P.S.

I wanted just to say goodbye, thank you, my love to you (if you are reading, this means you!)... I wish you peace. I hope to return with joie and photos.

je ne sais quoi

It's been a difficult week. I'm in an emotional stew which has been by turns a roiling cauldron of fury, a thick mess of humility, a thin taste of hopelessness, a burnt soup of sorrow, a bubbling broth of joy, a spilled puddle of heartbreak, a simmering pot of rage, a lumpy gravy of regret, a sticky porridge of self-loathing, a creamy pudding of hope, a spicy curry of possibility, a black potion of doubt, a sweet brew of transcendence, the bitter medicine of shame, spoiled leftovers of life. (Into the compost, mix with shit...)

Work has taken its toll on my spirit, especially of late. Yesterday I realized that during the entire past year I did not have a stretch of more than three workdays off. Of those, one was a vacation with family, split in two locations. One was two days off after a weekend, also split in two locations, in which I was taken down by serious illness. The other was the two days I took off to move out. It's been a long time since I had anything close to resembling a "vacation", and it's run me down. I'm stretched, tired. I'm not excited about going to Paris, I have to go. I have to leave here, be away from here, have something else for a while, anything else. Paris seems a bit much right now, but there it is, all I've got. I have cute new jeans, snacks, books and my camera, among the many things I'm packing up tonight. What I will not carry with me on this trip is any peace of mind about my life, my relationships, my future, my self. I am not concerned about getting lost, or not knowing where I am. I am worried about not knowing who I am. I'm afraid of being my own and my only companion. I wanted to leave for this trip with an open mind and an open heart, in peace. As it is, I'm just... leaving. And I already don't want to come back.

I have much to do tonight, little hope of getting any rest before I go. There's so much I've wanted to write down these past few days, to leave behind, and now it seems I'll have to take it all with me. Maybe I'll get lucky, lose some baggage on the way home. Au revoir.

not another word

except to say
fuck my job
curse this moon
thank god for open-heart surgeons
much love minneapolis
and
vive la france!

counting on

Oh, these dreams, these nightmares.

This morning I stood in the kitchen--scarf, coat, tea, boots, bags, keys, gloves--asking if there was any way I could just not go to work today, not today, not like this, not this way. I stood and looked out the window at my backyard, covered in snow and sunlight, and pressed my palms together in front of my mouth while tears welled up, no, not today, not this way, and I walked over to lean on the stark white shoulder of the refrigerator for a moment before I began to count: one, two, three, four. Be done with this. I reached for a loose paper towel, wiped my eyes, picked up my things, left for work.

Garage door lifted with KFAI on the air playing a tune that hit home, and didn't much help me get ready for work. Under the train bridge: one, two, three, four. Beautiful song, wondered who that old time telegraph man was... Oh, David Rawlings (Ruby). Oh, I forgot my wallet. Down the river and back again, a wistful set that ended as I pulled into the lot with the Wailin' Jennys singing One More Dollar. Oh, Gillian Welch. I sat for a moment to hear it out. A few minutes later I approached the door, bracing against a bitter chill, counting each footfall. I lost track before thirty, I think.

Last night I left work late for a dinner date, worried not so much about keeping good friends waiting as much as disappointing them. About 20 yards from my car I thought I'd dash the rest of the way, thought maybe if I did something would change, maybe everything would be okay. I actually thought this, that if I ran it might save my friend's life, like a child desperately crying out that she believes in fairies (aw, come on, that's just too good!), and then I thought about how stupidly unfair it is, that I should live while he suffers. I did not run. I walked this nonsense off.

I was reminded of wanting to just give it up, trade it in, my life for the life of a child, a blessing to a woman I'd known who was without, who had lost two trying and become ill. It seems so pointless, doesn't it, to not be happy, nor alive, when someone else could be, longs to be, is dying to be. But it doesn't work that way; my life might be recycled, or it may not, but I haven't the power to choose. I'm sure some people have. It's not quite what you might think, it's more wanting my life to be--well, good for something. It sounds so trite, put that way. Those of you who know what I mean should know what I mean. In any case, I drove off. I drove it off.

Dinner was at Koyi Sushi, fine but not fantastic. I was nervous, dumbly so, and furrowed, worried. Such beautiful men, such good friends, these two. We drank bottomless mugs of light green tea and tried to catch up, as if we can, as if it matters. We can, it does, it's good to be together. After dinner I showed them around my new place for a while, and we shared the rug and cushions on the living room floor while I opened a surprise that had arrived in the mail, my first personal delivery, a gift from CM's mom. Apart from us there was my new book on the floor, so I read a few poems. Words came easily at first, though I felt awkward. One came too close, I swallowed, continued. We talked for a while, about change and love, about the time that has passed.

I'd been speaking at dinner about the strangeness of living alone, of adjusting to the imbalance caused by the absence of other. Of course one adjusts in both ways, to make room or give it, to occupy or not. Ten years have gone by, and now I live by myself. But what I am living for? This question circles, and on the way home tonight I tried to remember what it used to be: for the stage, until I left it; for singing, until I stopped; for the earth, which I cannot steward; for my family, for work, for being needed, for moments, for nothing, for no one. No one but myself, is that it? Is that enough? It doesn't seem so, and yet it must be so. For now, it must be...

Mid-day today my veneer cracked, with rushing in and out all over the place, again, no, not right now, not here, not like this... I counted, under my breath, a few times. It flows in from out of nowhere and picks me up, washes me downstream. A while ago I decided to give myself license to cry, to allow myself to feel whatever it is, in whatever way it comes, but in truth I'm still damming it, damning it, trying to hold it under, which is as futile as hoping my life might be a suitable replacement for another. Try mine: replace my life with my life, now there's an idea. I splashed some water on my face, too real to be possible.

My imaginary heart quickens my breath, while I count, and hold down tears. In just two days they will have taken part of his, replaced it with a different piece--a construction to fill the void, to keep it beating: one, two.

I ponder separation, recovery. Surely it's difficult this way, to live with what's left, to tend to these wounds together. But more painful yet is the phantom limb, the sensation where there is no skin, the presence where there is only empty space: ghosts in nightmares, lovers in dreams. To heal, the wound must be present: wrap it, let it rest, then unwrap and weep and breathe, and slowly begin again to let it carry weight, counting each step.

frankly speaking

Setting aside for a moment the exploration of my so-called personhood here, I feel compelled to post the following, as I believe it tells us something significant about our cultural paradigm:

Main Entry: ¹fran·chise
Pronunciation: \ˈfran-ˌchīz\

Function: noun

Etymology: Middle English, from Anglo-French, from franchir to free, from franc free — more at frank

Date: 14th century

1 : freedom or immunity from some burden or restriction vested in a person or group
2 a : a special privilege granted to an individual or group; especially : the right to be and exercise the powers of a corporation b : a constitutional or statutory right or privilege; especially : the right to vote c (1) : the right or license granted to an individual or group to market a company's goods or services in a particular territory; also : a business granted such a right or license (2) : the territory involved in such a right
3 a : the right of membership in a professional sports league b : a team and its operating organization having such membership

orange bowl

Company tomorrow... Not the Bank this time, but dear friends who I've not seen in months, it seems. In honor of the occasion I picked the place up a bit and unpacked a couple boxes that have been sitting on the kitchen counter, in the way of things. In doing so I was caught off guard by the realization that, until tonight, I haven't really unpacked anything at all... These are my things, some beautiful, some useful, once familiar and cared for or even needed, and now, somehow, they remember me more than I do them. On the counter there's a bowl for three yellow bananas and here's another for three heavy oranges, at the opposite end, other objects here and there, in still life.

Peeling an orange today was a momentary pleasure, the wonder of it reaching me, its life in my hands, all I needed. There's a bowl full.

munching on the mundane

It wasn't quite early when I got up this morning, although it felt so after a shallow rest. I managed to get clean and out the door in 20 minutes, to meet a friend with whom I shared a pleasant and hearty breakfast at the Colossal Cafe. I went for the special, biscuits and gravy--is it the idea that compels me, or is it the gravy?--and found them to be almost exactly everything that the dish should be (anywhere other than the Seward Cafe, of course, where the B&G Deluxe is beyond compare)...biscuits light and fluffy, gravy made with what seemed to be chipped beef and just a touch of sour cream with a sprinkling of herbs, thick but still smooth, rich but not fatty, even light almost, served up in a nice bowl. We sat a table just inside the door of the tiny place--the seating area is probably only 8x15' or so--and although we had to suffer an occasional rush of cold air, we managed somehow not to be unseated for a good hour and a half or more. With a well-brewed cup of coffee (I like it strong, but I've been disappointed lately by "overbrewed" cups at places where one might expect better) and some good conversation, it was a nice way to start the day. Not the cheapest around but I left feeling satisfied, with enough energy to see me through what turned out to be a fairly long day, out and about, picking up this and that in anticipation of Paris.

This trip is shaping up to be an expensive affair already, which has me feeling a bit at odds with my prudence. Flying off to Paris, of all places... My hope had been to get away for some time alone in canyon country after I got through the house-buying act, or to undertake an ascetic practice of self- and home-improvements this winter, not run abroad to a cosmopolitan city and spend my life savings on fleeting pleasures. The money I've spent on my plane ticket might have equipped my kitchen beyond my modest dreams, and what I'll spend on food there, I can hardly imagine...

I stopped by the co-op on my way home today, to pick up a few essentials, and it occurred to me that many of the things I regard as such are not really typical American fare. Organic brown basmati rice, for example, or shiitake mushrooms. Locally crafted goat-cheese and crusty artisan breads. I suppose there are plenty of Americans who travel to France and have never tasted a French cheese, or (is it possible?) stood in the presence of a Monet, or heard of Edith Piaf. Some of those people might be content to go to TGI Fridays Paris (just down the street from Hotel Touriste) but I am a discriminating eater even in this modest metropolis where above-average fare of all origins abounds, and I'll be damned if I'm going to show up in gay Paris, home of haute cuisine, neighbor to my ancestral roots in Alsace-Lorraine, and drop in just any old place for a bite. No no.

I'm not after a "fine" dining experience. I don't intend to spend more on a meal than I would on a pair of shoes (which may not be saying all that much...could I be a closet fashionista?); nor am I the sort who would eschew (ha ha) a humble meal at any random hole-in-the-wall, but I have to admit that my standards for what I put into my mouth, crush between my teeth, take down, digest, absorb and become are fairly high. There's a reason I don't eat foods that are doused in poison, or killed in a filthy manner, or crafted without any care whatsoever, for consumption by the masses (or massive). It just doesn't make any sense to me to eat, unless it's going to do something Good for You. To do otherwise, to me, is not only unhealthy and unwise but is potentially sickening and--if I might go so far--Life Changing (in that food actually gives people life...). Like having sex with a prostitute, or eating half a bag of Doritos in one sitting, not that I've done either of those things.

(Okay, so sure, it's not always going to be good. Then it should at least be interesting. Like that apple stand we stopped at on the way home, where the slightly crazed owner shared some feelings about his life's professions: one part apple peddler--with his brother, who had this stupid idea of shellacking the pumpkins, "as if there's not enough to do around here"--and one part director, of the funeral home next door--between that and the polka music on rotation, all day, every day, "truly, there are days when I wish for death, hahaha...". We bought a few apples and so-so pastries. Worthwhile, is maybe what I'm getting at...)

Last stop for the afternoon was United Noodles, to stock the pantry for curry, noodle soup, fried rice, pad thai... I was squatting at the fish sauce, trying to remember if it's the one with two crabs or three, when from behind I heard my name, and turned to see my sister. Had I gotten her message? No. About meeting her there? What? She and the rest of the book club--mostly extended family members--were on a field trip. Serendipity, or just chance? We browsed for food items of the Asian Persuasion and then went for dinner at the Vietnamese gem Quang, over on "Eat Street". My bowl of soup was at least a quart and a half full of about a half pound of broccoli, another of tofu, and as much again of egg noodles, with other veg; I don't think I could have made the same, for what I paid for it, and even though I ate my fill, what's left is still more than a meal for me. Dessert was my sister's suggestion but my choice, and it turned out to be a strange one: gooey rice dumplings with a salty bean paste inside, resting in a bowlful of coconut-ginger syrup and sprinkled with toasted sesame seeds. Fascinating, if not delicious (also probably the main factor contributing to the sense of sad and empty loneliness that came over me upon returning home, to no one, with only the cheap sound of my new monitor-cum-television to keep me company...Playoffs, whoopdee doo!...but you see I mean about Life Changing...?).

Inspired by two bags of groceries and thoughts of the future as well as hopes of dispelling laziness, I decided tonight to take down the plastic sheets that have been covering the kitchen, keeping me out of my cupboards and from enjoying a clean, tidy space in which to prepare food. It still feels a bit dirty, not mine, not quite right somehow, like something more is missing than the pots and pans, but it does look better. My intent had been to make a red curry this evening, to eat for the week, but it's been a longish day (for a Sunday) and, as anxious as I am to plan my culinary stumble through Paris, I think I'm going to have leftovers for lunch tomorrow and let those restaurant guides rest for tonight. Maybe there's something good on TV...