crazy

...Yeah, I was out of touch
But it wasn't because I didn't know enough
I just knew too much
Does that make me crazy
Does that make me crazy
Does that make me crazy
Probably....


Update:
Sister’s visit a success.
Menu included (but sadly, not limited to)
cheese enchiladas, BBQ, bacon/bleu cheese potato salad,
spinach walnut salad with grapes, sun dried tomato/avocado spring rolls
with tamarind/saffron/cashew/honey sauce and vast amounts of chili verde.
Kitchen (and intestines) still recovering.
2 of 7 days spent with brother,
where weather put a damper on the festivities.
HEAVY clouds of guilt and sorrow hanging overhead
obscured any good view of joy, and the passage of time,
mixed with distance (both measurable and immeasurable)
left my sister with a nasty stain that even the best dry cleaners
back home will not be able to get out.
Brain injury – the gift that keeps on giving.
Highlight: Covert clean-up of the toxic waste site in brother’s cupboards.
5 trash bags full of bulging, weeping canned goods, including some
Campbell’s Cream of Chicken soup with a pull date of 1984.
Other recent occurrences:
Daughter’s graduates from high school - celebration limited
to huge amounts of pumpkin pie and whipped cream,
followed by an infusion of gifts, and some money.
Much joy all around regarding the end of high school,
compounded by the simultaneous completion of 2 years
of college through “Running Start’ program.
Pride and relief and fear vying for first place in heart of Mom
as plans for more college in Seattle gather steam.
Brown Shoes gets a JOB.
A real, send out the resume, fill-out-the-paperwork job.
First such job since 1988 (selling art, designing and maintaining gardens
and tending infants do not, while challenging and exhausting, qualify
as “real jobs” apparently. Must figure out why this is so…).
Official title – case manager for women and children
in transitional living facility.
Unofficial title, given by clients – “Captain Killer” –
hmmm, must be the tattoos?
Older sister hits rock bottom, loses job and makes
dreaded 11 p.m. ‘I can’t live like this anymore’ phone call.
Hilarity ensues.
And continues.



Further information will be made available
when the telephone is surgically removed from my ear.



How I have missed writing here,
and perusing my little community,
however questionable some might find
that definition to be.



bs

Mighty Manfred the wonder dog

Huge excitement here at Chez Shoes -
My little sister is coming for a visit!!

If you had known us growing up, my joy over her visit
would leave you confused - we have not always been close.
Back in the day, she was a 'good' girl: cheerleader, social butterfly,
our mother's favorite daughter.
And me?
I was not.
However, as is perhaps the case with many sisters and brothers,
the alchemy of death and calamity and the passing of time
changed almost everything, and we now find in one another
that ideal friend who knows your entire past and loves you anyway.
Realistic sanctuary - a true gift.
This visit, though I hesitate to even say it, will be the first
one in years that does not revolve around a hospital,
a rehab center, or the dreaded funeral home.
If we can keep it that way, this week will be a lot of fun.
Our schedule currently looks like this:
1. Make cheese enchiladas
After that - who cares.

My sister's nickname is Mani (or festus),
short for manifest destiny - which was itself a bastardization
of the original Mighty Manfred, the wonder dog - (no idea why).
One might think that would make me Tom Terrific, but such is not the case.
I too am Mani, or Clem - which is short for nothing
but has cleared us a booth more than once in the
bars and restaurants of Wyoming and Colorado.
The ferry arrives at 1 p.m. -
I cannot wait!



bs

Oh - many thanks again for all the kind wishes re
'Operation Inner Sanctum'.
I am doing well, and appreciate the good thoughts immensely.
Yikes - I am in such a good mood it's almost sickening.

Unfortunately, happiness isn’t a little cake which we can cut up to suit our desires.

Up a bit late, under the spell of "All This, and Heaven Too"
(perhaps one of Bette Davis' finest performances).
As I was lying about on this too-warm evening, I realized that I have been
neglectful in not offering a single word about my early-birthday cruise.
I'll try not to bore you with too much information, but below is my assessment of the trip.
In a word: EXHAUSTING.
For a longer version - see below.

The ship is a 77,000-ton, 1,970-passenger vessel with 2 full service restaurants
and 5 other eating venues. There are 5 bars, a theater, a spa, a casino,
3 swimming pools and several hot tubs, as well as an art gallery of sorts,
a few fine jewelry and porcelain stores and both a golf and a basketball 'zone'.
There are nine (12?) stories accessible to passengers, and miles
(did I mention MILES) of deck and hallway.
My friend C is a veteran cruiser, and knew what to expect,
but my antiquated visions of lazing about poolside
while some loyal, besotted crew man hand-fed me grapes
died a hideous death after my first fifty mile trot to the bow and back.
The trip from Vancouver, B.C. back to Seattle was a lovely gesture on C's part,
and featured incredible scenery, unbelieveable people-watching opportunities
and a staggering amount of good food (anything you want/anytime you want it).
My faves?
Fresh pinneapple and cornflake-crumb encrusted French Toast ala James Beard
The crew represented over 300 countries, and every last one was
remarkably kind and friendly and cheerful. The song and dance routines were
so awful they were wonderful, and our private veranda was enchanting
but in truth, I don't think I am really cruise material.
I felt awkward being waited on 24/7, and a bit taken aback by the avarice
and the waste I saw all around me.
And I missed my stuff - the tools and materials to keep my hands and mind busy ,
since I wasn't much caught up in any of the entertainments available to me on board.
I loved talking, and sitting near the water in the sun, but I can do that at home.
I realize it may expose me as a dullard, but I must admit that my travel jones has faded.
I only want to journey if it's short and sweet and I can stay close to the ground.
I did love the train trip (Seattle to Vancouver) - it was every bit the way I remembered.
We wound along the water, and along the backside of every town we passed through,
so I had plenty of rusty, decrepit warehouses, decaying ports and hollow-eyed shanty dwellers
to keep me totally mesmerized. We also passed an eagle breeding area, where we saw
hundreds of eagles in all stages of growth. They were eating, flying, wading in the water,
resting on the rocks and generally being magnificent. Every person in our car was thrilled,
which was oddly touching - all those adults, chattering in their train seats like school children.
And that, my friends, is that.

In other news - Elliot has left the Idol, crushing my hopes for that rare,
deserving-underdog win. I have loved watching his confidence grow,
and his taste in music was refreshing. He managed to introduce Donny Hathaway
to some new listeners, which makes him a huge winner in my book.
On Invasion, it appears that that, if she lives, the ranger's wife will soon be a hybrid...
I wonder when we will get to see what happens next.
Over on the Sopranos, all things dark and ominous are hurtling toward New Jersey.
I am confused by the focus on Vito - but it's obvious that he is going to be a catalyst
for all sorts of merda to hit the fan. The threatening atmosphere of these episodes is
almost nauseating, with everybody exposing their nasty underbelly while they pretend
to love, honor and respect. The final denouement should be epic.
Speaking of epic - this post feels a bit lengthy...let's blame it on pain meds, extreme
cramping, bloating, vomiting and too much of the heating pad.
I had my surgical moment today, and so far all is just as advertised.
I don't remember much beyond getting undressed, putting on a hospital gown
and talking to D while the world spun away. When I woke up, I thought I was
in somebody's basement. I tried to sit up and and find out why I was there,
and someone called out "You're in recovery". From what, I wanted to know,
but I couldn't seem to stay awake to hear the answer.
My biggest horror - nothing from midnight Tuesday night until 1 p.m. today.
No coffee at 7 in the a. of m. No water at the crack of noon.
Nada.
But, I did get pineapple juice when fluids were again allowed.
2 fantastic little cans, beautifully chilled, with bendable straws cut short to fit.
At this point, I am just thrilled that the procedure (D/C, ablation and something else
I can't recall now) is over and I am at home in my woods where I belong.
And where I will now go attempt to sleep out from under
the strangely agitating effects of anesthesia and pain killers.

I only hope this tome does not prove to have the same effect on you.


bs

Mother's Day

anniversary



having been the unexpected
stubborn
lump of coal
I outlasted your years of polish.
first in line to toss my handful of dirt
duly
I sang dust to dust
shaking
with relief.
now
in the free world
I find memory persists.

sometimes I see the pale stem of your arm
rising bravely through the morphine
your beautiful fingers
reaching out
for
me.
wiping sullen tears from my own daughter's face
I find it is your voice
that whispers
hush

hush.

only today
I found a box
filled with your hairpins and combs.
rising
as I lifted the lid
was the soft, familiar scent of your skin.

once
you must have
pressed against me
just because I was yours
needing to shape me
just enough
to fit
into your arms.




for Clara 1919 - 1988

Thursday

I've been a bit incommunicado the past week –
gardening my arse off now that we've had a break in the rain.
The past few weeks of warmth and light were long overdue,
and my days of late have been filled to bursting with the riches
of living in the backwoods.
I shared this morning’s cup of coffee with ravens, hummingbirds,
a hawk and several evening grosbeaks, while a couple of pileated woodpeckers
traded drum rolls back and forth across the ravine.
One of them currently prefers pounding on D’s iron truck rack,
and the noise is ridiculous at 7 a.m.
From my front porch, I look out into a world of green,
interrupted here and there by hot pink salmonberry blossoms,
and pendulous, creamy clusters of red elderberry blooms.
My honeysuckle, lilac and sweet cicely are also flowering,
and at the end of the day, the evening air is heavy with a perfume
that is positively intoxicating.
Speaking of intoxication, there are few things that make me miss alcohol
like spending the day in my yard, because that is where I did the majority of my drinking.
Trust me when I say that nothing takes the edge off of being poor and isolated
like swilling wine from a coffee cup while working like a mule.
It was almost perfection: hot sun, cold wine; a mental vacation
from every last thing that made me unhappy or stressed.
And the alcohol worked like jet fuel, allowing me to push myself
beyond my endurance while making even the most mundane chores
seem almost like fun.
But, do I miss everything about it?
Hmmmmmm…
How fun was it the day I overshot the refuse pile,
plummeting into the ravine along with a wheelbarrow full of blackberry canes?
The day I jumped off the porch and tore all the ligaments in my ankle?
Or that time I ran over myself with my own car (not an easy thing to do
no matter what your mental state)?
Well hell yes, some of that was fun – and funny – but none of it can compare
to the wholeness of my days as a sober woman.
Seriously drunken time does not flow, it is jagged,
and breaks down into bits about the size of each glass you pour.
And while it seems to be about freedom and the loosening of inhibitions,
there is nothing more inhibiting to a good time than constant reliance
on anything you must procure, conceal or measure out to manufacture ‘release’
(unless you count being tanked while gardening topless and looking up
just in time to see the Jehovah’s Witnesses backing down your driveway at 60 mph).

Well.
This is not at all what I sat down to write.
Normally, I avoid even the most basic “back when I was…” stories because,
I suppose, they still sting a little bit.
And perhaps because – no matter what side you come from - alcoholism is a touchy subject, complicated as it is by shame and humiliation and judgment and regret.
But ultimately, it is what it is.
And like the dirt I dig in and the life that teems around me, it changes everyday.
Which is a good thing.
A suprising thing.
And of all my current riches, the one I prize the most.

Oh - tomorrow at 6 a.m. (good god), I crawl onto the train to Vancouver.
Once there, I'll step aboard my first ever cruise ship, where I'll be until Saturday morning.
My tune may change after 24 hours on a floating gin joint...


bs

It's a beautiful day in the neighborhood, a beautiful day for a neighbor...

Four-Hour Standoff Ends Peacefully

Yesterday, a 74 year old man went off his rocker and started shooting up the countryside.
Police arrived, but when they approached the man, he refused to surrender his weapon,
and shot at various law enforcement officers -
who shot back at him as they tried to subdue him.
A SWAT team was called in, and eventually he was taken into custody.
Now this isn't necessarily a huge event as far as crime goes -
but I took particular note of it because my house is just through the woods
you see on the right side of this picture.

In fact, D. and I were standing outside, discussing all the sirens

and the helicopter hovering overhead when shots rang out
in the area directly behind us.
Ever the voice of reason, D. said, "You know,

we probably shouldn't stand out here anymore."
And it was strange suddenly, to feel unsafe,

up here in the sheltering greenness of home.

Much later that night,

I was startled awake in the middle of a troubling dream.
There in my soft bed, beneath my favorite blanket,

I thought about the sound of gunfire, and the lonely silence that comes next.
And I stayed awake for a very long time

remembering that safety is - in large part,
an illusion.

bs