more memories than dreams

 Someday you too will have more memories than dreams.

Tomorrow will be the 10th anniversary of the death of my husband.

So much water has passed under that bridge, and over it.

Beside it, surrounding it, overwhelming it. Destroying it.  The bridge can no longer be crossed. But the swirling gray depths are dark and seductive, and beckon to me. Occasionally, I dive into those turbulent waters, but cannot make it to the other side. So I turn back, exhausted. Defeated. Unable to see the shore where once were welcoming arms.

Today has been one of those occasional forays.

coyote moon

happy new year

‎January ‎01, ‎2014
Shit I Need to do This Year
an open letter to myself

In no particular order and strictly off the top of my head

* Botox. Get some. No one needs to look like that.
* Closets. Edit. Extreme edit. Empty.
* Weight. Lose it.
* Gym. Three times a week. Minimum.
* Be gentler to yourself, but not so easy. It's a fine line. Find it.
* Stop being fat.
* Stop being stupid.
* Stop being ugly.
* Ooops. See above.
* FOCUS!!!!
* Sewing; tablecloths, curtains, buttons.
* Sculpting; steampunk.
* Painting. Anything..
* Find a part-time job. Savings will not last forever, and poor, fat, old and ugly does not a winning combination make.
* Stop that.
* Voices in your head; don't listen to them. He loved you because he thought you were strong, smart and beautiful. Be at least half the woman he imagined you to be.

I just went in the back and looked in the guestroom dresser, searching for the fabric I bought in Paris to make a tablecloth. I realized, once again, as I heard myself form the phrase, "the fabric I bought in Paris..."  how glamorous that sounded; what a wonderful life I have lived, what a priceless gift I have been given. I have loved and been well-loved, first by mom and dad, then by my husband. I have been treated generously and with kindness, even when I deserved it least. I have traveled far and with gusto; I have seen wondrous things and met memorable people. Up until the day Russ died, my life was full, and everything I needed it to be. I have been so fortunate in all things but one; that it had to come to an end. Even there I have been lucky; I had a good run.

That's life. I weep with gratitude to all those who gave so generously of themselves. I am still here in spite of my best efforts, and I need to make it matter. I still don't know how, but I have to find a way. I am alone, and I have chosen to be, rather than try and replace the irreplaceable. But there are still friends to enjoy and care for. There are still places to go and people to meet, and I don't want to crawl into my hermit hole, however cozy, content half-inhabiting a shadow life, just me, my dogs, some books and TV. I feel the allure of it, but that way lies waste, and would do a disservice to those who gave me so much. I have to do better. Such a cliche'; live, love, laugh. I cringe every time I hear it, or see it embossed on a stone, pillow or poster. And yet... oh, well. Happy New Year and Carpe diem, Gi. Get off your fat ass and do something.

shadow of a girl

It's been cool and raining off and on all day ~ the clouds threatening above as the dogs walked me quickly around the block. I have to admit, this is my kind of weather. I'm just a dark and rainy day kinda girl. It makes me cheerful.

It's been ages since I've had the time to enjoy the better part of a Sunday just playing in paint. I used to love such days when my husband was around, laughing, critiquing, always encouraging. Now it seems there are constant chores and responsibilities to be dealt with, the serenity of a quiet weekend all but lost. Too much quiet, too little serenity.

But recently I've been indulging in an occasional mixed media art class in old downtown Orange with the lovely and talented Erna van Dyk, who kindly guided me through this copy of her painting of a darkly elongated lady. As usual, I could not finish it by the end of a (generously extended) class; I am hoping to someday understand how to blend acrylic paints on canvas, as I seem to be horrible at it right now. One must work fairly quickly before the paints dry, and I can't even think as fast as paint dries. Too busy watching it, I guess. Fascinated.

Still, I worked on it today and, even though it is a lesser copy of someone else's art, I really like having my own 'shadow' of Erna's elegant lady. The slender figure seems to see something in the darkness, and I am grateful for her company on a quiet, rainy day. Serene at last.

the moon, my shadow and me

I haven't been writing very much lately, or painting or drawing or anything else of much consequence. I have, however, been doing my share of drinking, which I like to think of more as a hobby than a vice. My way of making the world a little happier place. You know, for me.

I am drawn to wine labels, not for their pedigree but for their design, which makes me an object of oenophiliptic contempt*, but one must amuse oneself somehow. I soak them off when I can, which lately is not as often as it used to be. They seem to be using some sort of rocket glue that cannot be removed with the help of blow torches, water, vinegar or time. They either remain pointlessly clinging to their vessels for all eternity or surrender completely, dissolving at once into nothingness. Existential bottles. Choose your path wisely.

When successful, I glue the more pliant labels to paper and doodle around the edges. Sometimes in the morning I like how they look. Sometimes I don't, but it doesn't really matter. Mostly, I am drawn to the moonlight and the shadows and the flowers and the wine.



Drinking Alone Under the Moon
A translation of a poem by Li Bai (701-762 CE)

Alone among the flowers with a jug of wine,
Without a single friend to drink with me,
I lift my glass and invite the bright moon to come
Join in—now the moon, my shadow and I make three.

I know the moon is not a famous drinker,
My shadow’s toast no more than mimicry,
And yet for a little while the three of us
Carouse in springtime camaraderie.

I sing, and the moon sways to and fro in rhythm;
I dance, and my shadow floats in harmony.
Drinking, we share our joys with one another;
After, we’ll need to find them separately.

Let’s meet again, at the end of the Silver River, 
And there, my friends, resume our revelry!

* a phrase I have almost certainly made up, and quite like

green parrots

I brought orange roses and red geraniums.
Their edges glowed as if lit from within
infused by the winter sun.

A flock of green parrots gathered noisily in a nearby tree
as the white dog lay placid.
Unperturbed.

It was a moment I wanted to catch, but didn't quite.
The colors leapt and then bled,
a memory already fleeing.

Like the shiny Mylar balloons affixed to graveside markers
that loudly exclaim,
"Happy Valentine's Day!"

A pretty thought,
but highly unlikely
under the circumstances.

project runway - primary edition

rescue me

At some point it had to happen. I just couldn't stand being around me anymore. I needed to find someone who needed someone who needed to be found. Still, I can't say it was love at first sight.

He came to the pound as 'Felix', a starving, mangy, parasite-ridden stray of dubious decent. He was called 'Wild Man' by the time the shelter people rescued him, and his picture shows a scrawny, badly shorn, befuddled but defiant little mutt. His foster mom, Tracy, told me she sat him down one day, told him his wanton behavior would have to stop and from that day forward he would no longer be known as the lunatic 'Wild Man' but as the aristocratic 'Reggie'.

"He knew," she said. "The minute I told him his name was changed and he was to behave accordingly, he did. I swear to you, that dog speaks English." With an accent.

I met him on Adoption Day at Petco. I thought he was kind of homely, and he thought the same of me. But there he was, front and center, pleading with everyone who came by, dancing tirelessly on his hind legs, thrusting his paws delicately forward, begging to be loved. I resisted, cuddling puppies and walking out with some of his handsomer mates. But those damp, yearning button eyes kept calling me back. I sensed a kindred soul. I took him home that night, my head filled with images of the things the two of us would do together: pictures of us climbing Half Dome in the fall, kayaking with the whales come spring, bicycling to Huntington Beach in summer; me in the basket with wind-whipped hair, he pedaling away furiously. Just a girl and her dog, sharing adventures, living the dream.

So far, mostly, we laugh.

It's been a couple if weeks now, and aside from some serious separation anxiety (Reg, I swear! I'm coming back!) he's happily settled in. We read the paper together in the morning, chuckle cozily at 'Modern Family' and '30 Rock' at night. We take long walks and marvel at all the things we never noticed when we used to walk alone. He reluctantly lets me take his picture, worrisome as the camera may be, and gnaws contentedly on his rawhide bone when I am being dull. We are good for each other. I chose him, and he rescued me. Thank you, crazy pound pup. I needed that. I think I needed you.

another year

Peartini Party (Tribute to Sandra Jones Campbell)

I started this painting over 2 years ago. Russell posed the hands holding glasses for me, and it was on the easel when he died. I couldn't go near it for nearly a year. I couldn't bear the thought of painting on the patio, still expecting him to come out and peer over my shoulder on his way out the door to play golf.

What do you think?

It's coming along. I think she's really going to like it.

Thanks, honey!

See you in a bit.

Bye, sweetie.

I finally finished it in November, and gave it to my friend for her birthday. I do believe she liked it. I think it turned out pretty well (again, with apologies to Sandra Jones Campbell, whom I adore). I know it was extremely hard to let go of. I only wish he could have been there to give it to her.

I miss him like hell.

the presence of that absence is everywhere

baby, it's cold inside

dia de los muertos

Another day, another Day of the Dead. On Saturday, Robbie and I hit the event in Santa Ana, which featured dancing, face-painting, costumes and traditional altars in ebullient color and masks of the merry macabre. It is a festival that celebrates life and mocks death as a jaunty jester; inevitable but not inevitably permanent, as the spirits of the dearly departed are summoned and guided with offerings of food, drink, arts and entertainments, that they may once again partake of earthly delights and, if so inclined, intercede on behalf of their loved ones. Traditionally, marigolds are strewn from the cemetery to the door of the house, the better for souls to follow their yellow and orange-hued paths home. The ghosts are not seen, but their presence is felt, I am told, in the movement of tissue paper cutouts of wreaths, crosses and flowers.

I had a great time. We laughed, we ate, we drank. We admired the beauty of the costumes and the wisdom of centuries. It's a melancholy sort of mirth, but all comedy is famously born of tragedy, and it is probably what has kept the human race from committing collective suicide over many a bad century. It is a warm, happy, familial festival that embraces the journey of mankind. Death may be inevitable, but love is eternal. Until, of course, the death of the last to love, who leaves none behind to build altars of devotion or flowers to light the way back to the warmth of the living. What, I wonder, becomes of them.

I placed my marigolds, but no one followed the yellow brick road home to me. Must be the Santa Anas - those damn devil winds are blowing again. Not even the living are easy in their skins.

snakes in a drain

So it's about 5:00 on a Friday afternoon. The sink in the guest bath had started backing up suddenly and severely. It was time to tackle the problem head on. Congratulating myself on my Rosy the Riveter-like self-sufficiency, I plunged in, sans plunger. I pulled out the plug and poured baking soda and vinegar down the drain. 20 minutes later I poured a pot of boiling water down the hole, but still the drain did not flow. I fished around with my fingers, pulling out a tangled bit of dark hair. Disgusted but determined, I put my fingers in deeper, this time pulling out a long, slick mass.

"This is coming out awfully...sleekly," I thought. And continued to pull.

That was when I saw the eyes. I screamed. It lay there. "What the f*#k is that?!" I yelled at the offending basin. I ran to the kitchen. I poured myself a beer. I tiptoed back to the bathroom and peered from the doorway. Yep. That is exactly what the f*#k that was.

I called my brother.

"Is this a bad time?" I always ask that when I call people, because it always is. There is never a good time to hear from me. I always seem to be either hysterical or depressed. Occasionally both.

"Kinda. I've got a gig, and I'm just about there. What's up?"

I told him. He laughed.

"So pull it out!"

"I CAN'T! It's too horrible! I can't go near it!"

"What do you want me to do?"

"I want you to come and get this mother*#%ing snake out of my mother*#%ing drain!"

I should mention my brother's gig happens to be in Texas, where he also happens to most inconveniently live.

"Gi, you just have to man-up, grow a pair, and get it out of there yourself. You can do it. Look, I'm here; gotta go. I'll call you later."

I poured another beer. Went into the bathroom, turned my head, pointed my phone at the sink and took a picture. Tried to imagine growing a pair and just yanking it out of there. Went back to the kitchen, grabbed a roll of paper towels, a plastic bag and a pair of tongs. Thought deep thoughts.

Went to the cupboard, found half a Xanax and washed it down with beer. Which of course you should never do. Watched TMZ, which you should also never do. Ah, Kim Kardashian, you beautiful, privileged moron. I'll bet you never had to slay your own dragons.

I, on the other hand, am Pioneer Woman - sturdy, pragmatic, brave and strong. I am my own Knight in Shining yoga pants, fearless, flexible and a little fuzzy around the edges. I grabbed the tongs, marched into the bathroom, threw a couple of yards of paper toweling over the wretched creature and pulled. It...broke. Undaunted, I tossed the mess into the bag and trotted it out to the bin.

Proudly, I went back to the bathroom, turned on the faucet and watched the water flow as freely as Niagara Falls in springtime. I so totally rock, I thought.

And then I noticed that the water was freely flowing out through the drain and onto the floor. No, I don't know what it is yet. But you can be sure of one thing. Somebody's about to get an inconvenient call.

Wanting Memories

I am sitting here wanting memories to teach me,
To see the beauty in the world through my own eyes.
I am sitting here wanting memories to teach me,
To see the beauty in the world through my own eyes.

You used to rock me in the cradle of your arms,
You said you'd hold me till the pains of life were gone.
You said you'd comfort me in times like these and now I need you,
Now I need you, and you are gone.

I am sitting here wanting memories to teach me,
To see the beauty in the world through my own eyes.
Since you've gone and left me, there's been so little beauty,
But I know I saw it clearly through your eyes.

Now the world outside is such a cold and bitter place,
Here inside I have few things that will console.
And when I try to hear your voice above the storms of life,
Then I remember all the things that I was told.

I am sitting here wanting memories to teach me,
To see the beauty in the world through my own eyes.
I am sitting here wanting memories to teach me,
To see the beauty in the world through my own eyes.

~~~ from Wanting Memories, by Kealii Reichel

[ full Lyrics here ]

saturday

Question: How many Me does it take to change a light bulb?

Answer: Just one, but it takes 4 1/2 hours.

In my defense, the bulb had broken off in an odd way from the silver tread-thingy and required some unusual light bulb-changing handiwork and possibly tools, of which I could find none. Or at least none suitable, which caused me to use my fingers and what's left of my nails. Which caused my brother to groan long distance as I balanced barefoot on the sink, holding the phone in one hand and jamming the other into the light socket with random precision. I am almost sure he groaned because he feared for my safety, and not because I call him every time something that needs to be done appears to call for a tool of some sort. And by that I mean no disrespect.

I needed needle-nosed pliers and had no idea where they were, but my nails are usually there at the tips of my fingers, although not always, and what's a little jolt of electrical current now and then? Frankly, I found it invigorating.

Of course, once I was up there and saw all the accumulated dirt of days gone-by, I was forced to drag out all the requisite equipment and scrub the room from top to bottom. And also plunge the sink, which I would like to point out is not my area of expertise. And while I do not have an actual area of expertise, I can now state with some certainty that this is not it. Still water runs, languidly.

Having no one to congratulate me on my new-found plumbing and electrical skills, I did what any Really Occasional Housewife of Orange County would do; I drew a picture of it. Wrote about and Photoshopped it; pinned a medal on it. Gave myself a Good Housekeeping Seal of Approval and a merit scholarship. Imagined a reality show featuring me changing light bulbs and unplugging drains. Green-lit the project, in which I will be played by Susan Sarandon, because I really want to be her.

Naturally, I had to blog the entire process. Then question the wisdom of doing most, if not all, of the above.

4 1/2 hours. And people wonder why I never clean anymore.

flip flop foe fum

It's been so long since I cleaned my house, I have apparently forgotten how.

So as I flew around, barefoot, trying to get the place looking pretty and perfect for my first attempt at having a couple of our old friends over since last we entertained I ran, at some speed, into the leg of the kitchen table. It hurt so badly I cried for a moment, and then continued on my way, from vacuum to mower to grill. All of this was so much easier and infinitely more fun as a team effort, but the show must go on. Or so I am told. Some do, anyway. We'll see.

Now the little toe is almost certainly broken as, two weeks later, I can't put on heels, runners or shoes of any kind. I am living in these whimsical pink camouflage flip flops that I bought at WalMart around 2007, and which I now count among my most treasured possessions.

Yes, that weird shape is a bunion. And no, I don't care. Stilettos are my last vice. Nearly my last vice. One of my last four vices. Top five, and quit counting.

On Tuesday I have jury duty. Again. I think the pink camo flip flops might finally get me off. I certainly wouldn't want them deciding anyone's fate.

sunflowers for Russ

I bought these flowers to bring to the cemetery on Saturday, but didn't make it before my guests arrived. So I put them on the patio table that I used to use for painting, and kept glancing at them all night long. They looked so determinedly cheerful. Come to the party, sweetie. We need you. I need you.

the widow throws down

Granted, I did not plan the page out very carefully. Pretty poorly, in fact. It is as messy and overwrought as grief itself. Well, not quite as ugly as that, really, but it was cathartic. I was trying something new, and I have decided to like it anyway. The subject is damaged but defiant; she will be wounded, yes, but she will bear her wounds in her own fashion. If she has to defy the laws of physics and man, then by god she will.

But she will do it in a tasteful mini widow's weave, because the laws of style are a different issue entirely, and not to be trifled with. There are rules, people.

I continue to have a lot of problems with pen v paint v glue v scissors v paper (yes, I am such a skilled artisan that all my materials are actually at war). In this battle there can be no winners, only collateral damage. Because apparently, THE WIDOW also DOES NOT LIKE TO READ INSTRUCTIONS!

Muddy colors and sticky fingers ensue.

unpredictable

This is my life now. Absurd but unpredictable. Not absurd because unpredictable but unpredictable because absurd. If I have lost the meaning of my life, and the love of my life, I might still find small treasured things amid the spilled and pilfered trash.

~ Joyce Carol Oates, "A Widow's Story"

I went up to Big Bear Lake to go kayaking this weekend with a friend.

We arrived early enough in the day, checked into our disappointingly adequate room and headed out the door. She turned toward the lake. I turned toward the village.

"Don't you want to check out the marina?" she asked.

"Let's have a drink first," I replied.

It is a phrase I hear myself saying rather often of late. It should make me feel badly, I suppose, seeking this most pedestrian of refuges. Frankly, it does not. I should probably be calling an agent and seeking treatment with the good Dr. Drew or, even more onerously, the bad Dr. Phil, but I do not. I have my dignity. And I am cheerful when imbibing, in ways I am not when entirely clearheaded. My mind goes blurry around the edges and for a little while I can almost remember who I used to be.

My friend eyed me dubiously. "Well, okay. One drink." We struck off in search of a quaint little pub. What we found was an adorable little biker bar whose clientele proved to be a welcoming blend of friendly locals and even friendlier tourists. She ordered a cocktail. I sprang for a beer. We were served by a barmaid called Charlie, who wore her cherry-red hair, hot pants topped by a belt of shining silver and 60 some-odd years like a sparkling tiara. I became very cheerful indeed.

At some point the next morning, we went kayaking.

I floated dreamily on a bed of lily pads as electric blue dragonflies hovered and silver-lit fish of indeterminate species leapt above the water. A tour boat modeled to look like a pirate ship listed by, a papier-mache deckhand swinging in the rigging. I dipped my hands in the water and rolled gently in the pirate ship's wake.

This is my life now. Absurd but unpredictable. If I have lost everything, I may yet find small treasured things. Or small things to treasure. Somehow, it will have to be enough.

unshared melody