To Sleep Perchance To Dream

After my mid-day 20 miles bike ride - with the steepest grade you can think of going on for over a mile - I took a monster 5 mile hike to the second waterfall at Elliot last evening. I love the long shadows and golden light of late afternoonish.

I keep forgetting to mention a dream I had. I was about to die - and in the dream, when one died, they had to meet the executioner (or maybe it was a reeper - whatever the case... I remember him as an executioner of sorts.) It was love at first site. I swooned and lamented the thought that at this juncture I would meet the person of my dreams and that that person would by the executioner. On some level, however, it didn't matter - because I was immediately smitten, immediately in love and something about that, in the face of everything, was perfect and hopeful and completing.

The twist of the story is/was that the executioner fell in love with me too. And I became the only person, ever, to be spared the fate of the executioner as a result. And it is/was because of this it became known that while incredibly rare some people escaped the executioner's fate - and in a place there was little to no hope there was placed a glimmer. And the most humble and wisest would realize that hope was realized through love.

I know, it sounds corny - but that was the dream.

It was almost as good as last night's dream - in which Ed not only quit smoking, he cleaned up after himself. Wow.. what startlingly divergent expectations for fulfillment. heh.

Monday

Just like millions of others, our new Harry Potter arrived in the post on Saturday morning. The day was spent lounging on the lawn while Ed read aloud. On Sunday I remembered I was capable of multitasking and while we plowed through another few hundred pages I weeded, pruned, preened and otherwise beautified my sorely neglected garden. It looks so content and cared for right now – it’s just magnificent. With all the bother over Hell’s Kitchen, my lovely yard and garden has taken a back seat. It took Harry Potter in the side yard to provide a window for this clever endeavor. Not only did I not mind doing chores while I listened, it was immensely gratifying to take a project from start to finish and see relatively immediate results. Quite happy making indeed!

It’s taken two weeks for me to sink into a routine of nothingness – of waking, of puttering, of dabbling, of drinking coffee and surfing about on the internet, checking in to read my favorite this-and-thats. This is the week I’ll begin adventures and the whatnots - you just wait and see!

Snow Globe

Death twitches my ear. “Live,” he says. “I’m coming.” - Virgil

I was home for a day and a half and then off to Cleveland. That was nearly a month ago now… has it been that long since my last confession, regression, reflection? I don’t think I’d ever been to Ohio before. I can’t really say I was in Ohio. I was for a day and a half. And it snowed. I sat in the meeting and stared out the windows from time to time, musing at the courtyard as the first snow descended. What a magical time to be anywhere, during the first snow.

It was clean and white and relentless. I’d been reading Alice Sebold’s new book Lovely Bones on the airplane and it begins with a little girl lamenting the fate of a scarf-clad penguin in a snow globe. Not to worry, her father assures, he’s just trapped in a perfect world. And I’d laugh a little to myself as the day progressed, thinking about how we’re all just trapped in a perfect world. I need to remember that.

The day I left Cleveland, I’ve decided, is among the worst days of my life. Which is a testament to how my life hasn’t really been that bad and perhaps also a sad commentary on my yardstick of personal suffering. The meeting went just a bit long and the taxi was just a bit late. I needed to go to the bathroom. I needed to pee, but I figured the airport was a mere fourteen miles away and I didn’t want to risk missing the first taxi and logic informed that I should wait. I waited and indeed got in the first taxi which promptly was stuck in traffic due to that perfect world of a first snow. It took two and half hours to make that sojourn. The taxi stopping and starting, vibrating and the cold making me shiver even more. My bladder ached – it’s all I could think about for two and half hours… counting the seconds which crawled on their belly. Talk about the notion of ever lasting life. If every two and a half hour segment of time moved as slowly as that one I’d say it would feel like we lived forever. Maybe salvation is living wholly in the present in excruciating discomfort.

Trapped in a perfect world…

I think it is interesting that indeed I’ve experienced the loss of those I love, the death of those who died young and terrible deaths. I think it’s interesting that I don’t count those losses as paramount to the discomfort of sitting in a taxi cab for two and half hours whilst needing to pee. I reflected on this and muse that perhaps those losses are still happening on some level. Or maybe, in fact, they have stopped happening on some level. When someone we love dies, although the act of their dying may take place in a split second, we divide the grief of their death up over time. It’s like it’s not an acute event for us, the living. That needing to pee had a beginning, a middle and an end, like a short story. But death and loss is not. It’s more like a marsh - there are no clear borders where one world starts and the other stops.

Trapped in a perfect world…

It’s sometimes hard to hold, isn’t it, that these things are all constituents of a perfect world? I find this interesting about me too. Some of the things that people enjoy about me are my insights, my perspective and the way(s) that I articulate these things. It’s also these same things that people want to shut up and down. But it’s the same people. They at once want and don’t want, love and loathe, my gifts. As though we can all have it both ways. The double edged sword – it can cut the vines to clear the view and your heart all at once.

Trapped in a perfect world…

Are you following my metaphors? Sliding down my similes to a perfect sibilant yes? There are things beneath the things, hiding snuggly under the covers.

Trapped in a perfect world…

I got a library card yesterday. I leafed through an Annie Liebowitz picture book called Women with a forward by Susan Sontag. A woman I once knew was photographed for the book. I cannot begin to express how dissed I feel by this woman. How insignificant and invisible in history some people can make us feel. And I wonder, does it matter? Does it change anything, what is spoken and what remains silent? As I look through the mirror, darkly, I see myself lurking in time and I see time lurking in me too.

Trapped in a perfect world…

Prayer and Consequences

I remember reading recently that salvation, the Lord being there now and at the hour of our deaths, is a freebie – there for the taking for all who ask. One would think I’d spend a little more time meditating on salvation – to not be alone in the world now or when I die. Nope, I use up my karma points with Mr. Big on work deadlines. What’s up with that? That’s why it’s embarrassing – it feels so secular, material, menial. As though my work deadlines are of interest or consequence to some Supreme Radiant Being. Honestly, I would hope that He or She gave more attention to things like starvation, disease, poverty and violence. But I don’t want to sound ungrateful either. For any and all assistance You provided me to get these rather fiercely out of control deadlines to step back in formation a bit, I am grateful, humbled and thankful.

Ah.. and next posting I’ll be sure to concentrate more on my lament of turning forty. You know, it’s on my list, lament turning 40. Eventually I’ll get around to it.. heh.

A Woman Who Grows Roses

Ah… coming home. I’m back among my things, my sweet little town, my dog, my mountain filled with imagination and delectable trees, my work and the day-to-day of life whirring by like a bowling pin threatening to drop. There are no tide pools here and no spectacular fishes, but there’s a feel about home, the familiarity of the dirt and the sounds and the air.

I looked in the mirror this evening and I thought, “I’m a woman who grows roses.” The thought made me giggle just a little inside. The roses were from Elsie, old roses that she likely planted years and years before. I tore out most of the bushes and the neighbor begged to retrieve them out of the yard waste bucket while a woman up the hill towed several more away in a red wagon. I kept one and this one keeps my house in bounty of roses – every room, windowsills, every table. I am a woman who grows roses. Cassie comes to pluck a flower from the garden to woo an object d’arte.

There was a neighbor in Minneapolis who bought Mr. Lang’s house after he died in his car of a heart attack one night. She grew roses. Mr. and Mrs. Lang never grew roses. Mrs. Lang passed away and I would sit on Mr. Lang’s back steps and he would take out an angel that when twisted on its base would slowly turn in circles and play a melody. He drove a white car. He somehow felt like part of our family. But when the new neighbors moved in, the woman, the wife, she planted roses. No longer were we welcomed to run across the lawn or slide down the hillside in the winter. Suddenly it was their yard and visitors weren’t welcome. I would later baby sit for her children and she would later leave her husband and her three children and never come back. By now I’m sure those are considered old roses and I just wonder if a new owner has simply fenced the yard.

I am a woman who grows roses and plants basil in flower boxes. Only one of the basil plants survived Kauai and none of the flowers to speak of. I began again with Gerber daisies, which with some tending are growing strong and blossoming beautifully. I also added more basil and I’ll pinch my first harvest tomorrow and try my hand at pesto once again. I’m assured that there is no way this could be organic basil, but since pesticides are illegal in this town, with the exception of treatment for termites and wasps, I’m not sure what toxic chemicals are making their way into my basil.

I am a woman who grows roses, plants basil in flower boxes, tends Gerber daisies and walks her dog every day on a beautiful mountain full of imagination. I looked in the mirror and I saw her – fine lines around her eyes, sunburned skin, freckles on her nose and dirt on her arms and feet. Her hair is strawberry blond and bleached for the relentless sun. She looks peaceful save for the crease in the center of her forehead – a worry wrinkle that began to show itself in her early twenties, felt comfortable and stayed. Her eyelashes are so blond they are almost white. She lives in a small town now and she waves to the town gardener when she’s throwing the ball for her dog in the morning before she settles into a day of work or not.

I miss the sound of the ocean hollering and the squawking of Gabriel the cockatoo in the morning. We’ve left that little bit of paradise behind for the meantime to cultivate our garden at home. While away the hillsides turned golden like the color of wheat and the wildflowers changed from fields of wild irises and poppies to patches of sticky monkeys and an occasional morning glory. Small snakes slither across the trails and lizards are more bountiful. The jawbone of a small animal with menacing teeth perched in the middle of the trail yesterday, like a harbinger of bad things to come. Sinewy dried muscles clung to the bone as I marched by wondering what thing this was and what had become of it. Some days are like this too.

The Storm

The meteor storm will commence shortly. In less than a half hour we’ll be gazing at the sky, bundled in long underwear, hats, gloves and warm coats, to feast on natural wonders. Many years ago I dragged my butt out of bed in an ungodly hour of the morning to sit on a hill in The City for the Harmonic Convergence. Someone brought donuts and we stopped for coffee, all piled into the bed of truck and wiped the sleep out of our eyes. When we arrived at the hill, there were hundreds of people scattered in groupings across the landscape. Some were dancing in flowing garments. Others were completely still, in contemplative meditation. Still others were engrossed in various forms of ritual. Our motley crew drank coffee, ate donuts and smoked cigarettes – waiting for the convergence to heal our lives or change the direction of everything or even anything. Our leather jackets squeaked against one another and our spiked boots or jackets or armbands occasionally poked our fellow travelers, reminding ourselves we were there. Man, we were all so in love with each other we barely needed the world – and we didn’t even know it. We’d found our Harmonic Convergence and didn’t even know it.

But tonight, tonight just Ed and I will be trundling out into the cold night air and peaceably watch the storm.

Rhythms of Life

Saturday was chore day - cleaning the rain gutters in the nick of time before the downpour commenced, bleaching the kitchen floor, doing every last dish, vacuuming and the whatnot. As I cleaned the dirt out of the runners in the window I found myself uniquely falling in love with the house. Tending her needs brings us all a little closer.

Our day of work culminates in a walk to the store in the rain. The dimly lit back alleys don’t betray the standing puddles of varying depths. Discovery is left to stepping right in it, which is perhaps the most adventurous and fun form of revelation though Ed’s socks might disagree. While the stories of people’s dramatic lives whirl around us, I find myself strangely comforted with these simple events - the radiating warmth of the kitchen contrasting the cold rain tapping the sidewalk, windows and rooftop, the thought of vacation in the springtime to a secluded beach in the tropics, the smell of wet wood on the breeze.

Sunday starts early with coffee on the sofa and the morning stretches lazily into the afternoon. The rain sustains a constant percussion. Water droplets bead in rows across the clothesline, catching light and glinting like little diamonds outside the kitchen window. The world is quiet and inside today. These are the rhythms of life I so longed to feel and hear through the deafening roar of the City. Suddenly in this small town I’ve found room to breathe.

Your G-Man

Last night was trash night. I pulled the brimming new blue plastic trash can with the locking lid to the curb and hauled the eight gallon recycle buckets along side them. It was a night like every other night in this place, adorned with new ritual that feels stupidly exciting, but colder. Fallen leaves and flowers from the potato tree blankets the path leading to my front door and it smells like fall – dying things, slightly decaying things. It seems oddly ironic that the roses are burgeoning with buds bursting open in tiny swirls of fragrant color.

So what is remarkable about this night? Nothing in particular. It was the morning after that gave me pause. A morning like every other morning in this place, the smell of fresh brewed coffee wafting through the tiny rooms and the sun pushing its way across the redwood deck like a dedicated soldier. The ablutions of morning - pulling a wool sweater over my head, turning on the computer and settling into work for the day.

But last night was trash night so I push my toes into slippers and shuffle through the front yard to the curbside. In a tidy row are the empty receptacles, and on top of each large garbage can, placed carefully inside the lids that rest upturned like a cup, is a letter from Bill, the garbage man (or Your G-man, as he endearingly signs the letter). Bill’s letter is soft and from the hearth – his poodles died, a mother died and his daughter is getting married. He hopes for peace, not just a platitude, but peace. He encourages us to always be thankful and not to wait for a holiday and he thanks us.

Nothing in this world seemed more civilized, joyful and humane. Nothing could have made me happier.

Fetish

As I was dropping seventy-five dollars on hair care and make-up products at Walgreens (Yes, seventy-five dollars), I ran into Restaurant Girl. She’s quitting her jobs and was jovial and friendly. I’m invariably shocked when she’s cordial. I always look around and wonder, are you talking to me? Are you serious? Don’t you remember that you’re always rude to me? I think she forgets and I wonder if at some point mid-way through the conversation she remembers who I am and thinks to herself, damn.

So anyway, I’m being nice back, simply because I’m stunned by her pleasantry and I tell her that Cassie has recently returned. Oh yeah, she says, from Spain! Wow. And she asks after her, how was her trip and how is she? I tell her that Cassie looks beautiful and healthy and that it was my impression that the experience was great for her. Restaurant Girl breathes in acutely, gasps almost, and takes a step back, overwhelmed for a moment, “she really couldn’t be more beautiful.” Her eyes get wide as she ponders the mere thought of it and I think she’s going to fall right there in the checkout line at the make-up counter.

At that point all I really want to do is take my little plastic Walgreens basket and slam it upside her head. I think to myself, she’s given you her phone number how many times, encouraged you to call her and all but tattooed the word AVAILABLE on her forehead… you dizzy bitch! Well now she’s beautiful, radiant and glowing, I tell her – hoping it tortures her mercilessly. She’s dumb struck and nervous and just says, “wow.”

Restaurant Girl pays for her manies and I’m next in line. “Doing some make-up shopping!” The shop lady proclaims as she peers into the blue plastic basket with eyes wide, then gives me a sideways glance of disapproval. She pulls out a number of little sparkly eyeshade products and says, “these are marketed for teenage girls,” with a matter-of-fact condemning tone of utter disappointment. “Well I am,” I say casually, “a teenage girl,” and leave it at that. She steps back and looks at me and shakes her head. “For the girls who won’t wear Revlon,” she whispers under her breath. I’ve just committed a crime against humanity.

As a matter-of-fact, I was reading Mademoiselle magazine last night, after the shopping extravaganza, which is clearly not marketed to teenage girls, and these Fetish products which I purchased were indeed featured in that magazine. Now I don’t say I was reading Mademoiselle with pride, nor can I attest to actually enjoying the magazine. The featured fashions are atrocious and over-priced, the articles are all about planning a wedding, getting your man to marry you, dealing with the fact your best friend is getting married when you’re not, meeting your to-be in-laws for the first time or losing weight. The magazine was a freebee that arrives periodically despite myself and I do scan through the pages with self-righteous indignation and mock the articles and advertisements. I’m happy to admit that I do in fact enjoy some of these pulpy trashy periodicals – I’ll get titillated and giddy when I buy a Cosmo for the airplane for the Jerry Springer-like reader’s writes. Think on that as you will. But I’m simply not part of Mademoiselle’s market audience. But, Ms. Walgreen’s Shop Lady, I can be a teenage girl as long as I want to. How do you like them apples?

Repreive

I met Cassie and Martin for dinner last night at Edinburgh Castle, a Scottish Pub-ish thing that serves Fish and Chips in the heart of the Tenderloin. Cassie brought her own contraband barnacles from Spain (asserting that they look and taste like puppy penis’ – ours is not to question why.) Martin and I looked on aghast in and horror as she had the little critters deep-fried and served up with vinegar and salt.

She’d went to a psychic earlier that afternoon who told her she was going to die. I could have told her this for half the price, but she has no faith in my prophetic abilities. It was, after all, I who foretold her meeting of the trust-fund nun on her sojourn across El Camino in Spain – from whence she just returned. I think to myself, if only she would believe in me more she’d save a pretty penny – not to mention live a significantly more dramatic life – especially the way I tell it. (Note to self: continue to work more diligently on Cassie’s autobiography. Note to self: Stop telling me what to do.)

So the forum this morning went swimmingly. Afterwards Ed and I accomplished a series of mundane tasks, ranging from grocery shopping to sorting finances. We went to duel with an older black woman, who we came to know as Pearl, over a taxi.

Pearl was convinced this was her taxi, as she’d been waiting longer, despite the fact the driver insisted his call was for someone named Ed. It certainly wasn’t our intention to heist her ride, but hired drivers are hard to come by on a Saturday afternoon and we weren’t about to be overly chivalrous either. Once her dander calmed and she resigned to give up the wheels, we began negotiating. As it turned out she lives not three blocks from us so we helped her with her groceries and gave her a lift. In the end, it seems, it turned out all the better for her. She had to turn all those sideways glances and thoughts of indignation into a face full of teeth – quite happy in the way this story turned out for her.