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

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

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

Sea Hedgehog

From Schott's Food & Drink Miscellany:

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

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

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

The Daily Spider Sweep

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

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

Vacuuming Spiders

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Words fail me.
Even the crows are silent.

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

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

Wild in the 'burbs

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



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

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