Purse Porn

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bow chicka wow wow...

"Debra"

So, anybody who's followed along knows it's been a rough month. I still haven't emailed back the really cool people who sent nice messages reaching out in what's been a very sad time. (Until you kind folks do get that personal email back, THANK YOU for your note and thoughts and love. You haven't gone unappreciated.)

A few weeks ago, one of the vmails I get is Regina, friend from forever years ago, technically 15 but more like 10,000. She's my sistah. She leaves this message. I've spoken to hardly anyone in my tired grief, and she says, "I know things have been hard, but when you're ready for a fun story, call me."

When I call her, she says, "I met a guy. He's your type. I told him so. Then I told him about you and he seems not to care you're a state away."

I can ALWAYS count on RP to stir up a party.

Fast forward to the email I get from said guy-who's-my-type. We correspond here and there with the knowledge I'll be in Portland in a couple of weeks for a b-day party: funny email conversations, curious diction. When the PDX weekend arrives, I lose my glasses on the way there, and instead of meeting Mysterioso as planned, I have to get an eye exam and a pair of new specs on the fly. Regina makes an appointment for me...at Sears Optical.

So I get off the plane and head for...Sears. Destination of diplomats and champions, queens and Kennedys. And it occurs to me that all is not lost. Transportation and schedules point to the best rationale: Steve, the man I haven't met, Guy-Who's-My-Type, Sr. Mysterioso de Portlando, should meet me at...SEARS. I call him. He's down. Our first glance is a reflection in the mirror as I'm trying on frames. And forever emblazoned on the brain is this song, by Beck:

Enjoy. (There are two versions, because the second one is TOO funny to miss.)
"Debra" by Beck
"Debra" by Beck and a woman who rivals him in cool

Good Marketing for 411

PEMA: Hi, this is Pema.

VOICE: Hello, I'm calling from Pacific Bell Yellow Pages, the world's largest opportunity to list your business...

PEMA: Okay.

VOICE: I'm calling to update your information.

PEMA: What information?

VOICE: We're the world's largest directory blah blee blah blih bloo....I'm calling to update your business name, address--

PEMA: Whose listing?

VOICE: I believe the last person I spoke to was...Susan.

(silence)

VOICE: Maybe Susan used to be there.

PEMA: What business are you looking for?

VOICE: (Irritated) Pacific Bell Yellow Pages. We're the world's largest phone book, best way for your business to be found by customers seeking your services gurgle blah blah brbrbrdd...

PEMA: No, what business are you calling? What listing are you calling about?

VOICE: Allied Architects.

PEMA: Wrong number.

VOICE: Oh. Sorry.

Slip of the Ear

Regina and Gina both like to be Right. But in order to discern who owns that title, they first have to point out what's wrong. Then they pit their evidence against one another to find out who in the end will reign triumphant. Sometimes it's all one can do to believe the other...to the point of conspiracy and collusion with old ladies...

REGINA: Want a piece of my caramel?

GINA: CAR-mul?? It's CARE-uh-mel.

We're standing outside a drug store/grocery type place in Portland. They're waiting for me to finish at the ATM.

REGINA: It is NOT CARE-a-mul, it's CAR-mul.

GINA: I never said CARE-a-MUL. I said CARE-a-MEL.

REGINA: CAR-mul.

An old woman bent over the plants for sale nearby turns around.

OLD WOMAN: CAR-mul. They're CAR-muls.

Gina looks at the woman, looks at Regina. Grabs her iPhone from her pocket.

GINA: I'm looking it up on FICTIONARY.com

Stupid Dum Dums

REGINA: I got See's Candy for after lunch, but went and ate that stupid Dum Dum.

40 in Portland

Happy Bday Gina!!
Morning-After shots of the slumber party. Who said you get too old to sleep over?

TK & MK in Panama

TK TKO


MK & TK at the Canal

Hey Talia

Talia's memorial service was today. In the auditorium of her school, 20 girls stood up and sang lyrics they wrote to "Hey There Delilah," her favorite song. They changed the words to "Hey Talia," and sang to her as if they were talking to her on the other side, in the stars, a thousand miles away. They kept some of the original lyrics that made sense. The rest they wrote just for her.

The magic of a girl at the border of womanhood is astounding, subtle, precious. Imagine 20 of them, long hair and hoodies, fresh-faced and light-voiced singing to their friend in front of an auditorium of faces coursing with tears, as they leaned into each other in a loose line across the stage.

listen to "hey there delilah"
Hey there Delilah
What's it like in New York City?
I'm a thousand miles away
But girl tonight you look so pretty
Yes you do
Time Square can't shine as bright as you
I swear it's true

Hey there Delilah
Don't you worry about the distance
I'm right there if you get lonely
Give this song another listen
Close your eyes
Listen to my voice it's my disguise
I'm by your side

Oh it's what you do to me
Oh it's what you do to me
Oh it's what you do to me
Oh it's what you do to me
What you do to me

Hey there Delilah
I know times are getting hard
But just believe me girl
Someday I'll pay the bills with this guitar
We'll have it good
We'll have the life we knew we would
My word is good

Hey there Delila
I've got so much left to say
If every simple song I wrote to you
Would take your breath away
I'd write it all
Even more in love with me you'd fall
We'd have it all

Oh it's what you do to me
Oh it's what you do to me
Oh it's what you do to me
Oh it's what you do to me

A thousand miles seems pretty far
But they've got planes and trains and cars
I'd walk to you if I had no other way
Our friends would all make fun of us
And we'll just laugh along because we know
That none of them have felt this way
Delilah I can promise you
That by the time we get through
The world will never ever be the same
And you're to blame

Hey there Delilah
You be good and don't you miss me
Two more years and you'll be done with school
And I'll be making history like I do
You know it's all because of you
We can do whatever we want to
Hey there Delilah here's to you
This ones for you

Oh It's what you do to me
Oh it's what you do to me
Oh it's what you do to me
Oh it's what you do to me
Oh it's what you do to me
What you do to me.

hey there delilah
you be good and dont you miss me
two more years and youll be done with school
and ill be makin history like i do
you know its all because of you
we can do whatever we want to
hey there delilah heres to you
this ones for you

oh its what you do to me
oh its what you do to me
oh its what you do to me
oh its what you do to me
what you do to me

Adding It Up

Laura picks up Sophia from preschool. Sophia is about to turn 5 and so Laura tells her that tomorrow they will begin touring kindergartens to choose Sophia's school next year.

Sophia, who has a very articulate mother with a near lifelong desire to homeschool, tells her mom she doesn't want to go to kindergarten. She wants to be homeschooled.

So Laura lays it out. In her words: "I told her that mommy has to work and asked her if she would just try this, one year at a time, and if she hates it, we will find a way to change the situation. I explained that it's because our family is so small that mommy has to work, but for instance, maybe I might find another job someday which could include her (we both dream to live & work on an organic farm), or maybe mommy will get married and not have to work full time, etc. But for now, we are going to look at schools and try to choose one."

And Sophia says, "Okay, Mommy, tomorrow we should look at kindergartens for me and we should look at men for you. Maybe you'll find one you want to marry."

Preacher, Plumber, Pisces

My dad is all three, and responded to one of those monikers in a way I've never heard him articulate. I guess I never asked, so he didn't tell.

Stay tuned...

God's Foot (In Mouth) Soldier

This is mostly for the benefit of my dad, who's a preacher.
And reminds me of my mom, who one Sunday in the church lobby had a loud slip of the tongue in her excitement about sending the kids to "Fuddruckers" for lunch.

Enjoy it, Pop.

Tee hee ha Ha HA!

The Weatherman

With Nick Cage. How did I miss this in 2005?
I got sucked into it tonight. Sucked in.
You have to check it out.

Swan Dive - A Tiny Play

Swan Dive
by Me, Pema. 2008c.


ALABAMA sits on a couch. She is alone in the living room. She YELLS offstage.

ALABAMA
You never said it.
Well?

She is still. Looks toward the noise in the kitchen. She gets up to walk to kitchen. Changes her mind. Turns around and sits in a chair just outside the door.

DOUG flies through the swinging door from kitchen.

DOUG
(yelling)
What could I possibly say right now that remotely compares to your imagination??

The door obscures her when it's open and the force of his entry knocks her off her chair. SHE clatters and thumps to the floor. Scares him.

DOUG
What in Hell!!

He STANDS above her WALKS to couch and stands behind it. Looks at her on the floor.

She CRIES.

DOUG
Ah! Nope! Not crying!

ALABAMA
I am too crying!

DOUG
I won't come over there till you stop.

ALABAMA
You don't talk right!

DOUG
Maybe you don't hear straight.

ALABAMA
Just say it!

(Pause)

SHE crawls into the kitchen.
It is silent in there. Doug PACES.

DOUG
Are you still crying?
(less conviction)
Because if you are, you can forget it.

ALABAMA (Offstage)
It's not even THREE words!

DOUG
God knows.
(Realizing)
One-two.
Jesus wept.
Jane ran.

ALABAMA pushes the door open with her body. She scoots on her knees. Holds two plastic cups and a bottle of gin.

ALABAMA
I can hear you. Not so hard?

DOUG
Working it out.

She POURS the gin into cups and holds them out to him. He joins her, reluctant.

ALABAMA
Happy days. I'm yours. You're mine?

HE sits on the floor. Entwines arms with her. They hold their cups close.

DOUG
I...
...do?

She KISSES him. They DRINK.

A Dreamer's Dream

Ever follow the white rabbit?

In Dreamtending, you follow the characters/images in your dream to gain some understanding of them. This is the story of a symbol that I followed into my waking hours, and back to dream again. In the Dreamtending way, I'll describe it in present tense, without pronouns or articles.

I dream I am dreaming. I am sleeping in R.V., on stiff, brown, wool flannel divan. Outside window in dream within dream is dirt plaza, one side obscured by one wall. I awake to look out into plaza and see photographer taking photo of man leaning against wall in front of him. My eyes follow camera lens. It is Michael. Looking at me even from this distance, sunlight in face and eyes, with smirk and when-ya-gonna-notice-me look. Michael wears green sweater and white shirt collar. I reach him with outstretched arms, bury my face in his neck and hug him. He hugs me with same fervor. He knows something I do not. Protects me with what he knows.

THEN:
Close-up inside open refrigerator. Someone pulls out pink wine. I call wine Zin.

That's it.

Next day, at work, in passing, I see something about a zinfandel and my dream comes back momentarily. Later, at lunch, I am strolling past Cost Plus and decide to go in to see the sale furniture they're advertising on the window. Next to the furniture is a wine display with a funny name: zinfatuation. Before I walk off, my dream comes to me again. I figure what the hell. It's the second time Zin has crossed my path today, I'll buy it just to see where it leads. At the register, there is a tiny blue book called "Dreams." I smile, figure I'm on the right track, and walk out with my mystery bottle of Zinfatuation.

At home, I open the wine at dinner--I don't usually drink wine with dinner. I was just following through with the whole trajectory. I told Lisa and Tania the story of the bottle while opening it...and we toasted to dreams. Then, Lisa wanted to tell me something. She said, I know dreams are often about yourself when you dream them, but a few nights after Michael died, he came to me in a dream. He said everything was going to be fine. And to tell you that. I didn't want to tell you, it's kinda weird. But since you're talking about dreams, I thought I'd tell you.

I followed the white rabbit, or the bottle of zin, and it led me back to the message my dream had for me, in the plaza, hugging the man who knew everything would be alright.

When We Were Small

I had a friend who started drinking at 14 and stopped at 24. She held that, approaching 40, she was still 10 years less mature emotionally than she should have been, that the drinking took ten years off of her emotional growth.

"The New Guy," currently 47, survived a brain aneurism when he was 16. He is so childlike that sometimes I could look at him and actually see an 18 year-old. I wondered if some of his growth stopped around the age of his trauma and recovery.

Today, my work neighbor came into the office. This is a man in his early 70s with more energy than a zip car zooming on the kitchen floor. He and Michael had a fondness for each other; Barry had watched Michael grow up as a friend to one of his boys. "I still can't believe Michael's gone," he said. It's just hard to understand." Then he said: "When you have kids, it doesn't matter how old they are, even when they're adults, when you look at them you see the young person they were. You see the child."

Do you ever wonder at which age you got stuck and if you're still fighting your battles with a plastic light saber?

If it's true that on some level every one of us is still a kid at the very heart-- that place so close that when your goat gets got, you go right back to it--then hell, we could rename Congress "Romper Room." We could print Mr. Rogers on the dollar bill. We could have prom over and over and over and over...oh, wait, we do that with marriage and divorce and re-marriage.

How old do you think the president is--at heart? What his momma done make him cock his walk like that? And Osama? Still melting Ken dolls with the fire poker.

6'

What did the fish say when he swam into a concrete wall?

Damn.

What do you call gum that bees chew?

Bumble gum.


Okay, two silly jokes for you because I'm going to get all deep on you again. Kind of hard not to be deep in light of the recent circumstances. Yesterday was Michael's memorial service. I haven't read the program yet, but it's got color pictures allover it. It's on the floor next to my bed, between a few books, and every time I see it, it's surreal. Weird. Maybe I should get rid of it. Mostly because MK was such a vivid character, and was so against people making a big deal over him that it feels silly that a) he's not vivid anymore, considering "viv" is Latin for "life" and b) we're all busy making a big deal over him.

That's not what I was setting about to write tonight. Get your gear. We're diving in.

So, Michael's and Talia's deaths were two in what has seemed like a season of death. Since Christmas-time, I have had a friend whose mom died, a friend who lost her mentor to cancer, someone else related to all this sorrow who also lost his niece a week later, a friend whose aunt died, a colleague whose 18-year-old cat died, and another colleague and close friend of MK's who spread the ashes of his friend the day before Michael and Talia died.

...which makes me wonder the following...

Are death rates increasing universally? At a faster pace?
Or just in my head? My circle.
Are there seasons of death? Like December?
Does death come like El Nino? Flooding every nine years or so? I remember my brother's death in high school started a string of tragic teen deaths that lasted for several years at our school.

In the play "Angels in America," a man with AIDS in the 80s is visited by a ghost from an earlier century saying the plague was worse than the current epidemic:
"Whole villages of empty houses. You could look outdoors and see Death walking in the morning, dew dampening the ragged hem of his black robe. Plain as I see you now."

Does it come and go, ebb and flow? Or are people checking out? Jumping ship while the rest of us suckers sail into global insanity?

Is death something I should get used to? Not be surprised by? And if so, then what is there to learn by not being JADED by loss, rather understanding of it? (knock wood)

Death is a passage. But for us left behind, at least the way most of us see it, it's a sorrowful state of affairs that has us picking up pieces that were put together perfectly fine before tragedy came along. Or not picking them up as the case may be.

I think there is something to learn here.

Have you ever been watching a film or reading a book, you're gripped by the story and the relationships and you realize, someone has to die here for the story to stay honest. Who is it going to be?

Other societies view death as a more natural part of the landscape of their lives than we do. And they continue relationships with the departed in ways that our society finds freaky.

There is definitely something to learn here.

I Have Learned So Much

I
Have
Learned
So much from God
That I can no longer
Call
Myself

A Christian, a Hindu, a Muslim,
A Buddhist, a Jew.

The Truth has shared so much of Itself
With me

That I can no longer call myself
A man, a woman, an angel,
Or even pure
Soul.

Love has
Befriended Hafiz so completely
It has turned to ash
And freed
Me

Of every concept and image
My mind has ever known.


by Hafiz
translated by Daniel Ladinsky in THE GIFT.

Sweet surprises are good

This is where I was headed today.A pretty drive over the hill from Santa Barbara to visit my friend, Ezron. We were headed to a movie and then a hike.

When I got there, it was late for the movie, he said, and I had to get back kind of early, so we got in his car. "Where are we going?" I asked.

"The casino," he said.

He works there as a videographer and after two years of knowing him, I'd finally see where he works. We got out of the car and the valet took it away. I followed him into the pretty hotel lobby and he said, "We're a little late, they might get mad a me a little bit."

"Should I turn off my phone?" I asked. Maybe they started some kind of show?

"If you want." He shrugged and smiled.

Then we were in front of the spa and he was saying to the girl at the counter, "We have a 1:10 appointment."

"Are we getting massages?"

"You are. See you in an hour."

And he left.

He led me to the jowls of heaven and left me there defenseless in the maw of delight.

Such a surprise it was, so completely out of left field, me standing there barely kempt in hiking clothes and a pony tail after weeks of too-tired-to-look-cute, entering a flute-music-overhead spa with ladies used to luxury.

Have you ever tried using a tissue face down on a massage table with your face sticking through one of those padded donuts? Once on the table, I cried.

So so sweet. And no more shoulder kink.


Photo credit

The Forgetting. The Remembering.

I am walking up the stairs to work, like I've done day in and out for two years. And Michael crosses my mind. Not the Michael who is dead, or the Michael whose daughter died, but the Michael standing at his office window, phone to ear. The Michael I’m laughing about telling the funny thing I saw at lunch. The guy whose advice we could use—wait one sec, I’ll go ask. …Oh. I can’t. He’s not there.

Shit, how could I forget that?

It’s like the left side of me knows he is dead. The left side of me was there to get the calls, work through the days, tell his mother. Yes, I told his mother.

But the right side of me is where my memories are stored. My memories of Michael alive. And when they come up, it's like THOSE memories each in turn have to learn that Michael is gone. Each memory as it surfaces has to learn what the rest of me knows.

At some point, I am guessing—hoping?--they will reach critical mass, and the rest of the memories stored away will all at once absorb the awareness that Michael is no longer there to consult, counsel, laugh at, with…and the New Normal will be less of a jolt again and again.

Atune

"Respect the delicate ecology of your delusions."


(oops, fell asleep on the couch last night before I posted, but fell in love with this line before I drifted away. From Tony Kushner's "Angels in America.")

From Many Voices

Independent published the article a day early. Read it.

expeditious

tonight i'm writing an In Memoriam for Michael in our local paper.
that is a string of letters I am not sure of yet, what they will turn into or from where their order will come.
i'll link it here on Thursday.

"Futch"

Tania is painting Lisa's toe nails.

TANIA: You know, some people use nail polish remover instead of letting the polish grow out from the last time they painted them.

LISA: I had 22 colors in high school, and a little corner shelf I built in 7th grade shop class to paint them on.

Normalish

Finally did laundry today. Cleaned my room, washed dishes. Talked to Grandma on the phone.

I posted my furniture on Craiglist, too, clearing out space. Suddenly it seemed imperative to be rid of every last thing I don't use or don't like, likening those things to that awful itch from the tags in my sweaters that I can't take out because the damned things will unravel, so I scratch, absentmindedly unhappy. Then I commenced wondering at the wisdom and folly of buying a $2,000 desk. It doesn't have to be $2,000. But it could be. To redirect my emotions to a desk I will love so much I can call it a companion. My friend, who also lost Michael, just bought a baby grand piano. That totally trumps my desk. But he was her bff, so bring on the baby grand.

ouch

i sprained my face on the popcorn in my teeth. seriously.

Body . Spirit

Michael Klein, 1970 - 2007
Islas Secas , Dawn of Time - End of Time

Another Country

I sat on the Mission steps tonight. Conquerers always get the best real estate. Just before sunset. Cloud cap over the sky. Distant ocean. White plaster and red tile roofs of homes in the foreground, and the main thoroughfare moving with cars. A few tourists.

I watched the cars head toward home in the twilight. And in them imagined people of another country. I am the tourist. In their land. Watching their way of life, imagining their foreign language thoughts as they plan dinner, mull over the day, look forward to seeing their kids. A habit I know but at present am set abroad from.

I go home to cook dinner for myself for the first time since before Christmas. Conversations outside of work are still hard to focus on; language goes all watery before they're through. Grief is another country.

Unfoldmentarianism

I sit here and wonder, "What will I blog tonight?"
and then immediately see that I'm alive and well, living a vibrant life and wondering why I'm even wondering, "what will I blog tonight?"
As I type, the kittens torpedo through the room. Good traction on the carpet, those claws. My margarita buzz wears off, kind of melting down my sides. The song Dov and I "wrote" or rather "allowed" in the moments I followed it out of my mouth, hums in me. The pictures of Michael I saw on other people's blogs cling to the insides of my skull. Lisa asks why she didn't use her guest-blogger time to ask where are all the good guys for this good woman (er, me). Tania watches TV in her Obama earrings made from Sculpee. I wear an uber-soft robe in a comfortably lit room. My work, especially at present, is difficult but rewarding. I grow.
What will I blog, indeed?
Let me sit here and think about it.
I'll get back to you.

P.S. Lisa left the kitchen tonight, where she was making Mexican food, to meet me out for Mexican food and margaritas. Then she asked me kind questions and remembered historical funnies. Then she sprang for the bill. Lisa is an old friend who's been around for the growth. Lisa is cool.

I LOVE my purse

I don't love the "new guy."
Tragedy didn't suit him, so he didn't call.
My purse rocks.
The "new guy"?
History.