Spirit Finds You

Yesterday just before my swim, I nearly walked into a young woman (about 13) who looked remarkably like Talia, my late boss' daughter who died with him in the plane crash. At the time, I wondered what she had to tell me...in such a way that I felt visited by Talia at that moment. It was more than the girl's look, it was her presence, the look in her eyes, and we were inches away from one another, face to face before stepping out of each other's way.

I was nervous for the ocean swim, it being packed with people and all, and I worried about being able to breathe through all the excitement and exertion.

Then today, recuperating from the triathlon, I remembered that I have a wonderful ocean memory of Talia. Several of us were floating in the waves in Panama, but we were all a little anxious because we were waiting for a boat to come pick us up from this tiny island we were on...and we couldn't relax on the shore because the flies were biting. Time stretched on as we waited for the boat. The sun got lower in the sky and our skin pickled. But Talia and her friend, Caroline, about 11 and 12, stood in the waves and performed hilarious comedy routines, sang funny songs, and played interactive games with us. We floated out in the swells, and laughed and laughed. They kept us light till the boat arrived.

With the entrance of that memory, I understood Talia's appearance yesterday, right before my swim in the ocean and my dip into my dream to do the triathlon. Today I still feel the calm I felt yesterday as I cruised through the water, and the ease I felt that day Talia and Caroline made us laugh in the waves.

It occurs to me only now that I went alone to the triathlon. I didn't invite any friends to the crack-of-dawn athletic event which requires a lot of waiting and a lot of roaming around for spectators. I felt a little lonely, seeing people's friends and family cheering them on. It was kind of like showing up at the airport and your loved ones aren't there to greet you. The tri was a big deal for me, but I didn't set it up in a way for my friends to be there. But you know who was there? Greg, Michael's ranch manager. He runs the event and I saw him throughout the triathlon weekend. He even discovered an error I had made in my set-up and fixed it before I started.

And Talia, it turns out.

So...I guess I didn't run it by myself after all. :-)

Jeopardy Theme Music

Yesterday was one of those days and nights where PBD quotes and observations were zinging by so fast I couldn't catch them.

The upshot: I spent a glorious amount of time laughing and laughing and laughing.

Buzzer goes off, and I still can't think of a one...except for this sweet moment. I was at a long dinner in a loud restaurant, and toward the end, I heard the faintest coo of a baby--in the middle of that din. Right behind me. I turned around and this tiny cutie saw me see her, saw me smile and talk to her and she grinned with squinty eyes and a wide open smile. I was transported a moment because she looked like Talia, that powerful joy. That made me feel warm and sweet and calm. I returned to the dinner and conversation in front of me a little changed.

Gross National Happiness

Lunchtime today:
I am so incredibly grumped out. I can barely stand myself. I'm sitting at lunch for the second day in a row wondering if I can just get away and get a hold of myself in this hour. Ugh.

I'm mad at the traffic. Mad at the line at lunch. Mad at the music overhead covering Coldplay, and mad at the girl unhappy that I asked her to bring me salad dressing. Mad she said she would bring it and didn't.

Mad at the European tourists' shoes. Mad at this gorgeous day, or not that exactly, but the attitudes underneath it, carefree. Mad I have one hour for lunch, mad I feel guilty for taking the hour. Mad I have to work at all on a beautiful and disarming day like today. Mad at my temp for leaving. Mad I have no one to replace her. Mad that my desk drawer breaks. Mad that It's not all just right. Mad that Michael's gone. Mad that this gorgeous, unbelievable, beautiful spring day is here without Michael beneath it and Talia and everything I ever knew before this winter is changed to some other animal with some other pelt and some other mode of recognizing itself in its environment.

Then, dinner with Michael's mom and step dad:
"Did you know that recently the King of Bhutan abdicated the throne in favor of democracy and threw out Gross National Product in favor of Gross National Happiness?"

Now:
There's a kitten in my lap. Happy me for kitten tonic. Gross National Kittens.

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

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.

From Many Voices

Independent published the article a day early. Read it.

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.

The Car

PEMA: We're here to-- Do you have a-- What were we telling them?

KURT: That we, uh, that...

KHAN is listening intently in the huddle we created, waiting for one of us to finish a sentence.

KURT: Our friend and colleague parked his car here before Christmas and then died in a plane crash and we're here to pick up his car.

KHAN blanches.

KHAN: I'm, my gosh, I'm--

We are blocks away from LAX. In KHAN's eyes, you can see him calculating, trying to recall news briefs, flipping through imaginary etiquette books, while we all stand in this circle in the parking garage wondering what to do next.

At the counter, I pull out the death certificate from my notebook. I pull out my ID.

The longer I wait for the people to find the key, to type in the date Michael parked, to find the car in the lot, to call each other on the intercom and disappear and reappear and give me more forms to fill out, the more closed-in my vision gets. My breath is shallower by the moment and my fuse is short. I see only a wall of keys on the valet board behind the counter. The very large lips of the young woman helping me. The piercing in the side of her lip, like a metallic beauty mark. The people on either side of her looking forlorn and unsure of what to say or do. I am stoic against the tears that want to come, in waves.

I get the keys. Valets have pulled the car out front. Kurt and I hug. We cry. I get in.

How do I start it?? The radio comes on with the car and plays a commercial of a new show Michael invested in. I get out and tell Kurt the synchronicity. I go back to the Mini, and I can't figure out how to adjust the seat or see the odometer or open the windows. My brain is too fogged from the black interior, the tears on the reverse slide down the back of my throat, the impossibility of mental focus on these simplest of mechanics to get me out of this garage.

I am finally out, I pull into the sunlight. And immediately I drive to the side of the road. The tears are heavy and my breath is jagged. Fucker. Jerk. Dammit. This is *not* my drive. This is his view and his scent. The performance hum under my ass and my feet is HIS ride, his familiarity.

The wheel under my hands is glossy wood and a paper-smooth leather. Its contours cradle my grip. There is life here all around me and under me. I am breathing it and applying myself to it, and moving with it.

I drive fast. Fast in his fast little car. Change the radio when I hear music he wouldn't like. Dance wildly in the driver's seat. Absorb the man in his absence.

The Bus Ride

I used to ride the bus to work and wish that on the 20-minute Express, I could muster the courage to stir up an exciting collective debate, about politics, our community, current issues. Instead of opening a book or staring out the window, the newest rider would lean in and ask what we were talking about today.

This memory popped into my head in the recent days since my friend died. Our journey through life is like a bus ride. Some people get on when you're already in progress, and sometime later they get off; but in that ride you've been changed. You've participated in a rousing discussion, you've engaged in fearless dialogue, you've provoked the social experiment that lies in you and everyone waiting to play with you if you're courageous enough to just play. You've utilized those spare 20 minutes. For good! And learned something you never knew about yourself and the person next to you and the person next to that one. And before you know it, all those 20 minutes are stacked into days and weeks, a lifetime; and the bus door opens, and a passenger waves goodbye, and he gets off at his stop, while the buzz he stirred in your bus continues, and your journey, continues.

Real Emotions Have Curves

So tired.
13 hour day today.
Slow parabola of emotion.
It's actually shaped like thisbut I like the word parabola.
Many emails from friends of long ago contact helped throughout the day.
Many laughing moments with Michael on my mind. Jerk has us working our asses off.
Much love for a bright light. Two very bright lights.
Remind me to tell you about the bus ride.
I'm serious. Remind me or I'll forget. And it's good.
G'night.

1 Survivor

The miracle is Francesca Lewis, 12 years old. She survived a plane crash in the jungle and the three days it took to find her. Francesca, bless her, is the only survivor. My friend Michael, 37, and his daughter, Talia, 13, did not survive. The pilot was also lost. Search crews found the plane this afternoon in mountainous terrain in Panama.

One Survivor, Three Dead in Panama Plane Crash

Thank you all for your prayers and good thoughts and love you sent their way. Their families can still use them if you have more in you.

PRAY hard PRAY now

My boss and his daughter and two others are missing after their plane was spotted flying low over a forested area of Panama.

Even if you don't believe, fake it and pray. Send positive images as you open presents, send love as you share dinner with your families. Give Christmas another miracle.
Panama searches for missing plane, 3 American passengers