My Little Golden Book of Phobias

Last night I met with a few poets, some I knew, some I didn't, to read work and talk. Unfortunately we met in a beer bar in Fremont where it was very loud and the only vegan thing on the menu was a fried crunchy sandwich with fries. There were a few dessicated leaves on the plate. This kind of meal makes my gall bladder hurt. Then the band started up and we were shouting at each other. My relationship with poetry is 'conflicted' right now anyway and this didn't help. 

I'm looking out the window at the intermittent sun. The heat is on. I feel like getting into the bathtub to warm up. Lassitude, that's what this is. When I have time, I waste it. I read, I eat licorice, I drink a lot of tea. I could be in the garden. I could be writing brilliant poetry. I could be working on a painting. 

Grief, round two. Sandy died and I couldn't get to Portland. I haven't been present for a number of people when they died. Sure, sudden death doesn't count. And there will be a memorial for Sandy. But my mother died and we did NOTHING. A few years later, I was visiting my brother and he went to the garage and came back with a plastic box. Mom. Sitting in the garage with the garden tools and bicycles. Sheesh. 

I held the box on my lap on the plane back to Seattle. Eventually, I scattered her ashes on Mt Rainier, in a snow storm. The wind blew bits of her into my mouth. I found ashes in my pockets after I got home. 

I start looking down the depression corridor and I can't seem to stop. I don't like it there but I have friends there. It's familiar and I know how to behave. I pull up my coat collar and put on some gloves.