Uh, this is basically what I did today. Others may mow their lawns but laziness is very important. Day dreaming too. Trashy movies like Star Trek, which I will probably see tonight. All important. 

In Buddhism, there is a hindrance called sloth and torpor. I practice both equally well.

I put a vacuum cleaner (with bags) , a lamp shade and and a scary Singer sewing machine (complete with shoe box wi accessories like buttonholers and extra bobbins) on the curb. So far, everyone is afraid of the sewing machine. O intrepid haulers-away-of curbside-junk, be not fearful. Don't make me take it to Goodwill. Take it home!! Love it!!! It's free!!

I did a birth a few days ago and across the street from the couple's house was the 'Doll House'. They warned us. The lady was going fast and we hustled over there. The lights were blazing in the 'Doll House'. The creepy guy was sitting in a chair by the window wearing big glasses. Apparently, he mows the lawn in a bikini. The dolls were LIFE-SIZE. There were several in each window, facing outward. There were dolls on all the walls inside. Like a Stephen King movie. Between pushing contractions, I mentioned the interesting neighbor to the mamma. She said, in a growl, "He's not babysitting for us!".  No doubt. Yikes, bikini dressing doll man. Like diaper man by my clinic. He wears the full regalia for Pride, complete with a bottle. On ordinary days, he just has REALLY BIG stretch pants. Very attractive. 

Sequela

 

curtains undulate

barred sun quivers inside white sills

 

you are not here

you are not here

you are not here

 

I catcry for you

longing corrodes

I have many poems in a manila envelope to give to Rebecca. It is a manuscript. My manuscript. I think I will bake some potatoes for dinner. The sodden weather calls for baking. 

Last time I baked potatoes, one exploded with a soft *blam* and potato guts all over the oven. 

I got in the hot tub with a rain hat on. I looked snazzy. 

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.

In the movie Capote, Perry Smith chews a handful of aspirin, no water. Yeah, like that. He didn't even flinch. Some mornings I could chew aspirin too. Some mornings even the flowers cancel themselves and all I see are cobwebs on the skylight. Some mornings. 

I'm watching Capote again. Philip Seymour Hoffman is effing brilliant. I need to see him right now. Light and dark. Shadows. 

Sometimes it rains so much I think we will begin to float in the low parts of the city. I live on a hill and people will swim up to my door. We will make tea and toast squares while furniture; dogs standing on floating beds, children playing in a floating sand box, ducks with their ducklings, all pass by the windows. Floor boards will squish. We'll move to the second floor after a while. We'll grow gills.

Sandy died this morning about 7:30. Those in Portland are holding vigil and bathing her body. 

May all beings live in peace.

I'm listening to Glen Gould and maybe Sandy will die tonight. I keep checking my email to see if she has died because she lives in Portland and I am here. Glen plays brilliant shards. He pierces me right through. I once saw Kathleen Battle and heard her sing. It's a feeling like your heart expanding and filling your whole body and you have trouble breathing because your heart has taken all the room. 

How often are we here in this world and how often are we *gone*?  

Woke at 3 am because of sirens. Sandy in my heart, passing over the earth, no longer in her pain body. Sirens not for her, dying not an emergency.

 Whenever I have ridden in an ambulance.it.was.an.emergency. Hurry, hurry, the cabin rocking back and forth, holding the mother's hand, it's ok, you're ok and your babe is ok ( hurry hurry driver, no stopping for lights, driving around cars, trucks, going the wrong way down the streets, at night, in the daytime, the equipment in the back swaying too, the IV fluids, bloodpressure cuffs, O2 bottles strapped to the wall, gurney locked, hurry driver, hurry, please a quick response when we get to the hospital, hurry)then the bright lights of the ER, we are rushing through to the delivery floor, handing off the chart, telling the docs the story, quick, quick, monitors to the mother, baby sounds ok, begin to breathe easier, easier, ok, ok. 

Sirens in the night means no traffic, blasting through lights, life inside gone wrong, blood, bullets, some disaster, save this, save this. 

We release Sandy, no rush. Reverse the pulsing forward, the thrust, hot vigor. Wait. Watch. Expand out.  Lilacs, tulips, cherry trees breathing out their fragrance, unclasped. Undone. 

I flew off, or rather clacked off to Portland yesterday to sit with Sandy, who is dying. Her beautiful bald head. Her beautiful hands on either side of her face. Barely breathing. Her elderly mother watching her daughter die. 

May all beings be loved. May all beings be at peace. Sandy, sweetheart, goodbye.

Atta dipa

Viharatha

Atta sharana

Ananna dharana

Dhamma dipa

Dhamma sharana

Ananna sharana

Dwell

With yourself as light

With yourself as refuge

With no other refuge

With the dharma as light

With the dharma as refuge

With no other refuge

I have a chest in  my living room with Chinese ladies quaffing tea together on it. Another Chinese lady is holding a flower in her hand (or is that something on fire?) I hope it isn't a flaming flower because she will burn her hand. There she is, as long as the chest lasts, holding a fiery flower. Ouch. 

Sometimes it's that way. We walk around on fire with nothing to put us out, even in Seattle where it is frequently rainy and cold. Burning, always burning.

photo by Eden, my daughter

I stayed up way too late watching movies, a Sandra Bullock thing with messed up adolescent boys and Rachel Getting Married (subtitle: Dancing with Shiva) with Anne Hathaway. The subtitle gets it right. Shiva-creator/destroyer goddess. Well, Ms Hathaway is a very unhappy person for good reasons and just out of rehab. At her sister's wedding. I think they should have put her in 4 point restraints for the occasion but no, they let her wander around saying terrible things and even socking her mother. Wow, right on the kisser. The blurb said it had moments of humor, uh, dunno where those were. Very disturbing. 

Yesterday I went to the local cheap-o women's spa and sat in the hot tub and steam. Today, as usual, I allow myself to stay in bed as long as I want with the Sunday NYT. I'm looking at an ad for a purse that costs $2005. I thought for a moment it was the date. These ads are always in the section with international news and something called New York's Most Needy about a family living in a box with a crippled kid. 

I'm gonna go hang out with some poets. They don't usually have Cartier watches and 2 thousand dollar handbags.

My friend's parents are in town and they/we are going to Cafe Flor, a fancy gourmet veg restaurant and I don't have to pay. This is excellent because I have very little money at the moment. One of those balancing between sending a check and hoping it doesn't get cashed until after payday, which is weird because I pay myself...Well, this is my attempt at constraint. Sad, I know. 

Oh, poetry sucks. I hate it. If I could write some cheery Northwesty poetry about driftwood and unicorns, I know I would feel better. I'm wearing a purple shirt that I actually ironed. I don't know what possessed me. To iron. I think I am avoiding writing poetry. Because I hate it. It crawls into my brain and I say terrible things, not nice things at all, like I was raised. Bad girl, bad girl. 

My friend has tumors in her brain. Auntie Em, I just wanna go home.

A lotta babies lately. Because I lose sleep, and time, any ritual I might have becomes a moment when I did something with regularity but, uh, not now. Instead, I eat whole sleeves of little lemon cookies and stay up watching the first episode of Rome (ug, way too much violence) and listen to the cats fighting. Hugo (nee Wishbone) and Lola play fight and Lupine fights for real, growling, hissing, tufts of fur and general meanness. 

Tonight because it is so cold outside, I'm going to stand in the wet grass in my bare feet and stare up at the apple tree. This is the 'off' year when the tree makes zero apples, not a single blossom. Last year there were hundreds of apples. My neighbor's pear tree in covered. I await some grocery bags full of pears.

Pear sauce:

Cut up a bunch of pears with the skins.

Put them in a pot with a bit of water and a smidge of salt.

Cook down until they are all mashy

Put through a food processor

Eat warm. It tastes buttery and delicious. Better than homemade applesauce. 

I witness suffering, in my job, in life in general. Women tell me things. Sometimes terrible things. I hold it all. Humans are capable of the worst. And the best. You come around a corner and someone clobbers you or hands you a flower for free. 

I remember a TV show called "The Millionaire." John Ashford Tipton went around handing out checks for a million dollars from a mysterious stranger. The recipients would then proceed to screw up their lives. If someone came to my door and handed me a check for a million dollars, I would endow my artist friends so they could have a really nice vacation. A million dollars doesn't go very far any more. My friends couldn't retire or anything. They could go to Mexico and lie in a hammock in the sun with a big alcoholic beverage with a paper umbrella in it. A pink umbrella. 

I once had a drink in a pineapple. It was at a cheesy luau we went to in Maui. We were given plastic leis and there was a photographer who took our picture. There were piles of roast pig which I didn't eat. And poi. Poi is this greyish gluey stuff, starch of the masses in Hawaii. The best part of being there was swimming with the turtle. Big green turtles.

The last morning we were in Hawaii, I got up early and went swimming. Me and six turtles. I touched their shells, just a little. They were so beautiful, they fly in the water. I looked into their lidded eyes and fell in love. They didn't mind that I was swimming with them. Sometimes I think about them when I can't go to sleep. 

I'm watching Helen Mirren in Elizabeth I, so fantastic. Wigs and golden gowns and beheadings. I want to be her. Even white shoe polish on her face, or maybe zinc oxide. I'm going to begin calling myself 'we' as in 'we are not amused' or 'we will have tea for breakfast'. 

A friend of mine is dying of cancer. Or chemo, poisonous swill that it is. Therefore, I am eating chocolate truffles from a box that says Moonstruck surrounded by stars. 

I rode the Coast Starlight train to Portland and it was delayed 6 hours. We, the passengers, were remarkably tolerant, patient even. I reflected on transportation in India and decided that waiting for a train in Seattle wasn't so bad. The station is a ruin, like an old call girl, all smeary mascara and runs in her stockings. You can still see bits of marble and and a gorgeous sculpted ceiling. 

Coming back, I sat next to a very nice faggot named John and we talked the entire time. We both decided that we have to see a woman in the White House before we shuffle off this mortal coil. 

I have eaten every truffle so it must be time for bed. The Sunday NYT has to be dealt with.

 Stigmata

 

You are the one. Solid the spaces lean on, envious.

You are the baby in the barn                                                             

                                                                     -Sylvia Plath

 

 

wring wires to the metal pole   slub your thrust forward     sting elegies     wash your body in lavender    you lost Nepali amber   it burned against your throat     haze country    choice      you can always see the slide cracking fat     when skin ignites       look straight into your margins    study fish migrations   their bloody gilt     pile snow deep    swim out into the frozen gully     absent cardinal movements   dispose of letters home   balance your checkbook    fold laundry dark/light    therethere Nicholas   the tender knot    

This perky real estate person just came in my house with my ex to "evaluate" the worth of the house. It was a surreal experience. I haven't seen my ex up close for, oh, months and here she is with the perky real state person (prep) talking about the wainscoting and the nice windows and the high ceilings and the lovely floors. Gad. Eventually we get to hash it out with lawyers and such. 

Right after they left, I had a teeny glass of Scotch. 

I think humans are INSANE and cats are normal. Hugo (nee Wishbone) is trying to bury his food right now and Lola is chirruping at the birds on the other side of the glass.  Normal, totally normal. 

Ok, enough of this. I went to the tomato and basil plants tonight and apologized to them for planting them in the garden already. It's effing freezing out there. My huge jade plant will just have to deal. 

I just threw a shoe at Lupine, my diabolical semi-feral cat because she was beating up Lola (again). Gawd, what is the problem, the house is warm, they just had dinner, there are no dogs around anymore. Lupine was so sweet when I adopted her. Little did I know she was just weak from hunger (she ate a peanut butter sandwich) and as soon as she regained her strength, she started kicking butt. She'll bite and scratch for no earthly reason and I'm stuck. I can't give her to the pound. I can't give her away without some disclosure about her personality disorder. She's young and healthy and she'll probably outlive me. 

There is a pint of coffee Coconut Bliss, heroin for vegans, in the freezer and I'm not even tempted. I'm having a bagel with fake cream cheese and edamame for dinner. I know, not very balanced. 

It's hard to be an ethical person. I'm attempting to live in a alternate reality.

EasterSundayrain.  Melancholy has struck. This month last year my ex was in a very bad hit-and-run that landed her in the ICU. What is it with people who run over a person WITH THEIR CAR and then drive away? The carnage, the pain and horror. 

I am listening to Vivaldi's Concerto in C Major for oboe. The arpeggios alone are so strenuous and wonderful. And he doesn't even take a breath. He must have the lung capacity of a whale. 

I did it. I put together 40 poems for R to put into the yes/no piles. I have a goal to be published this year. Me, just myself, no anthology for me. No sir. 

I watched the first episode of Absolutely Fabulous last night. Again. Genius, pure and simple. I might have to watch the rest of the first season for the mood I'm in. 

When Matisse was old and sick and in bed, he painted the walls of his bedroom. He had his paint brushes tied to long sticks like fishing rods so he could reach. I am somewhat the same. This morning I ordered the entire AbFab collection from Amazon and I downloaded the sound track from Slumdog Millionaire into my IPod, all from my bed. See, almost identical. 

Oh, last night driving home, I passed the house where Kurt Cobain died. There is a little park next door and there is a bench in the park. The people who own the house now tore down the building where he actually died but people visit the park and use the bench as a memorial. For the last few days there have been flowers on the bench and last night there were lighted candles...for our own poet. 

Last night was my writer's workshop and so heavenly to be in Rebecca's living room with snacks and wine and R's famous Alice in Wonderland teapot. Because I spend too much time alone, going out to hang with writers makes me so happy, especially poets. 

Aftereffects of my retreat: I woke up during the night and lay weeping for all the animals I have eaten in my life. I asked forgiveness from them and it was a dang long list. 

Time to go swimming in the city pool. Me and the old ladies in their big old bathing suits in water aerobics class. I might get me one of those suits with a little skirt on it, like the hippos in Fantasia. In pink.

I pray for R and her teeth.

When I can, like today, I stay in bed and drag the NYT with me and the latest SUN and read. The window is open, I can hear a bird at the top of the tallest tree and the traffic has nothing to do with me. I answer the phone if I want. I can see eagles circling in the skylight. Swallows just crossed together. Birds are flying everywhere with bits of fluff in their beaks.

When I was on retreat in California, I climbed the very steep, tall hills until I got to the ridge. I could see the Golden Gate bridge and the Richmond bridge and the water... Along the ridge line was a fence and at one end sat the vultures and ravens. I got so close to them I almost touched them. They swiveled their heads and slowly opened their massive wings and launched, floating on the thermals. I could sense flying, opening to the free fall as they tipped and turned their wings slightly, moving up and down in the shadowy depressions looking for lunch.  They were a constant presence during the retreat, circling over and over high above us as we did walking meditation.

Today the sun shone upon the people and the people did squinteth and the people did fumble for sunglasses and the males of the species wore kilts and sneakers and the females of the species wore barely anything and they eyed one another and little bubbles rose in their heads and the hormone levels rose as well as body parts and there were thoughts of merging and mating and building a nest for the eggs and ordering pizza and watching movies very closely on the couch without any clothes or birth control and the midwives rejoiceth for the increase in business when the pregnancy tests looketh like + instead of - and the moral of the story is, um, use sunscreen and beware of kilted men when you are blinded by the yellow orb in the sky. 

The End

This is a picture of my garden with SUN and WARMTH. It is the best I can do for the current dismal weather situation.

WTF, more snow???? This is not the northeast where that sort of thing is, well, common. I grew up there and got out as soon as I could, snow on the crocus and daffs. I think if I hadn't gone to California for a month, I would have been OK. They have sun there almost every day. All day. And people take it for granted. I'm bloody sick of this. 

I miss the wild turkeys at the retreat center. There was a flock of them. They are, in a word, ridiculous. The males puff all up, fluff up their feathers, fan out their tales and change their wattles from white to red. OK, their wattles look like facial scrotums, eewww. And they have this wormy thingy hanging down from their beaks. Then they foof out their wings and drag them on the ground and make huffing noises if they aren't gobbling. Ridiculous, absolutely ridiculous. But I guess the girl turkeys think they are hot. I watched a mating pair. I wasn't sneaking around, just walking down the road and there they were. The male climbed on top and hung on (by the way, turkeys are BIG) and started bouncing around until the female was basically flattened on the pavement with her wings out while making a kind of erping sound. When he was "done", he hopped off and wandered away. No snuggling or cigarettes or anything. Turkey love. 

  

No, I did not get enlightened, stop asking me. But I have a story but for the squeamish, please avert your eyes. (this is for you special, April).

On retreat you get up at, o, dark-thirty. Then after bells and sitting, you go to breakfast and eat at a time you would usually be unconscious. Gruel with raisins bits or some such. The other two meals have serious roughage and BEANS, lots 'o beans. See where I'm headed here. Imagine a room full of meditators in total silence desperately squeezing so they don't publicly embarrass themselves as the person in the maroon sweatshirt who farts in the dharma hall. Or you're bending over in qi gong and-oops, sorry, only you can't say anything. 

So, as a last resort, I took my farty butt up the monstrous hills around the the center to fart out loud for a while. However, there was a woman on the trail behind me. I let her go ahead of me because a) she was younger and b) see above and I didn't want to scare her or expose her to downwind emissions. I talked to her, yes I did, and she admitted that she had a similar intention. So we walked together for a while and let a few rip, it was heavenly.  She didn't mind, even though she couldn't match me. Now we're friends. 

I apologize for this story and I promise I won't revisit any more issues of this nature, delicate reader.  I will say though that once I was camping at a hot springs resort in California and woke up to DEER farting and belching right outside the tent. Ruined me forever thinking deer were so pretty like Bambi. 

Alright, enough of this. 

Reentering the world is weird. I don't want to work anymore. I just want to garden and read books and sit under a little cherry tree with the sun shining on my head. 

I'm BAAAAAAACK.

The retreat was awesome, a word I swore I would never use again. And I am having trouble spelling, typing, driving, being around people and noise and civilization and stuff.

I'll write more when I get sorted out. 

Today is my, ahem, birthday and there was effing SNOW all around when I woke up. Enough already. I go out and garden, I should be putting in lettuce and spinach, but no, school gets cancelled again and we are faced with yet another dilemma, footwear during inclement weather. I want inflatable wooden waterproof shoes. I have nervous feet and this would help them. 

Monday I go into silence for a month. 

I just ate an entire bag of "veggie chips". The back says there are 8 servings of 150 calories each so...I just had enough calories for the rest of the day, yeah! I don't feel guilty because I swam a mile today and had virtuous oatmeal and soymilk for breakfast. I think they shouldn't put the calories per serving on the backs of things. I know I am eating a lot of oil, salt and carbs. Don't flog me with calories. We need calories. They made Columbus convince Queen Isabella to give him some ships to find the spice route. Without calories, his presentation would have lacked pizazz. I do wish I could have been around for the arguments about round versus flat. I mean, you sail off into the pretty sunset and then----poof, you fall off the edge of the earth. Just like that. 

Here is a synopsis of my life as a midwife.

1. Wake up with a pounding heart because the pager has gone off and scared the crap out of you. Go to the birth. You never know when you will be home again. Could take hours, days, minutes. 

2. Lose a lot of sleep. Hang with the family cat/dog and your students. Eat whatever is around. Some families have their births catered, fercripesake. However, with my dietary restrictions, I can eat, oh, bread and bananas and peanut butter. 

3. Take naps in your clothes. Wake up and wonder where you are. Brush your teeth because your breath is dreadful.

4. Finally, the birth is nie (a scrabble word) and the babe is born. Then there is clean-up, suturing, more clean-up and a fair well goodbye. You drive home in a semi-awake stupor, veering back into your lane whenever you hit the yellow turtles. 

5. At home, the cats have had several fights so there are tufts of fur everywhere. Also, someone has pooped behind the big ficus. No one takes any credit for this. You clean up some more, feed the little darlings and eat a bowl of cold cereal. Then, depending on the time of day, you crawl to your bed under the skylight or you crash on the couch where it is a tad darker.

6. You wake up again, wondering where you are, what time is it, is it morning or night, is there any soy ice cream. Then you realize you have clinic in an hour. And you adrenals are broken. 

I am behaving like this retreat is PRISON and I have to watch all the movies, eat all the chocolate and stay up late NOW because there is serious depravation ahead. Voluntary, I know. You don't have to remind me. 

My friend Ruby told me about a teacher who runs retreats for 10 days and you just sit, you don't even do walking meditation. My legs would seriously fall off. I'd have to hop around on the stumps and look sadly at my former legs. Just lying there. All because I tried sitting for  10 hours straight. 

I am leaving for a month-long retreat a week from today. No cell phones, no internet, no books, no writing. I'll be in northern California, in the country with Jack Kornfield and my beloved teacher, Adrienne Ross. I have never been in silence for a month before. Perhaps I will forget how to talk. 

Silence is difficult, by the way, and beautiful. Daily dharma talks, interviews with the teachers and sitting with anger, fear, doubt, etc. Voluntarily. 

In the locker room at the pool, there were two ladies in the shower. At first they were talking about camelbacks and the lovely camelbacks at the camelback sale. After a while they switched to camelback RUGS, an item I can't explain. One of the ladies just had to buy two, one for the hallway, you should come over and see it, such pretty colors. The other lady laughed in that fakey way, har, har, har and went to dry her hair. They were both large ladies with beautiful thick haunches, substantial and smooth. I was hoping to use the word haunches in a sentence and I have.

Now the world is coated in a film, blurry and gray. The house is cold because I don't turn on the heat unless I'm desperate. The furnace goes on by itself as if it is trying to protect me. Lola gets under the covers with me and drools on the pillow. 

Tonight is a workshop and again, I have nothing to wear...and I might miss out because there is someone in early labor. My job certainly gets in the way of my life. 

In the new ear, all artists will be supported by everybody, like monastics in the East. We are sorta the same. We keep odd hours, we talk to ourselves (or not at all), we like our own kind and we are vehemently kind to animals. 

I went to a park with J in Portland (land of really polite people) and there were WOOD DUCKS. No, not Ed Wood ducks, the pretty, multicolored kind with about a thousand colors and red maroony breasts all stippled with light dots. They were beautiful and I wanted to marry all of them. Their wives/girlfriends/friends with benefits were not half so dreamy. The boys have purple, red, blue and stripes and flavors, o, who thought to make them that way? And there were a dozen or so. The Canada geese were behaving rudely, sticking out their pink tongues and gakking and chasing one another. It was just jealousy. Wood ducks are movie stars.

J and I went skiing by Mount Hood on one of those perfect days with sun and the right temperature and great snow. *sigh* Of course, I headed right off and fell halfway down a pretty big hill and could. not. get. up. So embarrassing. It's cross-country skiing, fer cripes sake. I floundered around, making pathetic little circles while looking up the hill to see if anyone was going to come barreling down and ski right over me, probably killing me. I had to take my skis off and flop over to the side of the track to put them back on AFTER getting to my feet. I was swearing and sweating. Then J showed up after missing the whole thing. I couldn't even get any sympathy. No one saw my humiliation. Maybe I wasn't humiliated. Naw, I was.

I am getting the hang of the vegan thing.

Tofu "strips" modified from the Brietenbush cookbook.

one block of extra-firm tofu, cut very thin
1/4 cup tamari
1/4 cup oil
1 tsp poultry seasoning
1 tsp onion powder ( or more of these)
1 tsp garlic powder
some curry powder
some cayenne powder
a bunch of brewers yeast

smear the bottom of a pan with the stuff

lay all the strips down, no over lap

brush with the goop, liberally

bake in 425 oven for 20-30 minutes, until slightly crispy.

yum.

Oh-oh, all those people leaving Starbucks with a cardboard box. I can't be laid off because I work for myself. 

The wind blew through the rafters all night and in the morning we were covered with stars.

I want to write about things I shouldn't. My mother taught me to be polite, certainly death to creativity and freedom. Polite is quaint, like a potato masher or darning eggs. There are some items that are not going well, My divorce is not going well (I have a headache), the economy is not going well, there is an amorphous sense of dread.

We went to an open mic last night in an effing snowfall. We got there way too early but scoped the joint. We came back later and a mic had been set up and there were a few musicians, not too bad. Then a few poems and we learned to barge in, so we did, one after the other. Josh and I fell into a giggling fit when he showed me a poem about a dead goose. We should have been escorted out. We weren't being rude exactly, just not polite.

I'm drinking a hot toddy tonight. Brandy, hot water, a bit of agave, a squeeze of lemon and the rind, and a smidge of cinnamon. I don't think there is anything wrong with sleeping on the couch in my clothes without brushing my teeth. I can if I want.

Mostly, I miss J so much my bones hurt.

What will happen to all of us?

Snow again? It's almost gone from the skylight. Wishbone came in and got muddy footprints all over my white robe, which was on the floor, admittedly. I'm going to an open mic tonight with Kelly and Josh. I used to go to an open mic every month with my friend Maryanne. She taught me the ground rules. Sign up, but don't be the first or too far down the list. If you're first, you have to suffer through the whole night of other readers. If you're too close to the end, people have a) left b) gotten drunk or c) aren't listening because they've already read and they don't care anymore.. Other rules: be polite (totally impossible), don't leave until everyone else has read (also impossible) and don't BORE the audience with long-winded explanations of the genesis of your work. If it is funny and short, you can get away with it. I like the Rebecca Loudon suggestion: get up, punch them with a few great pieces and then sit down. It helps if you have some great poems, of course.

So I went to a Red Sky open mic once and there was a guy who got up and sat at the piano. Uh-oh, I thought. He had a crumpled and folded notebook which he propped on the stand and he started in. He proceeded to BANG on the keys with no apparent intention except to make a lot of noise while shouting his poem from the notebook which kept slipping from the stand and landing on the keyboard. It was deafening and alarming. And I couldn't understand him at all. We sat in the audience, pinned like moths to a board, with glazed and gaping expressions. You know the look. You could see the little bubbles over people's heads...how can I get outa here, omigod, this is excruciating, when will he stop, I gotta pee, etc. Mercifully, Paul Hunter the emcee, thanked him about 5 minutes in and signaled the end of the night.

I still get scared when I read but once I have read one poem, I feel better. Someone once said, know your audience. And how do you do that? Read a zombie poem and see how they react. Oh, and watch out for zombies ahead when you're driving. They make pesky speed bumps.

The snow is actively melting now and I have gardening to do.

The moon is slashing through the skylight. I can't sleep. The black tea didn't help. I bought my plane ticket for California. I'm going on retreat (again). This time for a month in silence. Silence, no talking, no phones, pagers, computers, books, etc etc. In the country. With the deer and some dharma teachers.

My 15 pound cat is sitting on my altar. He looks like Shiva. All he needs is a crown. The city glitters and the radio towers are winking their red eyes.

Tonight I watched the first part of Angels in America. I miss James, Jim, Richard, Alison and Tommy. Good night, my darlings.

How to write poems-by Beth Coyote

1. Prepare ye the way.
2. Have a bath.
3. Rummage.
4. Look for your mother's pearl necklace (which has been missing for 3 years)again.
5. Eat a few cookies.
6. Flex.
7. Clean out the garage.
8. Re-read a batch of old poems. Congratulate yourself for your (obvious) brilliance.
9. Sneak up to your computer and pound out a plethora of words.
10. Have a glass of good wine.
11. Have another.
12. Revise.
13. Pare.
14. Fall asleep on the couch.
15. Wake up in your clothes with wine stains on your chin and crumbs in your bra.
16. Repeat.

There is a space, o about 1/2 hour, when the mom in labor stops fighting what is happening inside her and she spaces out and becomes angelic, surrendered and floaty. It is my favorite place. Then I know everything is going to be ok.

J was lying in bed and I said, wait-I want to read this to you.

Then I read Cadaver Dogs by Rebecca Loudon.

When I was done, she said, wow, soft-like.

Uh-uh, I said.

Being A Person

Be a person here. Stand by the river. Invoke
the owls. Invoke winter, then spring.
Let any season that wants to come here make its own
call. After that sound goes away, wait.

A slow bubble rises through the earth
and begins to include sky, stars, all space,
even the outracing, expanding thought.
Come back and hear the little sound again.

Suddenly this dream you are having matches
everyone's dream, and the result is the world.
If a different call came there wouldn't be any
world, or you. or the river, or the owls calling.

How you stand here is important. How you
listen for the next things to happen. How you breathe.

William Stafford

I have been listening to harp music all day. There is only one fallacy and I have forgotten it in the stumble. Wipe down the counters and go home, Madge.

When I was in the 6th grade, I was chosen to write to President Eisenhower for his birthday. Apparently my handwriting was the best in the class, according to Mrs Schultz, even better than Lee Hetu who got pissed that I was chosen. I have never felt the urge to write to a president again, until now.

Dear Barack,

I'm not worried for myself. I'm worried about the families I take care of, the ones having babies. The ones raising babies. Around here, it's me and the cats. But the faces of the mothers and fathers follow me into sleep. They crowd my room when I wake up.

I'm on my way to a birth tonight. I want all the mothers and fathers to have work and houses and food. Would you see what you can do?

Your friend,

Beth

Welcome to Denver

Maya and I went to Denver this weekend and heard the piece Diane Benjamin wrote using five poems about women/war/peace etc. One of the poems was mine and I thought, what the heck, I'll go and hear the Denver Women's Choir sing it. So we went to Denver, which if you have never been, is very clean and very high up in the air so you get out of breath going up stairs. There was much groovy-ness (sp-help me Martha!) there, electro cars, rent-a bikes for city employees, vegan restaurants and lots o space. I think the city might be itty and then there is massive prarie all around, not many trees. Today on the way to the airport we saw three coyotes (howdy brothers!) loping along beside the highway. Also the sign above. Hmmm. Thoughtful, too.

Everyone was so polite and helpful. It made me a little nervous. We tried to visit the State capitol building but it was closed. However, the art museum wasn't and we spent all afternoon there. Oh, Denver has sun, something I'm not used to in a city, Seattle being a hobbit hole type of place. And the art museum had beautiful light, so much so that the prone woman who looks so lifelike in a surreal way has to be put in a shady place because otherwise she gets 'tan'. I'm never sure about making art that looks exactly like something; bodies, hairdryers, hubcaps, etc out of lipstick or gum wrappers or dental floss. I prefer big messy canvases so I can go up to them and bury myself in the paint and the brush strokes. One painting was a copy of a photograph a la Chuck Close and you couldn't even see any strokes, it was absolutely smooth.

I forgot that the concert involved music. Singing. Beautiful voices. I thought I might jump out of my skin. I was asked to stand up TWICE as one of the poets. I'm sure I turned a deep horrid red. 'My' poem-song had a soloist, egad and her voice was lovely. I thought after jumping up and making a fool of myself I would faint or cry big heaving sobs. And with my kid beside me. Fortunately, I held it together and didn't wet myself after all. When I get a copy of the concert, I'll post it, if I can stand it. The conposer told me she might contact me again with a request to write for her.

Oh, the Seattle ariport is a wee bit lax in the security check area. They missed a (mostly)empty tube of toothpaste, skin lotion and most importantly, a tiny penknife on my key chain. O0000. But those Denver folks were on the ball! They even gave me a baggie to put my non-offending items in after giving me a lecture and pointing out the 4 oz lettering on the tubes and waggling the dreadful penknife in my face. I was appropriately chasened. And the city was saved by their quick wittedness.

Rebecca read Cadaver Dogs last night at Hugo House. In the whole universe, that poem the way she reads it, it festers, it shakes, it rolls toward the red red sea.

Rebecca reads tonight from Cadaver Dogs and I'm going. Obama is the new prez too. I wonder how he spent his day? I'm still getting choked up. My astrologer says I'm gonna be in chaos for a while longer so look out. What does that mean? Don't walk in wind storms so trees don't fall on me? Too late-well, no trees fell but try to keep me from wind storms. They're great, esp the ones you can lean into and not fall down. Weather reminds us we have bodies, lungs and legs and such.

I'm going for the last of the sunlight and thank a goddess my friends and I still have jobs. Thank you, Athena.

I just remembered on this most wonderful day. When I was in Kopan, the monastery in Kathmandu, there was a nun who had two rabbits in a cage. She would feed them greens and walk around the stupa chanting mantras for their benefit. One bunny was brown, the other was black and white.

Lucky bunnies.

It is officially Tuesday, Obama's big day. I'm going to drink hot chocolate and watch the festivities in my bathrobe. For some reason, it is a work day. No one should work today. There should be more dancing, singing and merriment. Everyone should get their jobs and houses back. The prison doors open. Animals quit factory farms. Puppy mills and dog fights end forever. Everyone has enough to eat and a place to live. And warm clothes. Everyone is loved. Alright, even mosquitoes.

O joy, o rapture, as they say in Oz.

Salmonella in peanut butter is not acceptable. We vegans LIVE on peanut butter. Peanut butter toast, scrambled peanut butter, peanut butter soup, etc. Without peanut butter we are bereft. We will turn to tofu.

I went to Portland and J beat me at Scrabble every time. I did not win once, not once. Why, you ask, do I keep playing. I keep thinking I will win this time, this time is my time. I live in delusion.

We had to buy a Scrabble game so we went to the mall. I walked down the doll aisle and there were these Sweet Baby dolls that started cooing and babbling when I walked by. Creepy, so creepy. You squeeze their tummies and they giggle and squeal. Gross.

Tuesday holy cow.

Oh, I washed my CPR, NNR and midwifery license cards in the wash. They must have been in a pocket. They are VERY CLEAN. And curly now they are dried.

I just took this on-line test for neonatal resuscitation because I have to every few years and work on a baby dummy too. Anyway, I did ok except for the ethics part of the test which I just barely passed. Oh-oh. My lack of ethics have caught up with me. The questions were not very hard but when you start talking about ethics committees and lawyers, I just freeze up. The old worm hole of life and death. Shudder.

I read poetry tonight in Kirkland. It could have been worse. It could have been Everett, though I have nothing against Everett. It's just farther away from my leetle home.

Then we ate sushi and drank sake. Sake is yummy, esp the cunning wee cups. The poetry had nothing to do with sushi. It was a mall moment. The bookstore was in a mall. There are many malls in Kirkland and they all look alike. I couldn't find the bookstore and I almost gave up in despair but with perseverance and help from a nice QFC lady, I found the effing bookstore and my friend who was reading. She read a lot of sexy poems with great verve. I was surprised because I hadn't seen her verve before. Most enjoyable.

Those are the Himalayas from the airplane window. Uh, Yeti airlines.

I was on Yeti airlines sucking on a little mint waiting for a yeti to come down the aisle in an apron and a ginger ale. I was sadly disappointed.

love affliction

“The showers are for bathing. Please do not urinate in the showers.
Use the toilets for urination.”

Medgar Evars Swimming Pool, Seattle, WA



sweetmeat

I don’t care about your back taxes or the hole in your roof your thighs are my favorite kind of dessert topping my hands hurt from the roses they are bastards ripping your special LL Bean outerwear catalog with their name tags I crave your beatitudes when you exhale I see stars oh the milky way melts on my navel I have a series to co-write with the endangered species act so wait for me in the backseat our special date night I rub the naugahyde with my taillights I could caress your stumps all day lick my grammatical errors I’ll drink your bathtub if you fill it with delicious eyebuds all my dreams came true when you showed up at the Jiffy Mart in an adorable ski mask I know you didn’t mean to step on my feet that’s ok I have more feet I love your verbal poetry the way you use a nail gun piss off the porch I’ll give you a gangplank polish my apple I’ll give you a headlock quell your phobias with a Cub Scout I’ll give you a wallop

your affectionate lout

What's with curling-the sport, eh? Scrubbing a big round stone thing with brooms up and down the court. I bet it's Scottish. Love Oban, but haggis, kilts and large stick heaving, well, they are sorta my people so I can scoff.

I submitted poems tonight. It only took about 4 hours because my cable/internet is glacial.

Wishbone has passed out on the scratching post after frollicking with catnip. I say, "Hey, you wanna get high?" and they come right over. Three cat faces looking up at me, waiting to roll in catnip. I think they should go to work tomorrow so I can stay here in my bathrobe all day.

One thing about being vegan. It's a cheap grocery ride. Everything has some kind of animal in it. I will admit, I bought leather shoes when I was on Orcas Island. Major sale, helping the islanders with their dreadful xmas season...And anyway, they are red. Who can refuse red shoes?

I have been staying up way too late, too afraid to go to sleep. Um, I just don't want to sleep, yes, I know it is a symptom of depression, so? Maybe I'm not quite over my brother's death. Maybe there are monsters under the bed waiting for me to fall asleep so they can eat me. I'm going to bed right now, with the NYT. And a handful of cats.

I just saw "Slumdog Millionaire" and it made me want to go back to India, Mumbai yikes. The mountains of trash, slums, incessant traffic, horns honking and dirty, raggety little kids begging. The movie kinda gets it right, the garbage and the beauty, saris in all colors next to flea bitten dogs. I have a fever, India fever...

Martha actually wrote an ode for the inauguration (I almost said coronation). She used quotes and the right form. She did the assignment. I looked at it and dismissed it but not Martha. And, as ever, she was color coordinated. And Martha is our punctuation person. Without her, we would all be lost in the hell of misplaced commas and incorrect---. Thank Thor she is there to straighten us out.

I think I will start thanking ancient gods and goddesses for stuff. Especially Demeter for letting us have a bit more light every day. This darkness at four in the afternoon is positively depressing. And Persephone, the twit, don't get me started.

I'm still in my bathrobe. Oh-oh. My answering service called to tell me they are closing...it's the economy, stupid. I have one week to find another service. Okey, dokey.

I'm going outside soon. Being vegan is no fun. No scrambled eggs. No cheese. No oysters. It is tragic. I go to the Co-op for food; lettuce, hummus, crackers. *sigh*

In California, vegans are groovy. They have vegan hotels, vegan coffee bars and vegan cars. Honest.

Ha! My computer went to the computer hospital today so I had to finish a poem today for workshop tomorrow and now I can't worry about it. No grousing about how I have nothing and I hate poetry.

My neighbor started cursing me when it began to snow (again!) the other day, like it was my fault. And I suppose the rain is my fault too. Ok, sure, I'll take the blame. Except for chia pets and paint by numbers. I will not take the blame for those.

All right. I used to do paint by numbers. The paint smelled really delicious. Smelling paint by numbers paint when I was a child probably led to my life of drug addiction and crime.

I'm at my clinic. Guess I'll swim home now. By the way, DON'T DRIVE INTO FLOODED AREAS. THIS IS THE PRIMARY CAUSE OF DEATH DUE TO FLOODING.

I hate that, sitting in your car and you can't open the doors because of the water and you just sit there like a dummy because you ignored the warnings. Don't let this happen to you. And if you must drive into the Snoqualamie, don't say I didn't warn you.

Love and kisses,

Beth

Marti I’m damned sorry about your sister we walked all that way in the dark with other pilgrims signs pictures as if the dead could hear us as if they would come back or they’d be waiting at the finish line to wave at us not these pathetic candles as we sat before ghosts and wept I don’t mean to be maudlin on Orcas Island the weather is big today and it is 2009 and we will have a prince in the whited house at least we hope so he will get us out of the mess so there will be fewer suicides by rope poison jumping bullets carbon monoxide our savior will prevent all future hopelessness to occur we know this is not possible we are aware by our own familiar routines forever altered swerving we swerved to avoid the same accident as you and I look at our daughters our lovers our closets and kitchens and carpets and dust we know anyone is capable of such a thing such a terrible thing a knife in the belly pills in the hand we held hands to remind us we owe others our lives our industry love we have spent crave to feel what life is with the suffering we know is ahead we survived we lived in the past suicides were buried in unhallowed ground as if you or I believe this but there it is the ultimate erasure that unmoors us unmoors everyone today on Orcas I think about Geoffrey I think about you and your sister how they made us take a journey we did not want to take I look at the foaming water and I know I could not walk into her depths and drown they were consumed they had a plan they could not help themselves can we forgive them? can we forgive ourselves? in fierce love Beth

I am addicted to the NYT. I get it delivered every Sunday. My system goes like this. First, the front page section, which is always grim, bad news around the world with occasional bright spots. like the blind lady whose service animal is a black and white miniature horse named Panda. Then, the Week in Review section, the pundits on the latest imbroglio in Washington. Oh, I immediately toss the sports section and the financial section (I am a grasshopper, after all.) Then I spend some time with Arts, dance which I will probably never see, plays I will never attend, well, not in New York and movies, which I might. Then (rub hands here for emphasis) the Style section. Oh glee, oh joy, the problems of the very rich, esp right now. Among the latest cocktail recipes and the most exclusive Manhattan club opening and who saw whom, is a half page of pics of New Yorkers, in their styley garb. Always some fab gay guys in lime green capes and dandified shoes. In winter a feature on mini dogs dressed in furs sticking out of designer bags that cost a college education. Hemlines and boots, what to wear when it is cold or hot or Easter Sunday. This past Sunday, a series of pics of somebody wearing their collection of designer coats from previous years. The poor dear, having to wear something old...sigh. What next, last year's shoes? Oh gawd.

There was even an article once about a surgeon who was amputating women's little toes so they could fit into their Jimmy Choo's. The hubris! The pathos! The entertainment value!

Well, my car has arrived and I must go. My mani and pedi await.

When the oil light comes on and the engine starts to make a funny sound, STOP THE CAR RIGHT AWAY. Honest, I would not make this up. No, we can't get to the next exit, really, it's right up there, etc because then the car sounds like a broken dish washer, which is not a good sound and it will be a very expensive vacation plus having to call your sister to come and get you and the tow truck guy might have a concealed weapon and so forth.

New Year's Reso # 12

I'm just trying to be effing helpful.

Back, la-la, back from Orcas Island, a very beautiful place with a cabin and a fireplace and eagles and big booming waves. I cooked better than ever, something about having a minimum of ingredients and someone else's utensils and no tv or radio or internet or cellphones. Ah, bliss. It was effing cold so we holed up and played Scrabble every evening. I suck at Scrabble. I am so competitive too. It was difficult not to pout when I used words like 'moue' and 'raspy' and I still lost.

I have a new favorite bird. They're called kinglets and they have greenish feathers and black stripes on their faces and yellow or red stripes on the tops of their heads. And they're weensy. They do a hover too, like humming birds. People go all shivery for eagles and hawks but chicadees and juncos are more interesting. And they let you get up close to them while they pick around at your feet.

All the cats are lying on me. They missed me and they didn't poop everywhere like that one time...just a bit of barf, nothing to get excited about really.

For the vegan challenged, here's a recipe I made up with leftover quinoa:

A few cups of cooked quinoa
sauteed onion and garlic, just a 1/2 cup
2 tbs sesame tahini
1/2 cup chopped pecans
1/2 cup brewer's yeast (very important)
a bunch of curry powder
1/4 cup grated fake cheese
salt
chopped parsey for color

I tried to make it into patties to fry in olive oil but it stuck and fell apart so I ended up scrambling it. It was crunchy and curry-ish and delish. I would add some currents next time.

I made it to San Rafael via an Amtrak experience that took 6 1/2 hours to get to Portland from Seattle ( when the train is going backward, you do not get to your destination very fast) and then a 12 hour car ride over the river and through the woods, etc.

Now I am listening to Jesus Christ Superstar coming from my grandson's bedroom and I am a bit worried. He's 6 and JCSS was his choice. It is the music he chose to go to sleep to...Um, well, I like Handel's Messiah so I can sing out loud in the car with a harpsicord, timpani and soloists who I sound better than. JCSS coming from Milo's bedroom sounds like zombies or car mechanics when they tell you it's going to cost at least a thousand five.

There is sun here and no snow. Seattle had more snow than was really necessary. On the morning of the 24th, I was watching MORE EFFING SNOW falling on my deck and I got all weepy and sorry for myself. I called my daughter and told her I wasn't coming, I told J not to expect me and I was going to spend Xmas by myself, wha, wha, wha. My daughter's b'day is the 25th. But the weather demons decided to send a bit of melt and my neighbor took pity on me and drove me to the train station and, well, you know the rest.

G-d rest ye merry gentlemen and so forth. Being vegan this time of year is challenging. I've been cheating a little. Because of chocolate. And because I have very little willpower.

We got a piece of plywood and we put the train tracks together and we hooked up the power thingy and we made the train go. We were brilliant. Milo wore his engineer's hat and he lay on the floor and watched the train go around and around. The engine even has a little light. So cool.

Now we're waiting for a baby cuz babies want to be born in a frickin' snow buried city. I took the bus and walked many blocks to get to my clinic today. This bus ride was as entertaining as last. The driver talked to himself the entire trip, "whoa, there, a big skid, well, here we go, stand back, I gotta see the side mirror, well, that looks like a mess up ahead, I'm riding in the middle of the road to avoid the ice, whoa, a large bump, etc." There were so many people on the bus, a few folks were sitting on the stairs in front of the pneumatic doors, which is, I think, against regulations. And we drove by people standing and waiting because we were so full. Reminded me of the NYC subways, so smooshed together you can't turn around.

I did see a snow plow on Rainier today. quite shocking. I thought they were mythical beasts in Seattle.

In this weather, I feel smarter, fresher, more alive. I think my parents put me in the snow when I was born and I didn't die so they brought me inside and raised me. I still have a tail.

I picked J up at the train station. Actually, I went on the bus, egad, public transportation because driving in Seattle in an effing snow storm is suicidal, to parse. I grew up in terrible weather and I learned to drive there. Black ice, mountains of snow, etc. So those who are clueless get in their 4 wheel drives (or not) without chains and think a drive to the Safeway is a good idea. No, it is not. The 11 o'clock news is gleeful with car smack-ups, sliding into guard rails, backwards down hills, sideways on sidewalks. So, sensibly, I took the metro, vehicle of the people and it worked out fine.

Well, except for the frozen walk to the hall where the Messiah was being performed and we carried J's luggage. So what if we looked homeless. I was wearing a sequined top that belonged to my grandmother and I felt glamorous, even with a runny nose. We had dinner, we listened to Handel's old chestnut like good Americans...and then there was the issue of getting back to the house. So...

The bus, only now it is almost midnight and like the night bus in Harry Potter, the passengers were sketchy. We lumbered on with luggage and found seats, ah ha but we lurched only a few blocks and had to change buses. The second bus had some issues with the door not closing and a girl with a flashlight when with lights went out and some gangbangers in the back where we were. Then a large gentleman got in, covered with bling and carrying a cigar and a bottle of champagne, which he proceeded to open and take large slugs from. Um, well, he began rapping, rather drunkenly and making clicking, whistling sounds which I thought were signs of Tourettes. I made the mistake of looking at him so he decided to issue threats along the line of "busting heads" and "assaulting you, what you looking at, etc" We disembarked the bus, dragging luggage, a bit earlier, like 6 blocks earlier but it was a lovely night and sparkling cold and we weren't interested in busted heads. All in all, a brilliant public transportation experience.

Oh, and while I was sitting there, I was across from some "Poetry on the Buses" posters and, well, yetch. They made my teeth hurt. Call me a curmudgeon but why does poetry have a bad name? Because anything passes for poetry and it is dreck. Poetry is HARD to write, it takes skill, no, not everyone can write poetry. Ok, I said it, so put me in jail. Study poetry, read a lot of poetry,

OMG, it snowed so much. I went to Seward Park on skis and skied around and back up the hill and was out for 3 hours. I was wiped when I got home. This is a perfect reason to drink large quantities of hot chocolate, which I made with rice milk because of the vegan thing. So, rice milk, powered cocoa, agave, vanilla, cinnamon and a smidge of cayenne. It was thick and delicious.

However. There is the issue of getting into the hot tub when it is snowing and there is about 8 inches of snow on the deck, stairs, etc. So, under cover of semi-darkness, you put on a robe and gum boots (very sexy) and go down the stairs which you have not shoveled. You have a vision of slipping and falling into the snow where you will be found tomorrow, frozen to the deck in your white terrycloth robe with a busted leg. You manage to get to the hot tub and the cover has about 100 pounds of snow on it, which you struggle to lift. Then, you balance on one leg while you ease out of one boot, then the other and fling your legs into the tub without getting the bathrobe wet. Oh, the bathrobe. Just put it on the folded back cover where you hope it won't slide into the water. Ah, lovely steamy water. Fantasy #2, you climb out and make it up the stairs to find that you have locked yourself out. Hypothermia sets in and the frozen to the deck scenario ensues. I accomplished all of this without dying. It was brilliant, as they say in a
Australia.

When I have lots of unstructured time, I noodle. I read a bit, I clean a bit, do some laundry, go for a run, etc,etc. All so I don't have to write effing poetry. I am reading Lunar Park, a rather creepy, compulsive book. The author actually makes a living by writing. Imagine a poet deciding he/she is going to make a living by writing poetry. Guaranteed starvation and ruin. Ridiculous. I sold some chapbooks and came out even once. And a composer gave me $200 to use a poem she put to music. And Dana gave me a dollar once to read my poem at a workshop. That's it, that's the extent of it. Cripes.

I think I will go to an open mike in January. I can read a new-ish poem and weird people out. Northwesty types like herons in their poems, not suicide/dead/father in the baseboards kind of poems. Ah well.

I went to the Apple genius bar today and the angel who helped me was MY AGE, not twelve. I was so happy I almost cried. And she showed me stuff like how to get the computer to accept my India pictures and turn them into a slide show. Tomorrow I am going to show random people on the street my pictures, with music. I am so slick now.

However, why is it when you move your computer from one room to another, unplugging it, the internet then refuses to work, the light on the thingy won't come on, even with help from some nice young woman half a world away you can barely understand.? Why is this??? So tomorrow, if we are not buried in snow, I will go out and buy a modem/router thing and perhaps we will have a working computer at the office by tomorrow night, maybe not. I didn't leave work until 11 PM and this is unacceptable.

My honey comes on Friday and we are going to hear the Messiah. I usually sing in a sing-along and before you snort milk out your nose, it is way fun. I love it. I do it almost every year. Besides, the choir director is really cute. Anyway, to sit and listen to people sing much better than I do will be difficult. I might have to jump up and down in place. "Oh, death, where is thy sting?" (my favorite duet). Maybe by jumping up and down I can make my voice wobble.

There is bad awful juju going on right now and I can't really talk about it except to say that children should not play with guns, parents need to unload them and lock them up, ok? I grew up with guns in the house and my dad or my brothers unloaded them and locked them away in a cabinet. We NEVER played with them.

And more bad things are happening and I won't go there. I sent money to the nuns in Kopan monastery in Nepal and they will say prayers for healing for a whole year for some people I love. Parts of this year has really sucked. I'm not sure how we carry all the sorrow and all the pleasure at the same time, how to hold it. All the comings and all the goings.

I might have popcorn for dinner with brewer's yeast on it. I haven't been drinking at all but maybe tonight I should have a wee bit of Scotch. As I once said to a friend when she called me to tell me her boyfriend had just dumped her, "This calls for Scotch," and I walked over to her house with a bottle. We put away a great deal and I walked home. I had to call her to tell her I made it safely. It was only a few blocks but it was a few loooong blocks. I think self medication is, at times, appropriate. And necessary.

Goodnight, Irene, goodnight.

I walked for hours today in the snow. Mount Baker was really clear and the woods in Seward Park made me think of the Northeast. Down parka man was ahead of me on the trail with his backpack. He doesn't like to be talked to or approached. He walks around the park all the time, wearing a lot of clothes. I wonder where in the park he has found to sleep. The top of the park is crisscrossed with trails, a lot of them not used much. I have tried to talk to him before but he growls at me. I stayed behind him and then we went in different directions. Seward Park is one of my favorite places because I can leave the perimeter and be in the woods. I saw a juvenile eagle land in a tree just as I got to the edge of the water. There are nesting eagles in the summer and owls and cormorants drying their wings.

Ecuador has extended constitutional rights to nature. They referred to Pachamama, a mother universe deity. Whoa. Does this mean we must stop mowing our lawns? (grass abuse?) Will we have to stop cooking plant food? I'm baking a yam right now. People for the Ethical Treatment of Carrots. Oh-oh.

I might just have to watch all six hours of Angels in America tonight. I hear my pager. Maybe not.

My big cat, Wishbone, is trying to bury his food. He does it every day. There is a little rug under his bowl and the water bowl and he manages to flip the edges over the bowl so it is partly covered....we all have our coping mechanisms. His version of scarcity involves hiding food. As if the other cats can't find it, doo-doo head. The other cats watch him with their heads cocked, as if they are fooled. Then he walks off, pleased with himself. 

It's snowing here so I raced home after dinner to be in my house where it is warm and there is hot tea and the cats can sit on me. I send a message to all those who are sleeping outside---may you all find someone to sleep with and be warm with. Between here and the beggars in India, we are that close. 

I am falling into a pattern of staying up really late, watching bad tv, knitting and eating cookies. I am  eating sugar again. ( It said vegan on the box!) Being vegan is tough. No protein. Lots o' veggies and protein powder, well, it beats powdered placenta (see previous post). You can eat placenta because it wasn't 'killed' but, well, yuck. 

As usual, Rebecca expects us to bring a poem to workshop. Christ, I write so much and some of it is presentable. But then there is all the dreck. It's horrid, liking my own work and having fits about it---schizo, I tell you. 

I love the Seattle weather people. They have basically nothing to report so when a 'weather front' comes through, they get so pathetically excited. They once predicted a 'major wind storm' with lots of rain. I went outside on my lunch hour and one drop of rain fell on my head. One drop. No wind. No roofs flying off to Boeing field. No tsunamis. No tragedy and mayhem. That's what they want. Houses floating by with babies and cows hanging out the windows. That's excitement. This is just the wrong town for big weather. Now North Dakota, that's some weather. Where I'm from, upstate NY, terrible weather, bad, nasty, dangerous. Seattle, puleeze. 

  

Surround the placentas with kitty litter and fill the bucket. Replace the lid, affix the label and call the service.

OK, we'll do that. We have a freezer full of placentas. Placentas and ice cubes.

One of our moms had a heart shaped placenta this year. We taped a picture of it to the computer. Some think placentas are gross. We don't, we think they are preeeeeeety.

Bless the baby Jesus. At least he came out of the right orifice. Buddha came out of his mother's armpit, ouch. At least it was painless, or so they say. Boy, you wouldn't want to shave for while after that. Because of my work, I am intolerant of obstetrical inaccuracies. I can't help it.

Josh wants me to write a poem completely of trite phrases and pathetic fallacies. I do love a good challenge. Sparkling drops of dew on the delicate velvet petals of the mournful rose, here I come! Yeehaw!

I am eating out of a brand new bowl. I bought dishes that MATCH, in Portland where they don't have sales tax. I feel like I am getting away with something. So the universe gave me a flat tire driving home, on the freeway. Man, you step out of your car in the dark and rain because your car has some funny drag going on and sure enough, the back left is totally flat with a big hole but the monstrous trucks are going past at 100 miles an hour and they could so knock you into the next world if they went a little crooked, you and your teensy hybrid two seater, blammo, your body would be thrown into a dang tree, for pete's sake. So you call triple A and they tell you someone will be there IN AN HOUR, sheesh so you're sitting with the car running so you don't freeze and so you can listen to some Dolly Parton and who shows up but a cop, lights twirling around like a nasty headache. You get out of the car (as you have previously piled everything onto the passenger seat from the back so the guy can get to the spare) and it is a lady cop, no a girl cop with a cute little blond bun.  She says," are you ok?" so you explain you're waiting for a tow truck and she offers to change your tire. Huh? well, by the time the guy gets there, she's half-way through it and being cheerful while the monster trucks are mere feet from her butt and she and the triple A guy are joking around and talking about the gangstas they saw recently, with diamond earrings and an Escalade and all and the rain is really coming down and you're thinking, wow, my tax dollars at work and I didn't pay sales tax in Portland, I don't understand. Well, a few new tires will cost me, so I guess it all evens out. Maybe this is the law of cause and effect. 

I got home ok, and by the way, you can go faster than 50 on those weird spare tires. I did, I went 70 but don't tell J. I try to go the speed limit. No, that's a lie. I love to speed. 

The cat is on my lap because I'm too cheap to turn on the heat. It's cold in here. No, the cat does not love me, she likes me cuz I'm a warm body. J loves me and it is a splendid thing.

Any day now, I'm going to send out some work. I used to be so diligent.  

The guy in Dead Can Dance sounds like he's singing in Hungarian. Egan.

Suicide is an exploded bridge that can never be repaired.
-Tom Bissell

Thank you, Marti. We are, unfortunately, in the suicide sisterhood.

Tonight I went to the suicide support group meeting. I haven't been in a long time but I wanted to see how it would feel after a year, a year of mourning. It's different now. Last year, there was a wildness, a smoking crater where life used to be. One lady tonight said she can now imagine killing herself, not that she wants to but she can imagine it, it is another possibility, almost like choosing to eat chocolate or an orange, just another choice. I read obits and I can tell. "Sudden death" without some disclaimer like cancer or a heart attack is suicide. "Overdose", well, yeah.

I know I am better because I forgot a haircut appointment twice and I was pleading with my haircut person to puleeze make time for me. Like this is important. But I am going blind with bangs in my eyes...and everyone likes my hair right now, what the ???

In the village of Pharping we visited Padmasambhava's cave, a yogi who sat there for years chanting. It is all rock and his hand print in in the rock. Pilgrims place their hands into the print--in the rock like it was carved out. Then you go inside the cave and it is surprisingly warm, all the butter lamps keeping it heated and the ceiling blackened. A small altar and a monk sitting and chanting. A small courtyard with a monastery built around it. Two small buildings on either side with a nun in either one, also chanting. In the center of the courtyard is a stone altar and carvings of the yogi's feet where we put water bowls and candles for puja. I sit with my back to one of the small buildings half listening to the puja prayers but vibrating to the sounds of chanting, from the cave, from the nuns, soft, filling the space. An occasional monk looking over at us from the rooftop of the monastery. Today and every day, they are there, chanting, smell of butter lamps and incense in the air.

For the benefit of all beings. Even Geoffrey.

Three babies in the last two days. The air is soft, silky, misty. The babies want to come out now because it is weather between the worlds, soft and dim.

We saw the movie, "Milk" yesterday. I know how it ends but I still cried. What is it about candlelight marches?

In my neighborhood, you can put stuff on the curb and later it is gone, old paint, marginal furniture, clothes, lamps, etc. The people's recycling system. And you don't have to shlep it to Goodwill.

For inexpensive cathartic fun, take your junk to the dump, throw everything into the maw of hell and stand back and feel cleansed. Yes.

Today a year ago, my brother left his job, went to his estranged wife's house, unlocked the shed and went in and hung himself. His stepson found him.

My brother Dirk called me to tell me. I was at work. I went to pieces and there were midwives all around me. I remember this. Michelle was there and she said, don't worry, we'll take care of stuff here, you go and do what you need to...'

Today Michelle called me to ask a question. I told her what day it is. She said, 'well, I didn't remember but it must be somewhere cuz I needed to call you...'

It's like that. Form is emptiness, emptiness is form.

Back from a weekend with J. Love is grand when it doesn't kill you.

The first real day in Nepal, we ate breakfast in an open porch overlooking the street. Streets are narrow, unpaved, dirty and clogged with people, animals, bicycles, scooters, cars, etc. We were spotted by beggars and guys selling stuff. The guys selling stuff are everywhere. They try to sell you postcards, malas, carved thingys like elephants and buddhas, jewelry, etc. They are VERY persistent. We weren't hip to the bargaining thing so we dodged and feinted, to try to get rid of them. They latched on to Charles, a big tall African American guy and would not leave him alone.

The beggars lead with their missing limb, hand, leg, whatever. If they are blind, someone pushes their face into view. Sometimes, people are so bent over they walk in half. Girls with babies on their hips carry empty baby bottles and wave them in your face. The kids are dirty and ragged, they will pluck at you, at your clothes, hands and gesture to their mouths and stomachs. They say 'ma,ma' for rupees, for candy. I have a permanent hole in my psyche where a lot of those memories are now, like a sharp smack to the face. We live like kings and queens. Our little group was grateful for toilet paper, toilets, air conditioners. And water purifiers. Ok, I won't go there but coming back here, I have so much to process, our greed and heartlessness. Ok, my greed and heartlessness. To avoid the beggars, don't look at them. Put up a little wall around yourself. I did give a few rupees to some. But the need is vast...

I bought a white Tara thanka. It is beautiful. She has eyes in her hands and feet and one in her forehead. She has compassion for everything.

Water buffalo are really big. And there really are cows everywhere in India. Krishna rode a cow, I guess, so they are sacred. I'd like to get that gig.

I still tear up when I think about Obama.

I did not sleep at all last night, not at all. Jet lag is so weird. You lie there and tell yourself to go to sleep but your brain in buzzing and sparking, like a bad generator. Speaking of generators, Nepal and India have generators to pump water into the rice fields and for power. It stinks. And all the cars, jeeps, trucks, three wheeled taxis all run on diesel. In all the hotels we stayed in, fancy or plain, the power went off, for a minute, for five minutes, whatever.

Jean was in the bathroom and I heard her gagging and spitting. Apparently, she was brushing her teeth with bug repellent. It doesn't taste very good but those mosquitoes didn't bite her teeth that night!

In India, the heat sticks. My hair stayed in a tie because it was never really clean. Plus add some bug spray and sun screen and voila! the glued to the head look. The first night we were there, we stayed in a guest house. Jean crashed, eye shade, tylenol PM, the works. I desperately wanted a shower after the plane, about a zillion hours. I turned on the water and waited...and waited...and waited...no hot water. So I toughed it out under the cold. It was to be prescient. Cold showers are refreshing, actually. The only place we had a real shower was the Hyatt, obscenely opulent. The shower was so strong and hot, I almost fell down. And my hair was shiny and loose when it dried. I'd almost forgotten what that was like. In the countryside, everyone washes under the pump, head, pits, face.

The next day we sent into a thanka shop and spent a lot of money. We weren't sorry. The thankas are gorgeous. If I can figure out how to get a picture here, I will post it.

Next week is the 1st anniversary of Geoffrey's death. When I was in Varanasi, I watched the bodies burning by the Ganges and I floated a candle ringed with marigolds for him. City of the dead, sky full of black smoke. I sat in a boat and watched. All of it. Goodbye, Geoff.

I'm baaaaack

I thought I would give you stories in pieces because there is too much to tell, all at once. Anyway, I get to do anything I want on here.

Today I am way jet-lagged. And hungry. I'm not sure what to eat anymore and that's a shame because I l0o0ve food (hey, I like the way that looks). But India and Nepal fry everything. If it isn't fried, the microorganisms that will kill you or make you have very unpleasant symptoms will NOT BE DEAD. So-samosas are really good a few times but then after a while your gall bladder starts to hurt. I could hear it saying in a little sad voice---help me, I'm drowning in grease in here---. Then there is milk tea and I'm sorry, but there just shouldn't be oil circles floating in my tea. It's wrong. And I know the whole world eats white rice but, well, I'm done with it. I broke up with it, no more for me. Food snob that I am.

The Aussies 'go for a wee'-translation, to pee. Candy is lollies. And their marriages break down, not up. Also, they 'bonk', not the other word. I will tell you how I know all this later.

I was told not to eat fresh vegetables but I did. And I survived. I couldn't stand it anymore. I had to break up the samosa/while rice thing.

Oh, I am a total vegetarian now, even a vegan. Believe me, headless goats will put you right off the flesh option. I actually made a chutney/curry dinner last night and wondered what had happened to me. What was I doing anyway? But no animals were munched on, well, maybe a few microbes. *sigh*

I am so glad to be home. It's cold here. Just delicious.

PS. I am madly in love with J. Madly.

I am leaving today for Nepal, OMG. I won't be blogging while I am gone, no cell phone, no pager, no computer, just old fashioned pen and paper. I am taking a camera and a weensy ipod shuffle. I swear, that thing is too small to make music, it flummoxes me.

My naturopath gave me a reprieve. I don't have to take vitamins while I am gone, no handful to choke down every morning. I am taking ambien, doxycycline, cipro, peptobismal, cold meds, and airborn, cripes. I have never traveled with so much reinforcement before. And stuff to purify water and bug repellent and sunscreen. Wussy American, I swear.

And for the final fashion statement, I'm wearing my pass port and airline ticket in a pocket on a string around my neck, nice. Pretty soon, I will be tying stuffed animals to my bags and wearing tin foil on my head. I might just fit in in India. I can be a mad ascetic.

I'll be back November 15th, a new woman. Don't forget to vote for Obama, as if there were any other choice.

Throw your old suit on the fire


when I squint you float on ashes
the burn marks are gone
we used fade cream
as usual a miracle
my darling
I sag in your presence
my ligaments have lost their burnish
you swirl your marvelous hair
a gathering of hoopla
after the pruning
kites were found in the tire treads
we sighed in unison
(you must move out)
before I am forced to put iron filings
in your mutton sauce
walk with me to the gravel pit
look
algae shaped like the face of Jesus

Oysters

Before we go any further, we must speak about oysters. Consider The Joy of Cooking on the subject. "Now back to the actual opening of the shells....Until you develop a knack, shucking is not easy. Should you grow slightly desperate, you may be willing to sacrifice some flavor for convenience. If so, place the oysters in a 400 degree oven for 5 to 7 minutes...." This is blasphemy. But I know slightly desperate. Once you have jammed the oyster up against the side of the fridge and you're whacking it with a screw driver and a hammer, well, then it's time to get out Lewis Carroll's "The Walrus and the Carpenter" and read to calm yourself down.

I'd like to say I'm a vegetarian except for oysters. Oysters and crab. And horseradish. And melted butter.

Four days til I leave and go to the other side of the world. Tomorrow night is another writer's workshop. I have no poems. I don't write poems anymore. I hate poems. They suck.

the cats lie about in sleek dressing gowns

we are already doomed

I spent the last 2 days making grape jelly from my grapes and they didn't effing jel. This is a tragedy of epic proportions. It involves decanting all the jelly and starting over, more sugar, more pectin and more burned fingers, gobs of jelly on the stove/floor/walls and sugar all over everything. Why do I do this every year? Because homemade jelly is delicious and the unsweetened juice is delicious and this beautiful dark red color. And the grapes are free and they grow over the hot tub. I pick a smidge amount of grapes and the raccoons eat the rest. I can't get up there to get the ones on the top. They are all tangled up in the vines.

I also have two winter squash on the counter. One is a giganto acorn and the other is my favorite, a buttercup. She is a beauty and she weighs a ton. I might have to eat her before I leave on my trip.

The apples always look crappy, covered with scab and usually wormy. I eat them anyway. My neighbors have a pear tree and I must say, pear sauce is sublime. Tastes like butter. Butter, I tell you.

Count 'em, 8 days until I leave. Then I won't be doing any blogging for a month. I'm gonna disconnect from everything, email, cell phone, the works. And the election will be over. If it doesn't go the right way, I won't be back. I could be a midwife in India. Or Nepal.

I saw the latest Coen Brother's movie tonight, Burn Before Reading. I love those guys. I've loved them ever since Blood Simple, which I saw at the film festival. In this movie, George Clooney has the crazy eyes. And Tilda Swinton is at her brittle best. But John Malkovich, slightly cross-eyed and yelling f-you every other word, manic genius.

I got my hair ironed again today. My hair feels like feathers, like I am going to start flapping.

Rebecca Loudon's new book, Cadaver Dogs, is beautiful and brilliant. Go buy it, many copies. And when she reads. go hear her and thank her. That's an order.

Sequence #9

fit your hip here polish the skin o morsel o gardenia you make me sweat a banyan tree grew in the bathtub we slake our forefingers indigo contains mercury I would never poison our palace with erythema at least until you rub against my traveling shin I have a rash because I have an affinity for your incisors please continue to bite without your toothmark on my jugular I remain anorexic unable to swallow unable to flit

I am listening to the Goldberg Variations performed by Glenn Gould. He rearranges my molecules.

Ten days to Nepal/India.

Hockey Moms Against Sarah Palin

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=URIypadX3n0&NR=1

I am here in the Oregon high desert on the Warm Springs rez at KahNeeTah, a resort built around a hot springs so the outdoor pool is a toasty 98 degrees. Pure heaven for a swimmer like me. Plus great gobs of beauty, red bluffs and sagebrush and large sky areas. What, you may ask, during this economic catastrophe, am I doing in such a place, behaving like the sky isn't falling?Well, I'm a guest and I'm here with my honey so it was practically free and yes, we watched the debate because it was patriotic to watch the debate. Sarah is, excuse me, an idiot. I know that isn't very Buddhist of me but hell, we are going down, fast and she is just a distraction in squarish glasses and a frightening hairdo. 

But on the train to Portland there was a lady across the aisle who was wearing a pink plush bear with a blue visor around her neck. And the lady was wearing a matching blue visor. When she sat down, she held the bear under her chin so the bear could see out the window. When she got up to go to the bathroom, she gave the bear to her husband to hold. He kinda clutched the bear a bit severely, I thought. Then she came back and put the bear on her lap so the bear could go to sleep. Then they opened their Subway sandwiches and delicately ate ham and cheese, not dripping a bit on their laps. The bear watched from her shoulder. He wasn't hungry, apparently. When I took a call from my service, she listened in and commented that she had been late with both of her children. This woman has kids, yikes. Maybe they also wear blue visors and wear pink velour suits. I can hardly wait to take the train back to Seattle. I think train passengers have stories to tell. About bears and visors and the view from the window. *sigh*

Things to pack for India:

1. fleecy hat for Nepal

2. washable undies

3. sunscreen

4. mosquito repellant

5. toothbrush

6. water treatment tablets (taste yucky)

7. hand wipey things

8. travelers checks

9. passport

10. meditation bench (comes apart)

11. money belt

The money belt is going to make my waist look, uh, weird. Like lumpy. I have to trade in the travelers checks for rupees. At least rupees don't have pictures of the queen on them like Canada. Or maybe they do. My friend I am traveling with plans to buy a skirt when she gets there. I'm afraid to venture out. I fear I will be fleeced. And don't drink the water. Ever. You will be sorry. 

When I come home, the new regime will be in place. Gawd.