The room is freezing, there are three hot air balloons outside and we are four in this room. We're remarkably polite to each other. My bedmate snores but I'm sworn to secrecy about her identity. Besides, her snores are so cute and as my mother would say, lady-like. Very Southern, actually. Little snorts and sighs. I'm no longer interested in food. We went Italian last night. There were several bottles of wine and mountains of pasta. Mountains. We ate 'family style' so the platters kept coming. I can only eat so much.

It was all midwives, eleven of us. First we told the story of our name, then we went around and told the story of our birth. Then we told jokes, mostly dirty. We were making so much noise I'm sure it was a good thing that we were in a separate room far away from the main dining room. Besides being midwives we are an ocean of talent. We're writers, actors, musicians, painters and flower arrangers. This is important because we might have to retire and then we'll have something else to do.

And that's all for now.

Instead of sitting in the freezing room and listening to another speech, I'm going for a walk. There's a mall, a retirement village and a business park. Fortunately, there are birds and more crickets and sun.

I'm in Nashville, well somewhere outside Nashville in a Marriott, uck, where the conference is being held. There is bad food, nice beds, a weeny swimming pool and air conditioning. The outside is mostly concrete with small patches of grass. I went outside last night in the dark. I had to find some food I could actually eat. Like a bean burrito. The hotel gave us 'vegetarian lasagna', a gloppy hunk of carbos and a few whittled carrots. Today I tried a pretzel under a warmer thingy with squeeze bottles of mustard. Mustard, I thought, I like mustard. I got a pretzel and squished a whole bunch of mustard on top. One big bite and I entered a deep dark sad feeling of disappointment. It wasn't mustard, it was 'liquid cheese food'. Bletch. The South is grand and creepy, especially when trying to be meat free. If I liked barbeque, I'd be fine, I think.

BUT. There are crickets. All day, all night. I saw a few on the sidewalk. In spite of the food. Crickets cheered me up and helped to me live another day.

It sucks to be a food snob. It's stupid, actually. My friend Tommy had a theory. In the end times, if you couldn't eat garbage food, you'd die faster cuz you couldn't get vegetables and o, fruit. I don't care. I'd rather not eat than eat mashed potatoes mixed with bits of ham and dyed yellow. Under some flattened green beans. Ish.

Tonight we're gonna go into downtown Nashville and go to a restaurant. Maybe I can convince everyone to try a vegetarian restaurant. Otherwise I'll be reduced to the salad and some salted peanuts from the vending machine. Maybe I'll just drink heavily so I won't mind.

Nah.

Love from Your Travel Hostess

My eyes hurt and I'm not even on the red eye flight yet. It's an anticipatory scratchiness. Like flying to Hong Kong which is a circle of hell. Even if they give you a toothbrush and lettle white socks. At some point, you just want to start screaming. And punching your neighbors who are SLEEPING, ferfucksake. They let you watch a hundred bad movies though. It's a cosmic experience to watch Jackass while flying over the Pacific. I think the Pacific is about a hundred million and seven miles wide.

I'm hoping to take Nashville by storm, whatever the hex that means.

I discovered a CD my kids made for my big b'day party last February. It's amazing. I don't know hardly any of the artists. Except for Kimya Dawson. And a week later, J broke up with me.

Grrrrrrrr.

Um, maybe I'm not done with my anger. What do you think?

Yesterday I called an ambulance for a bleeding man. He whacked his head on a cut branch while running in the Arboretum. He had blood dripping off his sunglasses. After the aid car guys got there, he had a dramatic bandage on his head. Today I passed an elderly Asian woman as I walked along Lake Washington. She was digging mushrooms at the base of the pin oaks. She had a garbage bag full. She rejected the ones with the red bumpy tops. I trusted her on that. I passed a bunch of gardeners eating their lunches in the their trucks.

My dad used to bring wild mushrooms home. He'd fry them in butter and garlic, the ONLY WAY to eat mushrooms. And fresh caught trout.

Now I'm preparing to write a talk on grief and loss for the conference I'm going to. In Nashville, land of iceberg lettuce and country music.

Everything I just told you is true.

What do you do at night? I go out and hose the raccoons, why? Varmints.

Last night I saw a taxi driver kneeling and bowing on his prayer rug in front of the elementary school. His trunk was open. He was facing North. Isn't Mecca West or East, depending on your orientation? Maybe you can get to Mecca over the Polar Cap.

We don't see public prayer often in America. I felt tenderness for him. I wondered what his prayer consisted of.

The last time I prayed, I was involved in a medical emergency. Midwives sometimes have those. I was saying under my breath two mantras. One was fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck. The other was Holy Mary, Mother of G-d. Many times. Swearing was theraputic. Calling on the mother of the baby Jesus seemed appropriate at the time. Fortunately for all, no one was harmed.

I meditate but that's different. An emptying out, an emptiness. Praying feels full, noise and cymbals and flashing lights. Maybe that was the ambulance.

what I saw Saturday night

I saw this couple dance on Saturday night. In SoDo. They were AWESOME.

Speaking of turtles. There was an article in the NYT yesterday about loggerhead turtles in the Gulf and the legions of volunteers who have identified nests and have shipped them very carefully to the Atlantic side so the baby turtles hit clean un-oiled water after they hatch. I wept on the paper reading the story. Baby turtles with their little flippers, turtles with wings. Mother turtles don't lay eggs until they're 30 years old. The volunteers listen to the nests with stethoscopes so they can tell when the eggs are getting ready to hatch. Then the turtles dig out of the sand and blast off to the water like wind-up toys.

I would totally be a volunteer if I lived there. I'd be a turtle midwife.

There's an angry man walking up and down outside my house yelling into his cellphone that he's 'gonna come and beat your effing ass...' Yesterday he left in his car, stared me down as he passed, did a u-turn and came back to his driveway. He'd driven a block. I think some people wake up angry and stay that way. Asleep--angry are their two modes. Or maybe there are three. Asleep, angry and drunk.

He better be careful. I have attack cats and they'll mess him up. They're patrolling the perimeter right now. In their little kitty flak jackets and wee sabers.

The wild kingdom and Christians

Part I. I went to the dentist this week. My dentist retired and sold her practice to a new guy. If I could take a helicopter to his office, I might be able to get there within a reasonable time. As it is, I'm usually held up by bridges, passing trains, earthquakes and the like. I mean, the dentist is a good time but I'm always late.

However, I went to the new guy. I had an appointment. I have a fear that if I don't regularly get my teeth cleaned, I will find all of them on my pillow one morning and then no one will ever date me again. Although the thought of dating makes me nauseous. Regardless.

I was waiting in the little office area after checking in with the receptionist (ahem) who was wearing a lot of make-up and many types of jewelry, especially a large ring in the shape of a blue bow. I sat with my Newsweek and it slowly dawned on me that I was listening to a Christian rock station. I just used Christian and rock in the same sentence. My old dentist listened to NPR. I debated. Should I just get up and walk out? Maybe it was just her radio and the (sic) music was not piped into the whole office. Will I be supporting a rabid whacked family man with sixteen children?

I allowed him to clean my teeth. He was a nice young man. And yes, the music was throughout the office (gag). I have a dentist within walking distance of my house. I'm thinking of switching. I might ask about their musical taste first.

Part II. I came home late the other night after a long difficult birth. I was pacing and muttering in the back yard under the quarter moon when I began to notice a crunching and smacking sound coming from the grape arbor over the hot tub. Then a raccoon head popped up among the leaves. I grabbed the hose and chased him/her out of the yard. Foe vanquished.

However. I went inside and found the big cat cavorting in the living room, that thing they do when they've got something to 'show' you. My foot touched a soft object in the dark and when I turned on the light I found a headless squirrel. This takes effort. Hugo had to drag the squirrel through TWO cat doors to get to the living room. I told the squirrel I was sorry and dropped it into the garbage.

Cats keeping the yard safe for democracy. Life and death under the big top.

Medgar Evers Pool has underwater lights that change colors, from blue to green to purple. The first time I swam there, I thought I was having a stroke. Now I'm used to it. I imagine that I'm swimming the jade green river that runs through Glacier National Park, then I'm in Crater Lake, then I'm in the Pacific off Maui, all within 5 minutes.

I wish they'd add some turtles.

I'm performing a wedding in Maui in March so I'll be able to swim with turtles. They're dreamy with front flippers and beautiful eyes. The signs say not to touch them but one morning I was the only one in the water and there were 6 turtles all around me. I touched one, just a little. They're my real family, my water family. I heart sea turtles.

That's it for squishy posts. I won't do it again. Sorry.

The acupuncturists say that the turning wheel of the year brings unbalanced chi (ie. moving from Summer into Fall). Because we had no appreciable summer here AT ALL, not that I'm bitter, I think it entirely unfair that I feel sick-ish with a sniffly nose and a slight cough. All because it is officially Fall, what with the menace of pumpkins carved into grotesques and evil candy for children, which makes them insane and twitchy in school.

(((sigh)))

Otherwise, I'm quite chipper, despite my off kilter chi.

I'm still at work because I am lame. Or because I like to stay here. At home is the torn-up bathroom and the prospects of some kind of weird dinner.

I am mostly a good citizen. I recycle, I don't eat animals and I feed my cats extremely expensive food. I exercise most days and I have work that is, for the most part, non-harming. Welcoming babies into the world safely is work that has a decent reputation where I live. However, it is sometimes hard as hell and scary and exhausting. And lonely. When I get together with my midwife buddies, we talk non-stop about births that scared us. There aren't many births that fall into that category but we don't have other outlets. I mean, normal people don't want to hear about gore and such. I wouldn't.

Not one but two babies, one before midnight, the other after. Beautiful, healthy, pink babies. They wanted to come out because the rain was soft and dreamy. And warm, like a warm shower from the sky. I walked around in my yard after I got home in the early dawn. I admit I was muttering but in a nice way.

Then my tenant woke me up with rap music coming through the floor. I detest rap music. Blech. I know, I'm not hip. Sorry. Rap music=dreck.

I'm waiting for a baby. One of my colleagues wrote a book about her career as a midwife, her very long career. I looked up the publisher of her book because, well, I admit, I was jealous. The publisher publishes Christian books because we aren't saved unless we've been washed in blood, something I wasn't aware of. I'm apparently a terrible sinner and completely unredeemable. And I don't want to bathe in blood. It just doesn't interest me. Besides, it's gross. I don't think it's what JC had in mind.

I'll probably be struck by lightening and my hair will ignite. But I'll be in good company. You know who you are. All because of my publishing jealousy.

Sheesh.

I'm contemplating eating a wee slice of vegan cheesecake I made 2 weeks ago. What could happen? I believe in the healing power of microbes, something my daughter and I disagree about. She comes to visit and she stands at my fridge with the garbage pail. She asks (in an accusatory tone) how old things are. Then she chucks the offending item in the garbage. I am usually meek while this is going on, occasionally lying about the relative age of the lasagna or fruit salad. You can cut mold off cheese, right? I mean, cheese IS mold. And certain things taste better the longer they 'marry'. Like spagetti sauce. I think she thinks I'm trying to poison her. But I'm not.

I got my eyebrows dyed today and now I look like Groucho Marx.

Oh, by the way. I'm writing a bunch of new poems. I have to keep lighted candles by them. They're afraid of the dark.

I read/partially read a Nick Cave book over the weekend. It was about a man named Bunny. It sucked so bad I put it in recycling. I NEVER recycle books except for the stupid phonebook. This book did not deserve to be published. He used 'or something' on EVERY PAGE. Lazy. And awful. It gave me a stomach ache. Sorry, NIck Cave. I like your music. Maybe you should stick to that.

I was here over the weekend. I didn't want to come back. Ever.

Saturday night I went dancing and a bunch of goth people came in dressed in lingerie and fangs. Very small lingerie. Fancy hairdos and lots of makeup. But mostly cleavage. I was distinctly out of place in my sensible dancing shoes. The women were very thin. Very. Thin. At times I think I'm just visiting from another planet and observing the behaviors of the earthlings. Here is a group of people who dress up as undead in fishnets and pointy teeth Two days before that I stood at the bedside of a friend as she stopped breathing. We laid out her body. We bathed her. We sang to her and wished her well. I went dancing because I still could. As a living person. Mostly I'm thinking about what makes us happy. For some it's social activism. For others it's Victoria's Secret.

As I left the hospital after Margo died, I wanted to get on a motorcycle and ride, anywhere. The next day, Morgan showed up on her bike. I dusted off my leathers and we went out for about four hours. It was beautiful. Morgan wants to go to Mount Rainier next. Oh hell yes.

Margo Adair--------------------- 2/26/1950--9/2/2010

Sweetheart, now you're free.

I'm listening to Rene Fleming sing from La Traviata, complete with a dress that is half falling off her shoulders. I could do the dress falling off part but not the singing. She's in St Petersburg too and I am in my living room in Seattle. There aren't any onion shaped domes out the window or canals full of water. There, you see, another difference. Plus the high C. Oh, they're in a Russian palace.

I just made a cheese-less cheesecake all vegan and raw and so divine. (and costing $$$$$ for ingredients)

Crust: 2 cups macadamia nuts, 1/2 cup dates-grind in a cuisinart and press into a spring form pan. Dust with coconut flakes first.

Filling: 3 cups cashews, soaked for 2 hours, 3/4 cup lemon juice, 3/4 cup agave or maple syrup, 3/4 cup coconut oil, 1/2 cup water, 1 tsp vanilla and 1/2 tsp salt-puree in cuisinart and pour over crust.

Freeze until firm. Take out an hour before, loosen from the pan sides, garnish with raspberries and yummmmmm !!!!

After my dinner guests are done, I'm taking all leftovers to my neighbors so I'm not temped to eat the rest and gain 20 pounds.

O to wake up to the sound of rain. Because the bathroom is torn up, I thought the stairwell was leaking but no. Lovely lovely rain. It hasn't rained for many days, not real rain. Unusual for Seattle and according to my utility bill costly. Slowly I recover from torn broken etc.

Shall I go to Bhutan next year? Instead of a month long retreat. These are very different. Some of my friends are very sick right now. Very. Sick.

When I was by the Tahuya River, I heard voices. Some would say it was a branch moving with the current but I heard two voices, a woman and a girl. It was my mother before she lost her hearing. I don't know who the woman was.

[[[[[[ I swear to g-d, the house is breathing and it's not the refrigerator. ]]]]]]

I sank down into the couch and came out today. I went swimming and while in the locker room, I contemplated the other women and their bodies, all in various stages of disrepair. I can still walk. I can still swim. I'm not a mass of scars. (Well, not yet anyway). Richard came over and walked around my yard with me. As I am unable to actually bend over, gardening has become an interesting type of problem. Richard and his crew are going to 'clean out' my garden and mulch.

I fear I am becoming eccentric. Or maybe I should be proud. Eccentrics unite! I'm thinking about learning to play the cello. A lot easier to move than the piano.

James and I went to visit a 9 foot tall jade Buddha at a Vietnamese temple near my house. The Buddha is traveling around the country. The temple was having quite a party, with flower and incense offerings and singing, very loud singing. There were lots of people on folding chairs or bowing and kneeling. The statue is carved from one piece of jade and has a golden face. The inscription over the Buddha says, "Jade Buddha for World Peace."

A young woman gave us little cups of vitamin water. Maybe we looked depleted. There was a man singing karaoke too. And many children running around. Behind the temple there were cooking fires and big pots filled with food. We crossed over into another country.

Oh, I'm on bedrest for a week. Gawd.

I watched 10 episodes of Dexter today. I am deeply into Dexter. I feel slightly feverish. Enforced idleness is troublesome.

I love Larry Yang

Back from a retreat by the Tahuya river, beautiful valley and the usual flora and fauna. As I was leaving, I pulled a hamstring (don't ask) so now I am quite a crip, lying on ice and feeling very sorry for myself. I feel kinda drunk but without any medication. Weird. Plus I look so hot with a big ice pack in my pants. Oh baby.

At least the cats didn't pee and poo all over the house like they do when they are displeased with the odd person feeding them. They also tend to protest the lack of a human around to break up fights and keep the wacko Lupine in line. I am having fantasies about taking her to the shelter and 'relinquishing' her. But no one would adopt her because she is psycho. *guilt guilt* Sigh.

The writers are once again rescheduling, a grateful thing because I have nothing to critique. Nothing. What I'm writing lately is bizarre, even for me. And Pat always wants my poems to make sense. I'm in my squirrel nutkin phase.

Off to see the chiropractor now. Maybe she can help me walk again. With her magic wand. In the library.

An unusual day. I celebrated Annual Ironing Day by ironing three shirts. And that's it for another year. Tomorrow I leave for a retreat. I though I'd be sleeping in a tent but instead I get a garret room. As long as I don't fall down the stairs and lie until morning with a concussion and smashed teeth.

My child left for Portland. She's on tour with a band; their official photographer.

I want to go to Bhutan. Next year. I want to wear a headdress with ribbons and hair and a mask and dance in the town square and play a bone whistle and fly.

I was on Bainbridge yesterday with my daughter. She was a professional photographer yesterday which is what she does. We went to vineyards and wine tastings so we were slightly drunk by noon, something I never am. Then we tried to find a park, Williams Olsen Park, which is a park that is really someone's yard, someone's idea of a joke. We drove there and said, " Nah, this can't be it, there's a foot of waterfront and we are in a yard, fer crissakes. So we asked many Bainbridgeans where the WO Park was. We even asked a women who was tending a small burning pole by the road. I didn't want to stop because I thought she wanted to bewitch us but my daughter insisted. She sent us to the wrong park. Many people sent us to various parks. Bainbridge has many parks. My daughter took many pictures of food on plates and people eating food and a guy standing in his garage among wine barrels. And sunsets and trees and water. I was supposed to be her assistant but I sucked. Her girlfriend was much better. After walking for miles in a vineyard, I wanted to lie down and drift in and out while inebriated. In the heat.

In the lake, I'm no longer a human. I'm a selkie.

this is where I was today.

tonight the blue dress in the parlor with the angels

Last night I watched a documentary of Henri Cartier-Bresson. An old man in front of piles of photos. Occasionally he would hold one in front of his face and talk about it. All you would see is the top of his head. He has photographed Arthur Miller and Marilyn Monroe and Samuel Beckett and a very young and beautiful Truman Capote. Over and over, he caught people kissing and lying about, in cemeteries, on bridges, in alleys. He talked about the mystery, the mysteries of light and shadow and the rhythm of repeating designs-nuns, fences, bridge struts, stairways. He wasn't taking photographs anymore. He was drawing, nudes and landscapes. He had a slight smile on his face while he talked and paged through a book of his photos, cover by Matisse. His archives are enormous, a huge room of sliding files.

I went back and looked at my daughter's work. A brilliant photo necessitates timing and alert attention, to the moment when everything falls into place; the light, the dark and the borders in between.

Henri said, "Oh, I love this one. I love the people."

Tonight Susan Sontag, still having terrible trouble with debt. At risk of losing her rights to her work. Egad.

Spiders have bitten my legs all up. The skin doctor blistered the spot on my face. In response to this, I just finished making a flourless chocolate cake with raspberry sauce. It's for James tomorrow so I can't even have one leetle piece. And good heavens, it has 7 eggs, a cup and a 1/2 of butter and a butt load of chocolate, not to mention sugar. Heart attack food.

It does look good, doesn't it.

I cried today. A lot. I got bad news. I went outside my clinic and cried and made noise. There were clients coming and going. Bev let me lean on her shoulder while I cried. She was there the day my brother died and she held me up then too. I think she is not altogether human. She might be part deva. With human arms.

We're just too fragile, especially little kids. The type of work we do, we see it, know it, the fragile, insubstantial, breathtaking new baby work. We come in and go out. Little flames. Poof, we're gone. Just like that. Staying takes courage. Leaving takes courage.

Going to see Angelina Jolie in her stupid summer movie did not help. Neither did smoking a cigarette. Nothing whatever helps with the pain, nothing. I used to perform many diversions to avoid the pain. Now there's no escape.

Thank you Rebecca.

Light fades from the sky.

The cats are flat on the floor. Flat cat mode.

I have a giant piece of chocolate cake to eat for dinner.

Oh yeah.

We're having a weird kind of summer, like San Francisco. Foggy til midday then the sun. Atmospheric. Mysterious.

After a very long birth, came home to discover that the cats had locked themselves in the house. At least the cat door was locked. Maybe it was raccoons. Anyway, they peed/pooped on a few area rugs. Grand.

My ex FED EX'd me my kayak bilge pump. Why, thank you. I sure was missing it. (?) I think she is trying to appear normal and kind. I, however, am not fooled. Not. Fooled.

It is the middle of the effing night. I must go to bed before another baby decides to be born.

I love to be unhappy

I love to be in pain

When it's sunny

I can't wait for it to rain.

(tap dancing here)

And even when I'm tapping

And moving to the beat

I'm gonna get thick ankles

And ugly muscles in my feet.

----Gilda Radner

We swam in a man made lake, a nude lake, a shallow lake, a lake with no fish. And there were those stupid jet skis which I'm always afraid will run me over if I swim far out without a pink cap.

We tried to put together a jigsaw puzzle which was inexplicably splattered with gold. Sheesh, it was a view of a lighthouse with crashy waves and flowers and clouds and cheesy gold all over everything.

Other than that, there was much laughing, especially the baby. Baby laughter is the best laughter of all.

Because I planted Mutant Tomatoes From Venus a few years ago, I now have volunteer tomatoes growing across the yard. They sprout in every direction and grow enormous feathery arms. The tomatoes are small yellow ones that are super sweet. However this year because we have no summer to speak of, there are no tomatoes, not a single one. Just giant tomato plants climbing all over the place. Maybe I could train them to climb vertically and I could shinny up to the giant's house like Jack and The Bean Stalk. Eventually I'd have to tell my mother I squandered the money I got for the cow I sold but she'd be entranced by my giant/tomato plant/bag o' gold story and all would be forgiven.

We all leave today for Cle Elum, surely a dream vacation spot. Tracy's baby is too little for actual camping so we're gonna go to a 'cabin', actually a nice house with a kitchen and a bathroom and a fridge and a porch. We will still play charades and Scrabble and cook great messes o' food while the kids run around in the trees. A few days away from computers, pagers, phones etc will be heavenly. I might bring Scott Turow's book, Presumed Innocent, a book I have read many times. Don't see the lame movie with Harrison Ford. Read the book. It's trashy and wonderful, in the way of dark and inappropriate desires. And the damage they do.

And I'll add Cider House Rules. For ballast. And Cadaver Dogs by Rebecca Loudon. Her book glows in the dark.

Burned out car in fancy neighborhood near me.

I walk through a fancy neighborhood near my not-so-fancy neighborhood. The houses are huge and quiet, like no one lives there except the help. All the lawns are manicured and perfect. There are no toys or dog poo or weeds in the yards.

But there was this car. Must have been spectacular burning. I wonder if anyone came out to look. Maybe no one lives in any of the houses after all. Maybe the street is a movie set. Maybe I step into another dimension when I cross onto the street. Maybe it's all done with mirrors.

Saturday is "Get out your power tools and make some noise!" day. Why is that?

I just sat up on the couch. I've been sleeping all morning, another birth last night. Very pretty birth with the older siblings watching. I went down to the kitchen for tea and I saw a bunny on the lawn. The family was happy with their girl.

I officiated at a wedding yesterday with a very pregnant woman and her man. Didn't know either of them. I get asked sometimes. It's fun and feels like birth with happy, crying people and love everywhere. However it was south of here by about an hour and a half. Even tho I thought I gave myself plenty of time, it took forever with stupid traffic. So I got into a fine mood, thinking I was an idiot for agreeing to officiate when I could be drinking iced tea and pondering the imponderables. Then I got there, grew up a little and shared in love and celebration.

What a life I have.

In a few days my family will be here and the house will be overrun with noise and food and trips to Goodwill. My children are veteran thrift shoppers. We'll go camping and play Scrabble and eat together. The annual tradition.

Right now I'm going to get up and go outside because there is a large golden ball in the sky and everything is illuminated. Most peculiar.

Tonight my writing group met and we drank wine and ate much food and cookies and fruits and cheeses (well, no cheeses for this vegan). Ad we yucked it up. As usual. We missed Josh. He had to work. I think that was a ruse. He fears the maniacally laughing women.

Good night, Pat, Kelly, Kiara and Martha. Thanks for everything.

I slept ALL NIGHT last night. I woke up and wondered why I was in bed. My pager went off but it was because it was LO BAT. Rummaging around in the fridge for triple As. At 3 in the morning.

Yesterday, after I had 3 hours of sleep, my neighbor fired up his belt sander. His project for the last 4 years is to paint his house that faces my kitchen window. He sands a piece, primes and paints it. It looks like a patchwork quilt. The sander is incredibly loud. His house is blue. He's a nice guy but yesterday I wanted to kill him. I thought of some ways. I won't write them because if one of them came true, I'd feel awful.

Sleep was futile so I went to breakfast with my gay boy buddies. Richard had a birthday party for himself in some of the gardens he designed. He posted poems all over and had food. We went from garden to garden. The last garden was fictional. There was a huge red cedar in the center and terraces and water features and flowering plants and daphne that blooms all year. In Wallingford. From the front of the house, you couldn't even tell there was such fabulousness in the back. Oh, there were no weeds. None. My garden has weeds. I hum along and then I notice that there is a monstrous weed right in the middle of a bed. It feels good to pull it out. Satisfying. So a weedless garden is interesting but impossible. He wants to have dinner at my house. Between what I'll cook for him and what he'll think of my garden, I'm a bit worried.

I have gay men in my life right now. I like it. They treat me with deference. I'm not sure why. Is it the breasts or because I sit down to pee?

I went to see baby Alice yesterday. She lives across the street. I attended her birth. I love her family. Brenda had a girl. I love knowing there is a brand new baby in close proximity. I'm going to get her some frilly girl clothes. Can't help it.

I don't even remember writing that last post. Uh oh.

Godawful tired. I have convinced the cats to move off the couch so I can nap. Up all night at a birth. Sometimes my work is dangerous, lunging and plunging all over the highway from fatigue. Phone/pager beside me. Still not off call.

Things That Could Be True

I saw several people with artificial legs walking at Seward Park. One lady almost fell in the ditch but then she saw her friend so she righted herself. Her friend was hugging a tree and talking to it. Then I saw two people walking their goats. In the park. In Seattle.

Then I found my glasses I lost two years ago while running.

Then my back miraculously stopped hurting the entire way home. It forgot it was supposed to hurt.

I think everyone should see goats on leashes. It seemed so normal.

I have the cure for a bulging disc and resultant leg pain. A lot of ibuprofen and a few glasses of wine. It helps if you haven't had wine in a while and you have NO TOLERANCE.

I feel perfectly fine right now.

Nothing can hurt me.

My lips are numb.

I think someone came during the night, removed my leg and screwed it back on sideways. It's very painful and I'm going to get an adjustment and a massage. This cannot be. My ankle is healed and now I can't run half a block because my leg is at right angles to my hip. Looks peculiar too.

I bought a new fan from the Mormons. I refuse to ever set foot inside a Walmart's, the richest family ON EARTH with their disgusting labor practices. Instead it's Fred Myers, owned by Mormons. Who are Mormons, what are they, what do they believe? I don't know. I've know lovely Mormon people. It's just the revelation in upstate New York (land of my people) that kinda scares me. Whenever I have revelations, I read my prescription bottle and go have a nap. And wait for it to wear off.

My new fan is fanning away, the cats are spread out to twice their size, which they mysteriously do in the heat and the sun is shining.

I feel better when the sun comes out. I love the rain and cold but when the sun is out, I think about gardening and painting and art and beauty and little animals underground and sparkly mountains and unicorns (well maybe not that last bit). Anyway, sun is a sometimes thing in the NW so we get so happy. So grateful. Because it's warm and there is fruit. All kinds.

PS-I put my fan in the window and it made a HORRIBLE NOISE so I had to turn it off. Oh oh. This might become a crisis. I can always sleep in the cellar.

A bird flew *SMAK* into the French door window, landed on the deck. Of course the cats were very interested. I shooed them away and picked up the bird. It came to, shat on my hand, realized it was in close contact with a large human person and it flew away. There's still a feather splat on the glass.

My dentist is retiring. I will never retire. How do people retire? What does it mean. Sleeping in, reading the whole paper at one sitting, spending the day eating raspberries in the garden and getting scratched, what?

The second of the trilogy is opening this Friday, the Norwegian version. The Girl Who Kicked the Hornet's Nest. Hollywood is talking about a remake with Angelina Jolie. Bletch.

My downstairs tenant has a new BF so I get to listen to them, ahem, having it off. And then there's the fireworks. Gawd. And no one had a baby today. I have delivered several July 4th babies. It's kinda like driving through a war zone on an urgent mission. And after the birth, driving back under cover of darkness to the safety of my home. All the while, bombs explode overhead. Kapow! Kablam!

Last night I made peach blueberry cobbler for a friend. When I came home tonight, there it was, sitting on the counter waiting for me. Last night it was warm. Tonight it was cold. I forget every year about seasonal fruit. Every year I scheme ways to mix blueberries with apples/peaches/nectarines/mango etc. because blueberries remind me of childhood when we picked them and the adults made pancakes with them. Bears love blueberries and huckleberries. You see purple scat on the hiking trails. Blueberries are modest and unassuming. And you can eat a whole pint on the way home from the store.

Then there are raspberries and salmonberries...

Tomorrow is the horrid 4th of July. The cats hide under the couch. The only good part is for several years, a baby is born on the 4th so I end up at a birth. I think the babies are curious about the noise and the 'ahhhh' sounds coming from their parents so they come out to see.

In my attempt to not write my syllabus, I went for a truly pathetic run in my neighborhood. I paused on the hills. I took shortcuts. I was a running slacker. And I think I'm going to run the half-marathon in Portland this fall. Gawd. I need a trainer, some vitamins and a younger body.

Then I came home, still determined not to write any blankety-blank syllabus and weeded a bit, actually large frightening plants that had mysteriously appeared all over my yard. Like a poppy higher than my head. And those fricken ivy plants that go viral everywhere. I pulled them off my raspberries ferociously until I realized I had RIPE RASPBERRIES just waiting for me to eat them. So I did. And I ate one little strawberry I planted this year and it was so good I began to cry. It was the essence of strawberry before the beginning of the world when g-d was thinking about making shit and g-d the great voidness said, "I'll create a berry that grows on the ground so the creatures will have to bend over (knees hadn't been invented yet) and pluck the soft red berry covered with wee seeds. And the taste will be a combination of sweet and perfume and delight and great sex. Then the creatures will swoon and praise existence and peace will reign and someone will bake little cakes and someone else will figure out the whipped cream thing and all will be right on the planet."

However, I didn't need shortcake or whipped cream. My little strawberry, my symphony.

I have to write a syllabus and I don't want to. I want to sit on my deck and eat raspberries and read the NYT. That's the trouble with being a putative adult. You agree to a) go to work on time or b) keep the neighbors from knowing you are a hoarder by at least clearing a path on the front porch or c) let your children know that you're living in the cellar again because the house is haunted and talking to you incessantly. You just want the mail to stop coming. You avoid answering the phone. And when you agree to teach a class, you have to produce a syllabus and a reading list and you have to think about the structure of the classes (sigh) even though you've taught the class for a hundred years and basically, nothing is different. Oh, and you have to not swear in class because an occasional student is offended by swearing. Sheesh, swearing is good, is necessary. In my house growing up, you never swore. Never. As soon as I could, I took up the habit. I mean, I don't smoke, do drugs, or drink (well, sometimes, but not much). I'm a vegan, for cripes sakes.

"...your head is full of liquor and perfume." Chris Pureka. She swears in her songs. And she's mournful. I love her. If she weren't half my age, I 'd attempt to have sex with her. I mean, after dinner and tea and finding out what her sign was.

My writing group is meeting this week. EEEEEEEEE!!!!! Whatever will I bring? Maybe if I bring some chocolate dipped strawberries, they won't notice that I've brought a poem from 1998. Plus I got a rejection from Arsenic Lobster. Nope, but send more. Just publish a poem, dammit. How hard could it be?

Form is emptiness, emptiness is form. This is an eternal law.

Off on another retreat, this time in Nanaimo, BC. Back in a week. James and I dug in the dirt today, became regular mud balls. After visiting the plant nursery, we retired to eat lentil soup and drink tea. Because it is effing freezing and wet and cold, I even turned on the heat. In June. Sometimes Seattle weather defies description. Nasty. Miserable. Intolerable. I turned the heat on June 20th. Gawd. It doesn't rain for 24 hours and I think I have to water. Because the plants are ALWAYS WET. We have a type of madness in the Northwest. It has no name. We know when we are afflicted. It involves muttering and substance abuse and/or an unusual preoccupation with food. Notice next when you are in the bank and the person in front of you is mumbling and snarling. If they also have secreted away bulky groceries under their raincoat, you know you are in the presence of lunacy caused by perma-sodden shoes, coats, hair etc. It's very sad.

Oh, I go to Victoria tomorrow on the ferry. I might stop for high tea, food of my people. Bitty sandwiches with the crusts cut off and wee cakes. And pots of tea. With a tea cosy. See what I mean about the food thing?

Once again, I'm leaving for a week into silence which I tried to do today to no avail. So I'll go to Nanaimo BC where the cell gods can't find me and I'll turn off all electronic devices which fuck with the navigational instruments so we get to NeverNeverLand on time and speaking of MJ, surely one of the great freak shows of all time, I recently watched This Is It, a film of his doomed final show/extravaganza with all singing/dancing/acrobats/fireworks etc and it was magnificent I would have gone to see it/him sing and dance so I went back and watched the old videos from Thriller and Billie Jean and Michael was beautiful and sleek and altogether a brilliant and messed up human. Even if his nose at the end looked like a small horn.

Here in Seattle it is so cold the ice cream truck playing Turkey In The Straw is ironic or merely annoying because you were previously in your yard in your fur coat and mittens and you were shocked to see that your roses were blooming surely a freakish mistake and even 5000 iu's of vitamin D won't scare away the inevitable blues that accompany the sunless and frigid clime wherein you live and you can't convince your children to move back (why the hell would they, from California where they have what they call "nice weather" which means, I believe, warmth and sun which is why their brains go all soft and they elect an Austrian actor to play governor for them during a terrible fiscal season really I'm wandering far off the topic where was I oh yeah) anyway the lack of sun/warmth is very fine for lettuce and spinach the roses are just being foolish blooming as they are trying to get attention I suppose but actually I would like to silence the ice cream truck in a clever and deceitful way like teleportation or I could slip the driver a wee bit of mescaline which as I remember was a very entertaining experience and he would have to cease playing that damn tune and instead toss ice cream cups cones and redwhiteblue popcicles onto the ground and he'd be temped to take the first ferry to Victoria to see his only love before the illusions wore off and he wouldn't mind mortality or natural disasters or even his true love's snaggletooth or liniments made of rue.

the tragedy

what about the girl who threw herself down the stairs

to get the baby out

she’s been bleeding for 2 weeks

a long time to bleed in a poor country where there isn’t enough food

only rice and everyone is living in plastic tarps

hurricane season is coming

so the baby is a real inconvenience

I mean the baby can’t be a real person

it’s to be got rid of

it’s already hungry and it can’t be born hungry

the girl is tall and graceful

in the way island women are graceful

they have air under their feet

even in the lacerated streets

they float

they glide in their golden shoes

babies are a nuisance

they need milk and fish and mangos

there is no milk

no fish

no mangos

at least not for free

all the girl has is for free

she has one dress and three brothers and the dead

all around her

buried under the mountains made of concrete

they once called it Port au Prince

now they call it a graveyard

the death city

where the dead walk

looking for their bones

waiting for their bones to be found

liberated from what has crushed them

dumb bones

waiting for the dump trucks and the street crews

with their shovels to move the mountains

rubble

where everyone lives now

crumbled

broken

the dead are thick with their demands

still the girl bleeds

quick choose what to save

here in the charnel grounds

there is no time to sleep

This one is for James who tried to kill me yesterday well he didn't actually try to kill me but it sounds good. We went to someplace beyond Steamboat Island behind Olympia and he assured me the current would be just right and we'd cruise along like a gentle spring stream hardly having to paddle our kayaks we'd just look at the coasting birds and the seals spyhopping and it would be glorious and we'd eat peanut butter sandwiches and drink heavenly water and then slide back to the park where we had put in however there was a fierce gale which didn't even ruffle the trees but bent a mighty jumble of water full of whirlpools and wavey waves and choppy chop and the wind toyed with us spinning us around so hard I thought my arms would snap off well they did snap off and I prayed to Neptune to take my sorry ass to his undersea home where I would go a'roamin' no more and my watery grave would be a bliss and a blessing rather than my dislocated shoulders and arms and blistered thumbs. Period.

Today I'm ready for further punishment. Kayaking is great fun. You should try it. I recommend wine, ibuprofen and a whole pizza after. And a bath. And a lie down for about 12 hours.

I went to see the foolish Karate Kid II movie and Jadon Smith is rather gorgeous and Jackie Chan is old now even though he's still my hero because he threw himself around in movies so much that he's broken all his bones, some several times, like his nose, but the movie is stupid except for the mountain top temples and the Great Wall which makes me want to go to China except for the usual things but really my neighborhood smells like burning wood which makes me VERY NERVOUS I keep looking around my house to make sure my house isn't on fire and no one else's house is on fire either I mean why would you have a fire in your fireplace today it's warm out and spring-y with roses and flowering dogwood and such. I'm just not in the mood for a fire on the block with spectators and fire trucks and drama.

I took a pitchfork and pickaxe to my yard. Ta-da! A mess o' dirt, worms and torn up sod. Now I'm gonna hire a strong young man to amend the soil and then I'll have the delicious task of visiting the local nurseries for plants.

This is how I garden. Some people have a 'plan' and they think about colors and how big plants tend to get and other silly things like that. I plant willy-nilly and therefore the red twig dogwood have to be severely reprimanded at least three times a year. I wade in and whack away. A rhododendron is completely buried by a plant with little yellow flowers (oh yeah, I can never remember what plants' names are...embarrassing during the garden show which I wasn't invited to participate in this year, thank gawd.) Anyway, I plant here and there and wait to see what happens. I've learned about ground cover and it makes me grumpy. Strawberry plant ground cover goes everywhere and those stupid shamrock things, which I hate. Well, maybe hate is too strong a word. The wisteria has tried to get into the house several times. I used to be a timid pruner, but no longer. Plants want to be BIG and tough and they're greedy, pushing whimpy plants aside or burying them. It's a plant eat plant world out there.

However, I ***love***my Styrax japonica trees. Right now they have their little bell shaped flowers all over them. When no one is looking, I kiss them right on the bark.

By the way, my naturopath is a genius. She told me to go run and see what would happen to my injured ankle. I've been such a weeny, getting all sorts of treatments and acupuncture and PT and thinking my running career was over and I was just going to turn into an old non-running fart. So I ventured out today and I ran three miles, hooray!!! And I felt so good, endorphin drunk and sweaty. I can still run. I think I will live for a few more days, after all.

The sun came out today for a bit but fortunately it began to rain again. A soft warm rain. The kind I don't mind getting wet in.

I've begun to take up more sod in my back yard. I'm expanding the flower beds. Sod weighs thousands of pounds. It was so heavy, I couldn't wheel my compost bin out of the yard because I couldn't get it up the single stair. So I went through the gate, into the front yard, all the way around the trees and onto the sidewalk. It is sitting on the curb now. It may sit there until doomsday, as my mother used to say. What is doomsday? A day of doom, I suppose. Today could be a day of doom. It's raining and dark.

Nah. Seattle has lots of doomsdays if that is the case.

I really think I should be made queen so I could have servants to help me with sod removal and other tasks. Sometimes, I just not up to certain things. Like the fuzz on the hanging lights. Should I get a ladder and dust them off? See, I think servants should do that, dust fuzz. And water the plants. Feed the cats. In fact, do all household chores so I could be free to lie abed and think great thoughts. Like the scarecrow in Wizard of Oz.

MY PARENTS ONCE LOOKED LIKE MOVIE STARS

The air is moist and seductive. I can wring out handfuls of air. The hornets are back, banging into the windows. I'm going to walk to the lake now and take another look at the goslings. Such a lovely word, gosling. I want to be a gosling, meet a gosling, wear a dress as slender as goslings. Goslings were posted at the edge of town. I found three goslings under the back porch. I fed them pomegranate and brie. I saw a terrific movie about a lonely gosling who wrote pulp mysteries for a living and kept cheetahs as pets.

*The goslings at Seward Park lie in clumps, in nesting clumps. You can tell which nesting group hatched first, they're different sizes. Goose eggs are about 9 inches in size. Their incubation period is about 30 days. On the ground, geese are called a gaggle. In the air they're called a wedge or a skein. During migration, geese can fly as much as 650 miles a day. They can live for 30 years and they mate for life. *

I once ate a Canada goose. I'm sorry. I was a child and still doing what my parents told me to.

step off the plane into wet blanket slap 100 degrees 98% humidity you remember this from years before tho the air is thick with stench diesel charcoal fires burning plastic at least no corpse smell it’s been too long in the heat bodies are bones now buried in the mountains of rubble once a city capitol building leaning crazily like melting ice cream cones however you press into the airport swirl with sweat slicking your feet your hands saltsting in your eyes obscuring the agitated crowd of Haitian men jostling for attention your attention carry your bags for a few US dollars your passport is under your shirt your money belt buried in your backpack you can’t breathe Creole rushing past you so many faces and eyes you came to offer what exactly the crowd is a living moving animal swaying in the heat you can feel the desperation the empty bellies and the crush made of grief anger pride and something feral

Cate Blanchett as Bob Dylan in I'm Not There. Holy Cow. Effing genius. I just realized something, watching this movie---I loved Bob Dylan. He was the first poet I loved. My father would not allow me to listen to his records so I'd get up in the middle of the night, creep downstairs and put his records on the turntable, press my ear to the speaker on real low and sing along. I memorized his songs. When I hear them now, I remember the words, like they're burned into my skin, on the backs of my hands. He got me out of that house, that stifling house, hypocritical, pretend family house. Bob Dylan opened up the world, the world I wanted to find out about. Skinny guy with hair, a terrible/beautiful voice and poetry. Look out kid, it's something you did...

I'm making myself stay in bed all day. When I get a cold, it always turns into a barking cough that scares the cats. My colds are obnoxious and long and stupid. Some people scarcely wipe their noses and they make polite little sneezes. I hack and wheeze and spit. Disgusting. (Ok, I went into the garden in my pajamas and pulled weeds for a bit. I couldn't help it). And I'm blasting an artist I found, Chris Pakeda, an 'indie' folksinger type. I am playing her obsessively. So, I can. While staying in bed with juice and tea and the cats, I read part of a manuscript my friend James sent me. I want to be his literary agent and editor. I want him to lavishly praise me in his intro, he' s that good. I reviewed a midwifery exam that has been languishing for months. I'm about to compare health insurance rates (snore) because my insurance is going up TWO HUNDRED DOLLARS A MONTH, robbery, I tell you, just because I had a birthday. I don't know who I despise more, the insurance industry or BP.

The rain has been my companion. When the sun is out, I feel forced to be smiley and go outside and leap around. Rain isn't demanding in that way. When it rains, I don't feel like I have to pretend I feel good, all rainbow-y and unicorn-y. I can play depressing music and wear my ratty bathrobe all day.

The AT & T store did back-flips for me today when I took the phones in that DID NOT WORK in Haiti. While we were there, Karen and I stuck to each other so it wasn't so important to have phones. I just thought I was a damn genius to think of buying phones that would work there. Plus with a missing bag with my tent, mosquito netting, thermarest and food in it, at least we would have phones, yeah!

I'm still not right. Or the world isn't right. This agoraphobic thing I get into is tedious.

There are just too many ghosts.

Love with catastrophe

you are mangled

no mingled

no my words slip and recover

in enough time to refresh the nursing home

no not nursing home carnival lights

no the naked lady with a tattooed thumbnail

when I look straight at you

you slide sideways

no margins

no margin of error

your parallel universe

you are hanging from a hook over the bathmat

no a swan

your black beak a single eye

no I keep saying no I don't understand

help me to understand

no you can't

your mouth is disconnected from your stomach

such hunger is fathomless

such breadfruit

such understory

This morning I made bread. Whole wheat bread. With pumpkin and sunflower seeds in it. I don't care that I am slightly allergic to wheat ( a stupid allergy if there ever was one). Warm bread from the oven is HEAVEN. The original comfort food.

Then I went and bought tickets to a ZooTunes concert. This is an outdoor summer series and you sit on the grass. There are a million rules, fer cripes sake. Your chair can't be more than 24 inches high. You can't drink or smoke. You can't have balloons or 'flags'. So Seattle. Gone are the days when you sit on each other's shoulders, take off your shirt and light your hair on fire. On acid.

I'm still thinking about Haiti. The heat is in my blood. The air here is so clean. And everything is fresh and sparkly. I don't understand why I can make bread and have health care and other humans can't.

My roses are all in bloom at once. They're bright yellow with wicked thorns. They were here when I moved in. I prune them carefully. They're not like those anemic store roses. They're flagrant and sassy.

Port au Prince, Haiti

I'm back. This morning I was in Haiti. Tonight I'm on my couch with spoiled cats who eat better than the average Haitian. I'm going to bed. Tomorrow I'm going to have a piece of toast. I missed toast. I missed sleeping on a bed. I missed clean air.

Haitians are diamonds and pearls.

Alright. I leave tomorrow. I have a towering pile of small bills beside my computer. I have continued to eat everything in sight. Ice cream, pizza, more ice cream, cookies, watermelon (?). And tonight an email from one of the midwives currently in Haiti says we can buy fruit in the market. WHAT MARKET? FRUIT? We've been preparing to live on dried soup and raw oatmeal. Which is it, people? High anxiety. I admit it. Fortunately there is zanax for the plane.

My younger child just called from the airport. She's returning from NYC. She loves it there. Oh yes. It is the best city in the world if you don't mind not having any trees or a garden, which I would mind. Otherwise, it's most amazing. Once I saw a woman with hair down to her calves. She was talking toward me. As she passed, I turned to watch her walk away, her cascade of black hair swaying behind her. Only in New York.

New York. Carnegie Hall. Radio City Music Hall. Lincoln Center. The Met. MOMA. Central Park. Bagels. Knishes. The NYTimes. WBAI.

If you can guess where I am in this picture, you win a prize! And no cheating for the ones who were with me on that particular little adventure.

I've lost the paper with the amount I'm supposed to pay for my very first car payment (in years, in a long time). I smoked a cigarette. (blech). I've been eating weird because I won't be eating much very soon. My student told me she ate rice and peanut oil for 9 months when she was in the Sudan because she didn't know what the 'meat' item was. She said her stomach stuck out a lot by the time she came home. I'm eating avocados and coconut bliss ice cream and vegetables and apples and cookies. I have a pre Haiti eating disorder. My kitchen and dining room are really messy now, very messy and full of medicine and bug spray and dried food and piles of clothing and gauze and more medicine and baby clothes and water purifier stuff and headlamps and a battery powered fan and throw away phones. Oh, and a pile of money in small bills. It looks like a demented clinic where you only go if you're desperate and you dragged yourself there over broken rocks for days. I feel deranged. I am deranged. Michael is going to cut my hair tomorrow. Maybe he can put me back together. I'm heading for the cave high up on the mountain where the tigers live. I'm not ready. Too bad. All the wheels are whirring and grinding and the centrifugal force is more powerful than I am. So I'm disappearing by degrees. By. Degrees.

My next door neighbor came over with $200 in small bills for my trip. People continue to amaze me with their generosity. My travel buddy bought each of us battery operated fans. I want one of those fans you attach to your hat. There are cold showers. Awesome, three times a day, that's where I'll be.

I'm gonna take my malaria meds right after my oatmeal. Stay tuned.

The other midwife I'm going with came over last night. We are in agreement. We're both nervous. I'm sticking to her, velcro midwife. Any disaster, she'll be right there to help me.

We both agree. My '2 person tent' from REI is monstrous huge, way too big but I'm bringing it. When I leave, it can be someone's home. Gawd.

I hear that the malaria meds I start taking tonight or tomorrow gives you LUCID DREAMS. Hmmm, well, I'll see what happens. I think I already have those kinds of dreams, where I conduct the dream, know I'm dreaming, can fly in my dreams etc. We'll see.

My daughter called and asked about hurricanes in Haiti. She's a little worried about me. I'm a little worried about me. And all of us. Meanwhile, Brenda's chickens are growing and I took her the remainder of the starts I had from my garden, lettuce, chard, kale. Her chickens are black and my cats go over to her house to stare at them. Soon the chickens will be too big to mess with. In the meantime, Hugo sits and stares at them. He sees drumsticks. The chickens see a tiger.

It is 100 degrees in Haiti today. I am going there in 9 days. I put up my 'one person tent' in the living room. It's huge. I can almost stand up in it. 100 degrees and raining. Nothing dries. Ever. I'm gonna treat my scrubs with DEET, evil poison. Karen, the other midwife I'm going with, suggests that we pile all our stuff in my tent cuz her tent is weensy. I don't mind. We pitch tents on the roof of the hospital or in the concrete courtyard.

The hospital is no longer providing us with food. Sooooo, we don't know if there is a way to heat water...so, um, dry oatmeal, almond butter and raisins. For 2 weeks. It's probably better than what the Haitians have.

I'm bringing a skirt. I never wear skirts. I have one skirt. We might 'go out' so we need a skirt. Gardening shoes. That's what I'm wearing, on the plane, on the ground, in the hospital and not the kind with holes in them.

I'm feeling a little scared. What am I doing? What will I see? What will break my heart? All of it?

I have to go for a walk because I can hear a helicopter, very close, very loud. The cloud cover keeps me from seeing it. In my hood, helicopters hover over crime scenes or SeaFair. Sheesh. The noise is making the cats jumpy, which they are often anyway.

I reread Richard Siken's Crush for the 20th time. Here's why:

Scheherazade

Tell me about the dream where we pull bodies out of the lake

and dress them in warm clothes again.

How it was late, and no one could sleep, the horses running

until they forget they are horses.

It's not like a tree where the roots have to end somewhere,

it's more like a song on a policeman's radio,

how we rolled up the carpet so we could dance, and the days

were bright red, and every time we kissed there was another apple

to slice into pieces.

Look at the light through the windowpane. That means it's noon, that means

we're inconsolable.

Tell me how all this, and love too, will ruin us.

These, our bodies, possessed by light.

Tell me we'll never get used to it.

I gave a copy of the book to my ex. She didn't get it. She returned it to me. I should have known. Sometimes understanding a few poems together is what it takes. At least you can try.

I sent my manu to a contest. With twelve dollars. I passed it over a green candle and some sage. Then I danced around the living room to Otis Redding holding the envelope with the check in it.

Then I'll get a chapbook of my very own. I know what I want on the cover. Oh, and fame and glory will be mine. Some people buy lottery tickets. I submit to chapbook contests. Ha!

Rachel Carson was a poet. That is all.

It's blowy and dark and evening coming on. I'm going for a walk before I get called back to my mom in labor. Without this kind of weather, sunlight is impossibly boring. Like southern California. Snore. (No offense, SC).

The writers flock tomorrow. I have a tattered old poem to take. They won't know the difference. We'll eat hummus and cookies and drink wine and laugh a lot.

Right now the wind is making noise in the trees, whirring noise. The sky in lowering. Ah, yes.

I want to sleep outside in the fragrant air. I lived in Los Angeles when I was 19. In the spring, the air smelled like roses. And a lemon tree grew next to my apartment building.

These things don't happen in the Northeast. Spring smells like mud there. And fierce.

I have a friend who has no sense of smell. You can't taste very well without a sense of smell. Truly tragic even though she doesn't think so.

Eye exam today. I never know if I'm lying when they ask "1 or 2, which is clearer?" when they're flipping the lens around. I like to think about it, ponder it, ask existential questions. What is the meaning of clearer? How do I know? Why does one eye behave differently than the other? What is the importance of the "dominant side"? And this is after they've put the drops in so you look like you're on acid. Then they give you those geriatric sunglass things. And they expect you to drive yourself home. Wearing large foldy dark glasses with your pupils dilated to the size of saucers.

I only drive into a ditch once.

Still sick, still home in my bathrobe. The weather is gorgeous and I'm having a hell of a time staying inside.

My dining room table looks like a very small relief center-mosquito netting, serious nerdy sun hat, 50 block sunscreen, nasty meds for malaria and traveler's diarrhea, immunization records including Hep A, water purifying tablets, a pile of baby clothes, money belt and small bag for passport. Oh, Ambien for sleep, which doesn't work for me. I have yet to lay in meds for hemorrhage, suture material or spare scrubs. A midwife I talked with this morning said she even left her bras behind and her spare shoes.

A mom came to the hospital where I will be working with her young baby. She offered the baby in exchange for a tent (it's now the rainy season). Gawd. I'm leaving my tent behind when I go and everything else I can think of.

I'm eating a big bowl of hijiki-the Japanese call it 'black rice'.

Abundance-that's what we have. Abundance. And luck.

I watched this BBC thing last night about the salmon run in the Northwest. It made me weep and think about Martha. The salmon are like saints. They benefit all beings, every part of their lives. And it's visible. Some of them swim 3000 miles to their spawning ground, to breed, die and feed all life around them, even the trees.

The drugs you take for malaria can give you bad dreams. Groovy.

Patti Smith was just being interviewed on my local TV station. Always a surprise to see a demi-god on TV.

Definitely still not well, end of the day with sneezing and runny nose. Time to stay in the house and not inflict myself on the public.

My writing group is meeting again, oh gawd. What I've been writing is is awful, whiny poor-me head cold-y stuff. Jasmine rubbed Chinese stinky oil on my back and 'spooned' me. She took a ceramic spoon and rubbed my back until I bruised. It's good for you. At least that's what she told me. I can't see my back so I'm missing out on the drama.

Brandy and codeine can help you sleep. All day.

I'm definitely sick, with an impressive cough. There were those on the month-long retreat who would have to leave the hall (very quiet) to hack up a lung in the foyer. Is that a word, foyer? Do you sometimes write a word and you're sure You've misspelled it because it looks wrong and then you realize you can't use the word because you don't know how to spell so you look for another word that means the same thing (approximately). This is a technique for writing poetry. It's called the 'Miss Anderson School for the Spelling Challenged" technique.

Or perhaps it's early dementia. At least I can spell that.

My daughter has already scoped out a 'retirement community' near her house. Gawd. Just because I occasionally fall down while wearing Dansko's (and see, I had to take my shoe off to see how to spell Dansko). Everyone falls down wearing Dansko's. Now I'm wondering about the apostrophe. Should it be there or not?

I have a fever. I know this because the cats are sitting on me. Clearly I am the warmest thing in the house.

Today I drove by the little park next to the house where Kurt Cobain died. There is a bench in the middle. It was covered with flowers and candles. They new owners tore down the building where he actually died. The grieving goes on and on, even though there is no "place". We keep visiting the poets because we have to.

I'm all shivery. I think I'm getting a cold, an excuse for hot toddies, brandy, hot water, honey and a curl of lemon zest. And complete sloth on the couch in my jammies.

Oh, I don't have a melanoma on my face. And I no longer have the little pokey sutures sticking out. Jasmine took them out. Next time I have stitches that need removal, I'm asking her. Maybe it's because she's an acupuncturist.

I'm working too much and it squeezes my brain. I'm no good after about 5PM. Uh, your, uh, the muscle where your baby is, called, uh... and your cervix dilates and uh... I admit to my clients that I've eaten almond butter and crackers for dinner so my vegetable deficit is contributing to my impoverished brain cells.

However, I'm going to Tennessee in October to present at the MANA conference, the national midwifery organization. Yeehaw. Fame and glory, here I come.

I did it. I have a new car, OMG. And I drove to the movies tonight to meet a new friend from my retreat. We saw the gawdawful Sandra Bullock thing, what were the Oscar people thinking??? Were they desperate??? But the best part is that I went to my new car after the movie and unlocked the door, the CAR ALARM WENT OFF FOREVER. I was frantically trying everything I could think of to get it to shut up. Nothing worked. I walked back into the theatre and called AAA. They had no relief for me. By this time, the alarm had ceased so I crept back there to see if it would behave but no, as soon as I put the key in the ignition, off it went again. Unbearable, it was so loud. I walked down the street and pretended it wasn't my car.

Then I had a brilliant idea. What if I used the clicker thing to unlock the door. Aha!!! the alarm didn't go off. Of course, the guy at the car store told me he had disarmed the alarm because I asked him too. Car alarms make me want to kill and smash, pacifist that I am.

And don't for heaven's sake, see the horrible Sandra Bullock movie. Everyone was terrible, even Kathy Bates. And there was one of those precocious kids in it, saying adult type phrases. Oh yuck. Blech.

What is with the earthquakes? I can't keep track of them. And I can't be everywhere at once. I'm still going to Haiti in about a month.

I am thinking about buying a different car, no not a new car, are you kidding. I've owned one new car in my life and it was actually bought by my partner at the time. I wasn't responsible. For me a new car has less than 80,ooo miles, hasn't been in an accident lately and has four tires, all inflated. My current car is, how can I say this, dumb. It's a two seater, there's no trunk and it's so low to the ground, other cars can't see it so I wobble down the freeway out of the way of taller (bigger, scarier) cars.

Here's the problem, besides how I'm going to pay for it (I'm sure something will occur to me). The Bargaining Thing. Oh, and being a female girl sort of person, easily intimidated by evil car salesmen. I know exactly what I want and how much $$ I wanna pay. I'm just afraid I'll be talked into buying a green sedan with a missing bumper and fuzzy dice. Maybe I'll bring Lupine, my scratchy attack cat and level the playing field. While they're bandaging their slash wounds, I'll negotiate a great price and make a break for it.

My Spiritual Life

John Travis, crazy wisdom, beloved teacher.

Some patron saints to be aware of:

dog bite-St Hubert

homosexuals-St Sebastian (who knew?)

hair dressers-St Martin de Porres

poets-St David

surgery patients-Infant of Prague

You gotta love the Catholics.

So there's this wee spot on my face I've been calling a 'tree ring' and I finally had it evaluated today and the perky young doctor said "hmmm" when she looked at it which is never a good sign in my experience so now I have a large-ish bandaid on my face because she took a biopsy of it which included injecting my face with novocaine (something I've never considered doing even when I was interested in ingesting various drugs) and taking samples which sounds like taking samples of the ground water to check for radon or some other toxin. She told me it's probably not melanoma but if it is, they'll just cut it off and I'll have a 'barely noticeable scar'.

Cool. I've always wanted to tell people I'd been mauled by a bear.

I bet there is a saint for facial scars or surgery. I'm gonna look it up.