I fear it is ****meat smell****wafting up the stairs. When I offered my home to the Taiwanese ladies (for 2 months! sob!), I didn't stop to think, a comment my mother often spat in my direction---"you never stop to think!!!---well, I didn't think about the food issue, or the shared space issue or the memories of my father intruding when I just want to sleep. You know that one. You wake up at night because you've been falling and you just landed with a thud, quick breath out and you are staring at the ceiling (or in my case, the dark skylight). You saw a spider earlier and you wonder if it is under the bed or in bed with you, biting little circles on your arms. Your father is holding your hand and driving the Chevy at the same time. The other kids aren't around. He shares his Necco wafers with you. You're wearing patent leather shoes so it must be a special day. You and Dad. Maybe you'll drive all the way to the country for roadside corn and strawberries. And you will eat all of them before you get home. There are juice stains on your dress. Your fingers are stained red. Strawberry seeds between your teeth.  

There are two ladies from Taiwan living in my house. Yesterday one of them flooded my bathroom. There is a large crock with cooked meat items in my fridge. As a vegan, I will brace myself every time I open the fridge door. I'm still at work. I'm afraid to go home.

If you have any questions about this current development, please direct your questions to the complaint department.

Thank you and have a nice day.

The sun is shining, the birds are twittering (not that twitter) and I have been crying for 3 days. I'm gonna take my sweetheart and our bicycles to the Burk-Gilman trail and we're gonna ride to effing Bothell. Then we'll eat the best raspberries and strawberries ever while dangling our feet in the big ole lake. I miss my dog. I miss my friend Negesti. I miss Karen and every other goddam person who died before they were supposed to. 

The Loud family across the street are strangely quiet. Maybe they're at church or something and he's yelling into a mic while folks cringe and sway.

Have not posted in days, very weary with life. Or is that of life. Hadda workshop last night. Brilliant people, brilliant poems. Brilliant Rebecca in a white floaty skirt and *vegan* treats. I notice when I am especially stressed, my right ear rings so loud. Hearing loss is an interesting thing. Sometimes I don't notice it at all, sometimes it is all I hear. 

I brought a poem about the Ballard bear. When my ear stops ringing, I'll post it. 

One more baby this morning. And a lovely baby she is too.

Sometimes I have to take women to the hospital in an ambulance. Lights and sirens. Everybody lives happily ever after. Then my nervous system shudders to a halt. Right now, old episodes of Columbo is the medicine I am taking. Ol' one-eyed Peter Falk. When I used to watch those shows on network TV, I had no idea. About his eye. Now, I focus on it. The glass eye, the rumpled raincoat, the scuffed up shoes, the unlit cigar. I want him investigating my murder. He'd know it was the brother-in-law after my millions.

Very tired right now, too many babies being born and today is our Open House, a stupid idea if there ever was one. And I thought of it. Because I was waiting for this gal to call me back to her house, I ran through Costco throwing strawberries and giant hunks of cheese into my cart. Terribly unsatisfying. How could I go to Costco and not linger in the book section? What about the 100 pen collections and vats of peanut butter? And she is still in labor so my partner is there now so I can be in clinic to greet families.

I have a confession. On my best days, I can remember names, oh, 25% of the time. When I am tired, this number is in the single digits, like 2. So clients are coming and I a.) won't remember them at all b.) won't remember if they had a boy or girl c.) will call them an incorrect name and embarrass myself. A friend suggested that I say, "I'm terrible with names, remind me who you are." I might be too proud to do this. Kinda like my deaf mother who pretended she knew what people were saying, nodding and smiling, while she had NO IDEA what was being talked about. Maybe I'll nod and smile like a perfect idiot.

Photo by edenbatki.com.

Before it gets dark, I have to figure out how to make a pattern for some pants E sent me home with. She bought them in some far-away place and they are very popular so she wants two more pairs. We visited the fabric district in LA for this reason (land of orange shag jersey material for mini skirts?). I even have a new sewing machine. It is sitting in a box because I don't believe it really belongs to me. Stores now are letting you buy on time, no interest and back in the day, layaway meant you paid every month until it was paid off and THEN you got to wear/eat/use the item. Now, you leave the store with your stuff even tho it's not paid for. Credit only different. Weird. 

My ex got the sewing machine in the divorce so now I have a fancy machine I'm afraid to use. 

There are now sewing machines that clean your house and walk your dog. And they are very expensive. I was so used to an old Singer, I had no idea. Luddite that I am.  I didn't buy a very expensive machine. Who needs a machine that embroiders, knits and coughs politely when you walk by?

No writers group tonight, whaa. I was up all night at a birth, so didn't think I could make it but I could after all. No more sinking into despair now. We'll have none of that.

The crows are making a damn racket in the yard. Must be a cat out there. If I were a cat, I wouldn't mess with crows. 

I cured my anxiety by giving the Real Change guy a ten. He's got a job now, at the Good Will, part-time. He's got a place to live too. Maybe he can get his teeth fixed.  

Question: What tastes better than a strawberry picked and eaten immediately from your garden?

Answer: Nothing.

Came home last night late. I was sitting in my living room contemplating my analog TV and the stupid converter box that converts nothing and I don't watch TV anyway, just movies and a horrible racket started up outside, dogs barking, yipping like they are hurt, people yelling, etc. I go to my porch and there is a lady lying, kneeling on my lawn with her dog on a leash, the (new) across the street neighbors with the rattle trap little RV in their driveway and my other neighbors (the Loud family) hollering, jumping up and down, making a right scene. Other neighbors are coming out to the street. The story: woman walking her dog, nice, law-abiding leashed dog. Out of nowhere comes 'Isis' (a questionably named dog if there ever was one), a white Alaskan, attacks 'Petie', knocks over his owner who starts yelling, 'Call off your dog, call off your dog!!" So neighbor lady ( Isis owner) calls Petie's mom some bad words and says she's disabled and so forth, then Mr Loud get in and they're head-to-head, with Loud family pulling on him to back off, my lawn lady now getting up, poop bag and doggie treats in hand, whew, I'll tell you. Drama in the hood, yeah.

The cops arrive, 4 of 'em. They have big flashlights just like on CSI shows. They're sorting out what happened and give me and Petie's mom an incident number. Then they notice the huge-ass RV across the street with the generator running. 2 cops go and knock on the RV door (with the flashlight) and tell the occupants to move to the park or by morning, the RV will be towed, whoa.

An hour later, all is quiet and the huge RV is GONE.

Some people have stopped mowing their lawns. Some people are living in RVs. Some people have dogs with serious anger management problems. Is it the end times?

All on my street these days.

Idyllic

 

there is a blue light in my head

in the center where my eye is

I switch it on   and off

I call it firefly     

I want to put it in a jar

I want to lie in a tent with you

we can bring the jar with us

I promise I will behave this time

I won’t try to kill you

as you sleep 

Attempted sleeping on the couch. Phone kept ringing, the cats were draped all around and finally the pager went off. Fine. Sleep is not my friend. 

My student wants me to see a slam poet tonight but I think I'll pass, too tired.  I have to be 'ready' for performance pieces, emotionally prepared. I once brought a friend to a reading where there was also a performance artist from the local art school. She brought all her friends to watch her lie on the floor and randomly rearrange poker chips and little pieces of wood. My friend was so polite. Her friends were...worshipful. I thought it was dumb so we left. Patti, thankfully, never brought it up again. I wonder if she thinks I like that sort of thing. Although when the ice cream truck drives by playing Fur Elise, I flinch. 

I might be having a wee panic attack or at least a lot of anxiety for a number of very good reasons which I can't speak about here...I just feel like there are spiders crawling underneath my skin and my eyes are held open with bamboo toothpicks. It is not a nice feeling. Oh, and I can't sleep and food tastes like pine needles. Without any hot sauce. But prickery.

Going for a walk now. Back to the trees.

Gawd, I finally get to go home. Clients came in today without appointments or appointments on the wrong day and I just squeezed 'em in. Heck, they're here, why not. Flies get in and zoom around bashing themselves against the windows. 

This morning I went to Seward Park and walked in the woods. I was late for work. I could hear a robin and a woodpecker. Trees stand so still all day. Without a real forest, there is nowhere to rest. I remember once walking in NYC, just after finding out that I was pregnant with my older daughter. I was floating along and I came to St Mark's Place where there is a little park, all fenced in. The trees were leafing out and there were a few tulips. Spring had arrived and I hadn't known. Where I had grown up, Spring had a violence, a tearing. Winter kept us prisoner for 6 months. Suddenly, there was the smell of mud. Everywhere. Trillium in the woods and crocus. And just as suddenly, all that clamor was over. Damp heat, mosquitoes and raccoons in the garbage. Summer was something you bore, like a bad cold. 

Sturdiness of the maple trees at the property line. Unmoving. Reference points.  Red cedars out here. And I know where the old growth ones are in the city. Not telling.

I had to call the IRS yesterday. The conversation went something like this:

(after 10 minutes of waiting while I listened to Vivaldi's Four Seasons with many bumps and scratches)

Hello, this is Andrea, number 07489601, IRS. How may I direct your call?

Uh, I have a letter here and I need some clarification.

What is type of tax are you inquiring about?

????,uh, my income tax...

(heavy ironic sigh) Of course, this is the IRS. What type of tax are you inquiring about?

I am a business owner and I need to speak to someone about a letter I received about my taxes...

(another sigh, obviously dealing with an idiot) What does the letter say?

uh, this refers to my 1040 tax return and I...

Yes, yes, this is the IRS, what type of tax are you referring to???

My tax return, my...

Business taxes? Personal taxes?

(I'm desperate now so I take a stab at it) uh, personal taxes.

Please hold for that division. (more Vivaldi now, with big skips and plunges)

After another 5 minutes, I hung up. I reread the letter and I think I figured it out. The IRS is coming to my house soon and taking my cats and toaster oven. All taxes in the future will be a personal affront to anyone I contact. I am an idiot and I am deeply sorry.

The neighbors across the street moved the derelict car with the gold rims and flat tire so someone could park a huge-ass RV there, which 'ran' all night, people living inside apparently. On the other corner a huge-ass U-Haul truck with a trailer, also theirs. Do I call the city? Where are RVs supposed to park? I don't think they are supposed to park in residential neighborhoods. I kept waking up all night thinking a semi was outside my window with their engine running. Maybe with the economy, more people will start living like this; a current Joad family. I wonder if they are having hamburger gravy for breakfast...

I had an epiphany recently. There are poems that make people feel good, feel *nice*. These are poems your don't have to work for. They do the work for you. You just read them and they sit on the page all glowy and smug. They are the presentable poems, the poems that play with others and they never bop anyone on the head with a shovel or a dump truck. They are easy. They are legible. They are law-abiding.

Then there are other poems. They are disreputable and noisy. They make you fidget and sweat. They say terrible things and they interrupt your sleep. They aren't easy poems. They aren't armchair poems, they're motorcycle poems with no helmets. They're dangerous. They're smudged and bitter.  They get under your skin and into your blood stream. They infect you. Yes.

My midwife buddy just brought me the pager and a large piece of vegan chocolate cake. She told me not to eat the whole thing so...I did. I feel a little sick now. I was so hungry today. After my soup for lunch (gypsy soup ala Moosewood, with cinnamon) all I had to eat was lettuce. Lettuce. Nope, not a meal in any universe. 

When you plant a garden, everything gets ripe, all at once. So I have 6 heads of romaine and 4 heads of red leaf lettuce and 10 spinach plants. I can't keep up. I did pick all the snow peas and ate them, standing in the garden next to the Chinese poppies. 

The Styrax Japonica are all blooming. They are my favorite tree. I planted 3 of them. They have heart-shaped leaves and little bell flowers that hang down. They smell so sweet too. 

I might go into a sugar-chocolate coma now. Never tell me not to do something. I will go right ahead and do it, I swear I will. And chocolate cake, vegan too, I can't help it. I'm weak.

I'm stalling. I have to paint the trim in my former office and continue to carry many loads of stuff to my new office, which is currently not organized. It makes me feel slightly sick to look in that room with book piles everywhere waiting to fall over and other piles of papers and random paper clips, picture frames, newspapers etcetc. I could just close the door. Even tho the walls are such a chipper blue now instead of depressing green-ish.  

 At least the city brought us a new recycling bin. It's blue. It looks out of place next to the scuffed up garbage cans. It's all full of itself. It thinks it's special. Just wait, buster. A few rainstorms, some nice dirty wind and the recycling truck guys throwing you around. You won't feel so sassy then. 

My Romaine lettuce has formed heads. When I find snails on my garden, I throw them into the street. I'm probably coming back as a snail.  

Yesterday Malibu hike. Little lizards everywhere and butterflies, some light blue. And a burned out homestead way back in the hills beside a waterfall, many fireplaces are left. Also views of the Pacific on the way back with surfers. And dolphins. E said so casually, "there are dolphins here sometimes" and we looked over and there were many, leaping right out of the water, in pairs, singly, back flips. How did E know to look right then? She must be psychic. 

By the way, mile high Afro hair is back. In pink.

In Echo Park, they are spreading tar on the roads and blocking off streets so we can't drive to the house. Neighbors are re-arranging the barricades. Gray and foggy here, with thunder and rain yesterday. E drives an ancient Mercedes with iffy windshield wipes. She turns them on and they stop when they feel like it, o, 10 minutes later. It's a glorious car, cracked dash, rumbly tires, creative glove compartment. And she runs it on vegetable oil so we smell like fries. 

We went to the farmer's market yesterday in the parking lot of a church. All the farmers spoke Spanish except for the cherry farmers. They were Japanese. 

Guatemalans, Koreans, Mexicans, El Salvadorans, Ethiopians, Iranians and Israelis. That's LA.   We bought fabric downtown yesterday. Reminded me of Varanasi and the silk merchants in India. Fabric hanging from every doorway, the owner sitting outside with tupperwear lunches, rice and fava beans. 

Los Angeles-I went clubbing last night with my kid. I haven't been dancing for, oh, five years. It was very late, the music was boom-de-boom, extremely loud and the people were gorgeous. Girls in lame bathing suits and thigh high stockings and high heels. Boys with beautiful eyes and slinky legs. Tranny hookers by the door. Sigh.. I even smoked a cigarette and drank a glass of champaigne. This is not Seattle, that's for sure.

We also saw the latest Terminator movie. At the fanciest Hollywood cinema. $12 tickets. Amazing sound and a curved screen. The movie was stupid, no humor like the others (but a mirage of Arnold, naked except for his, um, private area, that was all smokey). It was mostly blowing up giant metal bugs and buildings and fires everywhere. *snore*

Going for a run now. After my debauchery.

I already finished packing. Very suspicious. I bet I have forgotten something. Like shoes or underwear. I was scolded in Denver with lotion that was FOUR OUNCES. Boy, was I embarrassed. 

In Los Angeles, the Scientology building/church/fortress is a whole city block. I bet they sit in there beaming out gamma rays to the universe. I made that up but I bet I'm right. I mean, L. Ron Hubbard, really.

I just saw a mosquito, one lone mosquito. There are no bugs here. Back East, there are serious bugs. Mosquitos will drive you insane while you are trying to sleep under the covers even tho it is a thousand degrees in your room. I used to come home from summer camp covered with bites. 

I do miss the fireflies.

I'm going to LA tomorrow to see my child. She has many plans for us including a dinner party with her friends in the movie business. Gawd, what will I wear? Will they be fancy with modern hair and those big sunglasses? I'm a little worried. At least my toenails are painted. I go to the salon down the street so I can get spruced up. I also catch up on my movie star info ala People and such. The nice ladies remember my name and they massage my legs and bang on my calves. Very thoughtful of them.

I have one eeny complaint today. The new garbage people took my recycling bin. Away. And didn't give me another. Harrumph. I have been forced to go across the street to my neighbors and dumping my recycling in their bin. Another neighbor just moved out and I was skulking around their house looking for THEIR bin, no luck. Today, I'm taking my recycling to work to dump it there. 

Dear City of Seattle: Please give me another recycling bin and I will stop behaving like I am doing something wrong, sneaking across the street in the night with my recycling. Like a thief. Please.

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

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.