vortex

I've been to the southlands again. That energy sucking monument to past lives. No. It wasn't all like that, but I'm one of those types, let's call me a chronic malcontent, who sees the brimming cup half empty.

We had a great time, mostly. But I get to thinking, and then, shit. There I am again. Back in the toilet.

It was good to see my son. He is strong and good and seems mostly happy. Still a bit too interested in barstools for my comfort, but since when was my comfort in his top-ten? He still has the same girl, which for my family, is a marker of something-- maturity may be too large a word-- but still, she's hanging in there.

I took pictures, but don't know how to put them on disk or disc. whatever. And I will try to find a way to post them.

three moons over clinton street

My honey called. "Go outside. There is a 12 foot moon in the middle of Clinton Street down by K&F." Well, I could hardly argue. "Okay," I said. And by the time I was out the door, there were three moons. Three brilliant white moons floating in the middle of the intersection of Clinton and 26th. I thought it was the "Teahouse of the August Moon Trifecta," only in November and at a coffee house. "Coffeehouse of the November Moons." Doesn't have that Suzi Quan ring to it. (Wasn't Suzi Quan that asian chick who was in every WWII movie? Kwan? Whatever.)

So, I hitched up Sid and out the door we went to investigate.

Now, I love my imagination. It is much more fun than real life. And I knew this. I knew that if I stayed in my yard, or in the street in front of my house, they would remain magic. It would continue to be a mystery. Demystification has always broken my heart. I love to believe things that are, well, ridiculous. I cling to faith. I harbor childhood beliefs well into middle age. But I walked anyway, leash in hand, Sid pulling me through piles of slippery leaves. I kept pausing, knowing that soon enough, I would know what the globes were... would know they were, in fact, not moons at all. Eventually, I could see from my three block distance that there was equipment in the street. As my hopes of a lunar tri-clipse were dashed, I became willing then to imagine a movie set. Something fabulous. Something with Jack Nicholsen and Jessica Lange. Something to tell the grandkids.

Upon closer inspection, the orbs were huge white nylon balloons used to light the set. But... the set of what?

Road cones blocked the road at 27th. I stood obediently back, staring, hoping for a glimpse of greatness. With this much light it had to be a huge star. A guy approached me, guarding the road cones like they were his, daring me to ask the obvious question:

What's goin' on?

Nissan commercial.

Nissan commercial? Is Jack Nicholsen in it?

No.

Hm. Okay. Can I walk down and look?

Sure.

So, me and Sid wandered down the block and watched some guy and some girl do the flirt-at-a-stop sign- worn out bit.

I walked home, preferring the three moons of my imagination.

windy

Saturday morning after death week. I don't know if Gerry is still breathing, but when I left yesterday, he looked close. That makes six people back to back, and their absence fills the pale yellow halls. I conduct tours for families who seek the comfort of locked doors, of ever-present staff who become family as faces blur and relationships mean nothing beyond this moment, this *snap* of time. And new ones move in, and we are to know them and love them and care for them in the vacancy left by Ralph and Bill and Gerry and Laura and Millie and Psyche and the whiplash of this mandate is heavy this morning. This mourning.

But the sun was out for a minute. I opened the curtains and saw blue sky.

People walking outside, we are heading for a garage sale in Newberg that will net us more crap to store and walk around. The weather nazi's are predicting a windstorm, so I suggested my husband blow all of the leaves into the street out front and wait for nature to take care of biz. But in my experience, nature will not bag the leaves.

I am happy about the election. I have been driving around with a bumper sticker that says "regime change begins at home" for SIX years. I am optimistic, but not overly so. I suspect they are basically the same, but still, there has never been a dictatorship here. Not like this one. It feels good for a minute.

Addendum: Like most catastrophic events, the wind barely made a showing.

long night

They are dying, most of them. Like flies in August, the buzzing is louder, the elliptical flight slower by the day. We measure it in blood and breath, the thready pulse, the rapid heart, the shallow rattle, the cataract of time that turns blue eyes to milk. I forget this part, this autumn balancing of the census. It almost seems that they die to ease the holiday season for the ones they love. It is probably just pneumonia, but it is so much nicer to consider them mannered and contrite for all the trouble they have been. Besides, they make room for all of the families who have one more good Thanksgiving at Mom's before they finally buckle to the demands of dementia, the great leveller, the irreversible vanishing act that is Alzheimer's Disease, when she puts her best dress over her nightgown, uses toothpaste for hand lotion and Pine Sol for salad dressing.

I took Sid with me to do Stupid Pet Tricks today. He is so impressive. Best frisbee dog ever.

critique

It is difficult enough to crawl out here on this cyber limb, willing to post shit just to keep the words going, without all of you sawing madly behind me in an aborted attempt at encouragement.

Then I think.... oh well--it is probably the higher road to consider my own defects than to expound on the shortcomings of others.

And you know me, I always take the high road.