to escape it? My eyes were literally bleary with dream imagery when I woke up today, and I can't seem to shake off its disturbing details. With a rapidly shifting cast of characters, I was visited by:

1. Serial killer Gary Ridgway's mother, who, though long-deceased (or so I thought) had changed her identity and was still working at a JCPenney. (In my non-dream life, I worked with this woman when I was in college. You can read about that nightmare-ish adventure here.)

2. A man who was my supervisor at a job when I was nineteen, who'd repeatedly asked me out, and was repeatedly turned down. In the dream, he was mistakenly introduced as my husband. I DON'T THINK SO.

3. Paul Newman. (Back from the dead. And damn — no opportunity to get his autograph!)

4. A two-year-old child throwing a tantrum, who screamed one long, dramatic, drawn-out note so completely exquisitely that a crowd of people gathered around him, and applauded when he finished.

In addition, there was the recurring appearance of the non-functioning phone, the recurring disappearance of my car (lost in a parking lot!), and I was late for work at a job where I was to sell forks and CD's.

What I need now is a good night's sleep, so I can recover!

Click on this, and read all the way to the bottom:

Google Really Advanced Search.

Cold

Will spring never come? It feels like the answer to that is a resounding "NO!"

I don't know how many times I was out in it today, wrestling with a tarp or dodging rain or just trying not to get blown askew. Late this afternoon, I went to war with the giant umbrella where we stage orders for UPS — the tremendous gusts of wind had everything topsy turvy, and I was in danger of losing an eye to the whipping spokes. J. got on the table to set the umbrella upright so I could reel it in, and the table began to tip, and shouting began, but in the end, we finally got it secured without any organ loss.

March has been unforgiving. In like a lion, out like a cyclone. The year has me feeling beat up, slapped to bits, tossed inside out, and we're only three months in.

Cherry trees are in blossom and daffodils brave their cheerful souls in the cheerless gales, and I want to tell each flower go back inside. It's not time yet, really.

Recalling the anticipation of my first son's birth, twenty six years ago (come April 3rd). Pre-birth, I recall not a leaf on a tree, not a bud on a rose. Coming home from the hospital with my new baby, the world had gone crazy green with new growth in a matter of three short days. Nothing has been the same since.

Every year, late March, I search out Spanish bluebells, so that I can cut a bouquet for his birthday. This year for the first time, they are nowhere near blooming. And I'm still bundled in my black cashmere muffler, black beret; and somewhere the vague notion of summer exists — a mirage, an illusion, a conceit.

The way in, or the way out?

I walk a crooked road to get where I am going
To get where I am going I must walk a crooked road
And only when I’m looking back I see the straight and narrow
I see the straight and narrow when I walk a crooked road
— Darrell Scott

More Matching

Online dating provides, if nothing else, great opportunities for humor. When I look at the profiles of single men on match.com, I can't help but see something other than their chosen profile name.

To post an online profile on any of these sites, one must first choose a profile name. And often, the profile name one dreams up (as the perfect! name!) has already been chosen by some other single person somewhere else on the planet. Suggestions for available alternate names then pop up on the screen, and you can choose from one of those or try again with your (seemingly) very original second choice. Or third.


What many people end up with are odd altered versions of their original choice, with numbers and punctuation added in, or something else entirely. And when I look at them, I also see, well, something else entirely, which has the unfortunate result of making me quickly look to the next profile, moving Mr. Weird Name — who most likely is a perfectly charming potential dating candidate — to the slush pile, toute de suite.

For your entertainment, here are some actual names, and what I see when I read them:

Issy_Spirit, and I see Pissy Spit. (Yuck.)

Sirwhitfield, and I see Shitfield. (Um, no.)

eKghHUNTER, and I see Ug Hunter (How does one hunt an Ug, exactly?)

CharlesGilstrap, and I see Charles Jockstrap (Ewwwww.....)

BaBallard, and I see Babar (The Elephant. Cartoonish. Wearing a yellow crown.)

JRPringle and I see potato chips in a can, which I like a lot, but how does one date a chip?!

kindaneasy, and I see kind of sneezy (Either one of the Seven Dwarfs or a highly allergic man.)

richard_reach and I see Rich! A Ready! (Been there! Done that! Failed!)

---

More on this later, including a recounting of My Date From Hell.

God help me.

Otters

A friend tells me there are otters in our urban park, our sanctuary a mere stone's throw from where sirens blare and gangs go about their dirty business. The otters emerge long after sundown, or so I hear, swirling their sleek furred selves in the velvet of 2am. I must trust in this, as I've not even once seen evidence that they exist. Trust — and marvel at the simple and complicated fact that they live so close to so much that is deadly.

There's a woman who shops in the same local co-op as I do, and she once discovered a body in the park. It was a suicide, by gun, of a friend and neighbor just three houses from me. The woman who happened upon the body desired anonymity, but word gets out, and whenever I see her, usually in the produce department, surmising something as common as an onion, all I can see is my friend with half her face blown off. I've been tempted to scream, beside the celery.

As The Tearful Dishwasher says, "how do we reconcile the beauty with the horror?"

I am drawn time and again to these mythical otters, as well as to rumors of a heron rookery down past the dead-end of my street, perched in maples or alders above a ravine -- the same ravine where on a sunny Sunday afternoon twenty years ago a SWAT team apprehended a shooting suspect.

And yet we can't stop believing in the goodness of the universe, in possibilities, in hope.

Can't stop believing that sometime soon, in the wee hours, I'll stumble upon a raft of otters, and their nocturnal splashing in the tranquil pool of the lake will cancel out the lone siren half a mile away, the ambulance with its terrible and fragile cargo.

Dirt

Two cubic yards of planting mix (screened soil, sand, compost) arrived yesterday afternoon — dumped on my parking strip, on a blue tarp. I'm building containers out of slashed-down cardboard boxes, all tape and tags ripped off. Ten years ago I'd have called it kind of "ghetto", but now it's a decomposable raised bed built with recycled materials. Very EC. (Environmentally correct.) And with a minimal cash outlay.

As the plants grow, and the soil becomes more stable and compacted, the beds will (hopefully) stand on their own. And if the cardboard doesn't all decompose, I can tear it away.

As it's streetside (in public view), I'm waiting negative responses from neighbors, but so far it's all good. And it's where the sun is, so for the first time in 25 years I can grow edibles without battling shade. I'm also looking at it as my "summer club" — I can attend to my plants and visit with passers-by at the same time.

Post dirt, I got busy with the KitchenAid and made a cake (and yes, that's 52) —


Post cake (and post party), there was dancing at the Royal Room (African music) and for two hours I forgot that dancing and I are not the best of friends. A little dirt, a little sugar, some chocolate and some vodka, and anything seems possible.

Tuesday Poem

I'm the editor for this week's Tuesday Poem entry. Check out Paul Hunter's poem Talking Mean here.

Here's a teaser:


I'm interested in how poetry collides/intersects/accompanies the varying landscapes of our living. It's one thing to listen to a poem being read in an auditorium, at a podium, with a microphone. It's another thing entirely to hear that same poem read, say, on a wild Pacific Northwest beach, or in the poet's kitchen, or in the bar that Theodore Roethke frequented. I don't believe that a poem should exist only in the rarefied atmosphere of academia. Although long a safe haven for poetry and poets (myself included), poetry needs also to live the life of the working-class individual. I've seen people frightened away by poetry, certain they would not understand it. (Admitting to being a card-carrying poet is a guaranteed crowd silencer.)

And remember: don't take yourself too seriously.

Old Words, One Bird

Skidding into Sunday

It's a good exercise in spontaneity to say "yes" to walking in the park at 3am. (The lake's surface still and silken.)

Even better: staying late at a party and forgetting that I was twenty-something decades ago.

Not so good: sleeping until past 2pm, and the poetry reading and book release party I'd planned to attend, on the other side of the city, started in 45 minutes.

(I arrived at 3:01, to a standing-room only crowd at Open Books. Fell into a sliver of space, my back up against the door. Couldn't see the poet Kathleen Flenniken, but am thankful for amplified sound.)

Here's the trailer from her new book Plume, from University of Washington Press:

Lá Fhéile Pádraig Shona*

St. Patrick and the spider, North Mayo --


Sheep, Carrowholly --


Carnival, Achill Island --


Window, Doo Lough --


Old Pub Sign at an abandoned road house outside Louisburgh --


Road that never ends, County Kerry --


John & Jackie on a pub wall, Westport --


*Happy St. Patrick's Day

Red

A bit fixated on this dress.

I found it at a thrift store on Highway 99 in Everett, Washington round about 1982. Wore it to a few parties. (My late husband also wore it, once, to a party. Couldn't zip it up though. His accessory was an aluminum colander, as a hat [of sorts]. He was a very funny man.)

Now all its good for is stuffing full of pussy willows.

Bluster

Here in Seattle we've been plagued by massive storms -- none of that "lite" rain which, though seemingly ever-present and having given us our claim to rain-fame, rarely causes much of a fuss. These past seven+ days have behaved quite the contrary. March is exhibiting terrible-two's tantrums: one minute rosy and soft, the next all bluster and spit. I'm worn out by it all.

It's a particular problem when setting boxes out for UPS. Outside this afternoon I repaired the giant umbrella which serves as shelter for our shipments during inclement weather, securing each arm to the disintegrating fabric with zip ties: a bandaid. And not wanting to lug out the massive blue tarps in the wind, I used cut-open packing-peanut bags as both a dry surface for the boxes and as cover, both of which kept flapping up and away in each new gust of wind.

When finally all was secured -- pinned down with mossy bricks -- I hunkered down -- dripping -- and made my way up the steps to the house/factory, feeling for all intents and purposes that the rain had penetrated my skin and cold had settled into my marrow. Such is the glamour of working in The Arts. Once inside, I positioned my sodden jacket in front of the blazing wood stove and got to work with a paint brush and several pots of acrylic paint: lamp black, sap green, perylene maroon, irridescent Aztec.

More orders to ship tomorrow, and the forecast looks just as grim.

The Dating Game

I wish I'd had the presence of mind to record the conversation today at work when the subject of dating came up. Consider this: three middle-aged people, two straight, one gay, two women, one man. Creative, independent, erudite. (Translate to: picky.) All currently single. And from the looks of it, the prospects for the single gay man appear to be about even with the prospects for the straight women: next to nothing. (Or no one.) As I like to say, there are not exactly great herds of 50-something single men roaming the streets.

What is a girl (or guy) to do?

The default option these days is online dating, but even those sites tend to be eye-rollers now. I met my most recent spouse on match.com, and that ended up being a disaster. And now, eight years later: the pickins are slim. (And when did these men all get so old-looking?!!)

From what I can see, most age-appropriate straight men on Match desire a package-deal-woman containing the following traits:

1. Must love walks on the beach.
2. Must love a glass of wine by the fire.
3. Must be financially stable.
4. Must not have any "baggage".
5. Must not be a drama-queen.

My requirements for Mr. Right are, um, different:

1. Must have a sense of humor.
2. Must be able to pay his own bills.
3. Must appreciate drama.
4. "Baggage", which I like to refer to as "luggage", is fine. (If he doesn't have any, then he hasn't lived.
5. Must laugh at my puns.
6. Extra points if he knows the difference between a Bordeaux and a Sauvignon Blanc. Fire optional.
7. Extra points for correctly conjugating the verbs in his profile.
8. Extra points for not posting a photo of himself astride his Harley, wearing a baseball cap. (Flashing red light: BALD.) Own up, men! And ditch the macho motorcycle!

I figure if I post a profile with those requirements, my chances of snagging a man are next to nil. The good ones? Already spoken for, or dead.

Best possible scenario: he comes knocking at my door.
I know: I'd better dream on.

In the meantime,
I'm right here:

Crow, twigs, etc.

(With thanks to Melinda Wellsandt for providing this amazing subject.)

(Suffering from a dearth of words at the moment.)

Blue Willow

Willow Redux

Willow

Blustery March along the lake, bundled to my teeth for a walk Sunday afternoon, when what I thought I really wanted was to sink into the couch with the NYTimes. Glad as always that I opted to leave the house. Why is it sometimes so hard?

It wasn't until I was reviewing my photos that I saw that an eagle had passed before my viewfinder. I consider an eagle sighting to be a gift of good fortune, and I'm counting this as a sighting, blurred and dim as it is --


Shoreline --


I was looking for a beavers' lodge that's supposed to exist just past the marina, but could find no trace of it as I slipped quietly through the reeds and red twig dogwoods. I want to believe that it does indeed exist, and that perhaps I'll never find it.

In 1965, the several-acre wood behind my house contained every bit of my imagination. And even though I knew intimately every path, tree, boulder, stump, fern and lily, I never gave up believing that somewhere there existed a hidden reliquary of water, a well of holy secrets that would never give itself away.

What Lies Behind The Color

Yesterday I tried to write about something that happened at work. When I sat down at the computer to write, I was stymied by an upwelling of fear and sadness, and the best I could do was write the word melancholy and a post about seeing what one wants to see.

At 4:30 yesterday, one of my work-mates, C., got a call following up some tests she'd had the previous day. The diagnosis: stomach cancer.

Everything screeched to a halt. C. sat down, shaken, bargaining with herself. M. got out the single malt Scotch.

C. is whisper-thin, and has complained of stomach issues since last July. We've been at her to see a traditional doctor, but she's insisted on naturopathy, a Chinese herbalist and acupuncture. I don't know what compelled her to finally go the mainstream route, but on Monday she succumbed to an afternoon of bodily invasions, and came out of there thinking she only had to deal with an ulcer.

People recover and go on with their lives. And, at the same time, people don't recover. The one thing that is true, mentioned the other day: none of us will get out of this alive.

The world seemed a grave and lonely place last night, no matter what color I attempted to conceal it with.

And for the moment, I'm one of the lucky ones.

Prussian Blue, Melancholy, Burnt Sienna

In the hour before sunset I drove by a field where about a dozen crows were spread out across the grass. There was no spare time: a trunkful of groceries and a date with a friend in a few minutes; but even so, I parked and quickly walked to where crows held court. And as soon as I got my camera out, hundreds more crows came swerving across the sky, swirling in black ribbons above me -- and then were gone in an echo of ruckled ca-caws.

With the marvels of technology at hand, I can take a photo and make it any color I desire, make it appeal to whatever combination of hues are currently fueling inspiration. At work this week I've been juxtaposing a deep Prussian-blue/turquoise with a burnt-Sienna/brown-pink -- not unlike the tones in the header photo. Paint colors are incredibly powerful visual stimuli. Some days there is nothing can settle my addled self save for a good sit-down with a palette of oils. A photograph and a computer can serve the same purpose.

In both the header photo and the photo above, the landscape belongs to me. The only truth lies in what one's eyes are able to see.

I hear someone ask: what did it really look like?

I tell him: it looked like this.

Work

I'm wondering if I'll ever have another vacation, or if I'll ever retire. This isn't a litany of complaints -- I'm grateful to have a job that I love, and grateful for having had seven years worth of assorted cavorts around the globe. Just wish it had been spread out over a longer time period.

As things stand now, I'm looking at the necessity of continued employment until I drop dead. And at this rate, it's probably going to happen when I'm on the job, or a job. Whatever it takes to pay the bills.

I didn't expect to be looking back at 55 years from a standpoint of being twice-married, twice-unmarried. Death & divorce are both knee-bucklers. A better person would have planned more carefully -- at least that's what I hear from people who are close to me and should know better than to reprimand. What they don't know is that so many of those years have been spent scrabbling together enough to get by. Everyone has a back story, and I possibly don't fit the stereotype of The Working Poor, but I'll stand up here face-forward and say that I'm one of them. But then, that's the problem with stereotypes -- they don't take into account the myriad number of variables that make up any group of people.

For a short while, I thought I was home-free, had hit a home run, was out of the woods.

Alas.

Life has a way of jerking the rug out.

It's all precarious --

And not one of us is going to make it out alive.

That being said, my fortune is in the minute-by-minute details that make a day, a week, a life.

Today it was to find energy in the bluster of the March wind, humor in my work companions, comfort in dinner shared with my son, and an ephemeral nirvana in a quarter-cup of homemade chocolate-peanut-butter ice cream. (And yes, it was only a quarter-cup.)

Mass Hysteria and Saturday Morning Jell-O

Although my subscription lapsed last November, The New Yorker mysteriously keeps showing up in my mailbox. I made a decision to get the Sunday NYTimes instead, but, after reading this piece in this week's The Talk of the Town, I might have to pony-up for another year. According to Emily Eakin, twenty high school girls in Le Roy, New York -- home of The Jell-O Museum -- have been diagnosed with conversion disorder, aka mass hysteria: "a relatively rare phenomenon that, for reasons that are poorly understood, typically strikes groups of adolescents girls. The symptoms are real but their cause isn't genes or germs; it's stress."

Mass hysteria and Jell-O with oatmeal and coffee on a Saturday morning -- how much better can it get?

As a reverse-snob-foodie-of-sorts, I don't hesitate to express my love of Jell-O. (My former husband once asked me how I could profess to be a foodie when I didn't like mussels or oysters.) Not that my cupboard has ever been fully-Jell-O-stocked. In fact, I don't know when the last time was that I had a box of it in my possession. But I do know that I last ate Jell-O a mere nine months ago, while visiting long-time friends in Port Townsend, and B. -- bless her heart -- remembered my odd love of fluorescent gelatinized ingestibles, and served up a crystal bowl of raspberry Jell-O with whipped cream at the dinner table.

It's not food, really. Adding ingredients like ham and onions to, say, lime Jell-O tops my list of Things Not To Eat, Ever. And although meat jellies date back to the Middle Ages, leave it to entrepreneurial Americans to take take a broth of boiled bones, connective tissues, and intestines and add sugar and dye, patent it and make a million.

In 1923, an artifically-sweetened D-Zerta was introduced. Check out this commercial, from the 1970's:


I'd have never guessed that a Saturday morning would go this route, complete with "Chinese-type baby" and "glate Western invention, the spoon" --


I couldn't write any more without mentioning one of my favorite vintage cookbooks:


There's time to make these for Easter -- time enough, in fact, to perfect the problematic chore of blowing eggs (or resort to a plastic egg mold)--


Who knew gelatin could possess such grace and elegance?



I don't know if mentioning the word Jell-O ten times in a post qualifies as a blogging tic, but now for some odd reason I can't help myself from harboring obsessive thoughts about Ring-Around-The-Tuna and Cherry-Mallow Medley. Is it happening to you too? Are we experiencing Blogger Mass Hysteria?!

Maybe it's time to break open a box of raspberry Jell-O, pour a handful onto my palm, and lick it up. Of course, that may well induce an hysteria all its own.

RIP, Sweet Old Thing