George Tiller, abortion doc, was murdered today. No matter where you stand on the issue, this is not the answer. Never the answer. Condolences to his grieving family. 

The sun is shining, the birds are singing, J and I went biking along the Sammamish RIver and tonight I'm gonna whip her butt at Scrabble. Yes, I am.

I am cleansing myself of books. I filled up the back of my car with books and went to Good Will. Because I'm moving my office upstairs, it was time to evaluate the 900 trips up and down the stairs. I have piles too, poetry books to give to fellow poets, dharma books to give to my sangha and random books for friends, my kids, Milo, etc.  

Don't worry. I have plenty left. And I found lots of stuff in books; old love letters, pictures of kids, scraps of poetry.  

Tomorrow, the CDs.

don't bother me while I'm slavishly sparkling. 

My client painted this. Nathan Dipietro. It's his wife. 

Every summer the parking strip across from my clinic grows the most luscious pink-orange roses that smell like peaches. I borrow a few for the desk. They are an aphrodisiac and make me swoon. Right now, I am fainting from pure joy. 

So I went to Portland for the weekend and J and I went kayaking, among other things. We were a tad bit ambitious in our paddle plans. Ok, it was Memorial Day weekend and everyone was out  in their BIGASS boats making huge waves and trying to KILL us. We actually watched two guys load their boat- towin' truck with many cases of beer, the kind of boat with flames painted on the sides and a gazillion horse power engine. Oh, and a sound system that plays AC/DC REAL LOUD, oh yas. 

The bird sanctuary where we were headed was also the route to the Columbia, a mighty river indeed. Full of muscle boats and their, ahem, drivers. Ah, nature. I began to feel unkindly toward my fellow humans. 

Then there was the, uh, distance we decided to travel. 9 nautical miles, nothing really, except for the current and the drunken, frat boy boaters (see above), oh and a tug boat thing with a giant sweeper arm at the bow that made enormous waves, sorta like surfing in a tippy leetle soup bowl. And sunburn. Lets not forget the sunscreen next time. 

We took a break at some point and we lay on the sand groaning. The next day I reviewed the names of all affected muscles, a long list. 

Fun, I tell you. Glorious nature.

Last night it THUNDERED. Wow. I got out of the hot tub. Woman found electrocuted in hot tub. Imagine, a big lightening bolt coming right through the cloud ceiling and zap! crispy. I stood in the kitchen in a towel and watched the trees swoosh and shine. Brilliant. 

My beautiful and brilliant daughter calls me to LA, land of the Scientologists and Koreatown and fancy sushi bars and huge Hispanic stores and neighborhoods and cars and there are really good skateboard girls and surfer girls and the ocean and gritty boomtown cars and grifters and gamblers and movie stars. My beautiful brilliant daughter is an artist in LA and she's basically starving, which is, I know, a stereotype so I'm going to visit and we'll garden and go out to Joshua Tree in the desert and hike and watch the wind farms whack the birds and sit in the hot springs. I'll buy her huge bags of groceries and we'll make pesto and spanikopita and listen to her latest music and I'll put my feet on her coffee table and we'll play scrabble and laugh and cheat. She's a photographer and many of her photos are on these pages, like the one at the top. I love her so much and I was so happy the day she was born and I still am.

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