Not at Home

I wrote the following as a tip to the Seattle _stranger_, the local 'bloid that touts itself as Seattle's only newspaper. I have GOT to get this info out, and this is in an effort to let the _stranger_'s blog-reader hear the first-hand account. If you google 'allergan league of women voters' you'll find their blog post.

5.19.08

Through means that I cannot describe, I managed to be invited to a very odd event that occurred this evening at the EMP. It was so bizarre sounding from the get-go, I decided I had to attend, if only to report on it, elsewhere.

This event was called, somewhat poetically, 'freedom of expression through film', and involved keynote speakers from a rather, well, diverse group of women. For being almost exclusively white women and obviously fairly well off. They're touring nationally.

Most women attending, not 500, but over 400, I suppose, had been invited through either a their personal doctor or a friend, it seems. Most women were told they were attending a dinner and a presentation featuring a keynote speech by an actress of note. Well, this works on many, but not me, as I just don't pay attention to movie billings. Even seeing some footage before she spoke didn't ring any bells. When it comes to Hollywood movies I'm as dumb as a stump, but I find it useful to not be easily impressed.

We were fairly corralled into the EMP. Happily, as we were being corralled, appetizers were being offered by serving staff, on trays. This helped. Also, free alcohol seemed to be offered with good effect.

I noted that the crowd seemed both thinner, and more made-up, and more bottle-blonde than the general populous. Also, whiter. I met one asian woman in the crowd, also disappointed by what was going as 'dinner': the petit fours were in much greater quantity than the appetizers, and the lack of produce represented by the offerings was not what one would expect to be offered this room. Curious and curiouser.

I also noted the congregation of the fairly well improved didn't seem to tip well to the bartenders. I suppose some were tiffed that we were not at the dinner we expected, but instead a happy hour and then an hour-long presentation. Not a reasonable form of protest, still.

The League of Women Voters table at the top of the stairs leading to the Sky Church seemed a bit incongruous. No other such group was present. Also interesting. We were set straight on just what that was about soon enough.

You see, this event was an effort to present to those gathered the cosmetic use of botox. Somehow, we were to make the logical leap from celebrity, to non-celebrity use of botox, and its relevance to each of us in the room, obstensibly as a form of 'self expression', and voting, which was applauded as an ultimate act of 'self expression'.

Virginia Madsen spoke after a (unwittingly hilarious) woman plastic surgeon and exponent of botox. Viginia's mother spoke, too, as she'd been gifted with, and herself corralled into regular use of, botox, and indeed DOES have her own film projects. The League of Woman Voters representative spoke to an increasingly thinning crowd: woman were filling out forms, submitting them, and whisking out to the parking lot. We were made aware of their '411' voting site, which in principle sounds like a great good thing: but sponsored? By a pharmaceutical? Touting botox?

The swag-bags left on chairs offered us rhinestone emblazoned 'botox' t shirts which can't fit anyone under about a size 10, cosmetic bags (bereft of cosmetics: I suppose we won't need them?), single-use cameras with the 'self expression' theme emblazoned on the side with 'freedom of expression through film'. And hilarious, gut-busting picture frames: they are in the shape of a Hollywood clapperboard, and say 'scene: prod no: director take 1' a la a Hollywood and have the Allergan botox logo. Who would want their photo in a botox picture frame?

Good To Know that the League of Woman Voters now 'partners' with Allergan. The logical leaps of spin and public relations are enough to involve chiropractors and osteopaths, next.

Pretty funny, huh?

Even funnier, to me, was being presented with a possibly-exhaustive list of plastic surgeons/MDs, anyway, who are trained 'n in cahoots with providing Allergan's product. We were promised at our invitation to the event to be able to schedule a free consult and treatment with botox, but to do so, we had to pick a MD from a 4 page spread sheet handout *right then* from their list of a couple hundred throughout the Puget Sound. Not the way most informed woman make decisions. Happily I had my palm pilot there, and recognized a few names. My choice of MD, and body area, might prove to be a great follow up piece.

New House Concert Series: 313Presents

Through the suggesting of Del Ray and the national network created by Fran Snyder of Concerts in Your Home (see: concertinyourhome.com), the venerable folkie retreat formally owned by Sandy Bradley is once again hosting local and visiting artists for our community's enjoyment. Inaugerating the series on June 7th is Jean Mann (jeanmann.com), a singer-songwriters whose voice, intelligence of lyrics, and musical style remind me much of Jane Siberry.

Through the summer and into the fall we're got some amazing acts from far and wide: Bill Isles, a gifted storyteller-in-song of Duluth, MN joins us on 9 July (see:http://www.halfamind.com). We are thrilled to have been approached by the new generation of bluegrass and will host Lonesome Traveller of Colorado on 9 August. If it's just too hot inside, we'll pick a porch and take the chairs outside. Learn more about the six travellers at: http://www.myspace.com/lonesometravelerbluegrassband/.

The fall schoolbuses will be followed by Rachel Sedacca's schoolbus, and she will grace us with her artistry, remnicent of Bonnie Raitt on 21 Sept. Rachel and her schoolbus, named Patience can be learnt about at: http://www.rachelsedacca.com/.
Other acts include Dana Cooper and Cosy Sheridan in November.

We will be pleased and tickled to see people at the door who have been to our house before, as well as those who haven't. If you'd like to be on our guest 'a' list, please write email to 313presents@concertsinyourhome.com, and we'll send notice of the concerts to you. Reserving a seat can be donee at the same email address.

Welcome to 313.

7 JUNE - 313Presents Jean Mann - Jean Mann, local singer/songwriter inaugurates new house concert series at the historic and handicapped accessible home well known to the folk music community when owned by Sandy Bradley. Jean's lyrics are intelligent and moving, her singing lyrical yet lush, reminiscent of Jane Siberry. Reserve via email to 313presents@concerts in your home.org, learn more of artist: http://www.jeanmann.com. Doors open at 7p, music approximately 7:30p.

9 JULY - 313Presents Bill Isles - Bill Isles, of Duluth, MN joins our house concert series at the historic and handicapped accessible home well frequented by the folk music community when owned by Sandy Bradley. Bill's excellent storytelling-in-song, in settings a little north of the proverbial Lake Wobegon come around to Seattle and our parlors. Reserve via email to 313presents@concerts in your home.org, learn more of artist: http://www.halfamind.com/. Doors open at 7p, music approximately 7:30p.

9 AUGUST - 313Presents Lonesome Traveller - Lonesome Traveller, of the Front Range of Colorado, is a award-winning 6 piece bluegrass band of the latest generation. Compare favorably to Captain Gravel, our local darlings. It'll be hot, but they're hot. If we're all too hot, we'll be outside for some Serious Porchin'. Reserve via email to 313presents@concertsinyour home.org, learn more of artist: http://www.myspace.com/lonesometravelerbluegrassband/. Doors open at 7p, music approximately 7:30p.

21 SEPT - 313Presents Rachel Sedacca - Rachel of Ventura County, CA, drives in in her schoolbus named Patience, and joins our house concert series at the historic and handicapped accessible home well visited to the folk music community when owned by Sandy Bradley. Rachel's bluesy/folksy/country guitarwork and original songs are warm hearted yet muscular. Don't miss the bus! Reserve via email to 313presents@concertsinyour home.org. Learn more of artist: http://www.rachelsedacca.com/. Doors open at 6p, potluck opportunity prior to music.

gardening my way

Here's a little poem to explain to folks what happened to the nearly three story tall holly tree I removed over a year ago. It was like processing a whale in my front yard: even moreso in all the preparation -- and in the volunteer effort I somehow managed to elicit/solicit. So, here's a somewhat poetic retelling of The End of The Holly. And some more character exposition, on the way.


The day I first drove up, saw to this house
I saw it's shaggy green hippy-lambchops.
thought: 'ew'. The cypress, and the holly tree:
two reasons to not purchase, yet, I'm not
out of my car. Camouflage? Deterrent?
Would've worked on me, save motivation.

Two years later, (and a good deal of thought)
I began to peel the onion: no tears.
A dispassionate gardener at work.
A lot of things needed to go, must start.
One species, one free-ad, bit at a time.
Arum, day lilies, lilac suckers, more.

Poor sots came and dug out my frustrations.
The bamboo was the best, despite delay.
If only the feral feline had not
chose to birth in the thatch, a little more
evacuation of yard might've been
possible, then. regardless, great story --

A dunce decade decended, dug bamboo.
No sign left, but I dug out roots: full can,
forty gallons. Another ad: 'bamboo
roots, just add dirt!' Disappeared from the curb.
Amazing. Next, the cardboard, newspaper,
and a chance at freedom. Rested two weeks.

Then the real campaign began. Thanksgiving
approached, and thus, at least twice weekly, wrote
'free holly boughs!! decorate for christmas!'
A score came, subsequent. One, with friend, twice!
Got up 20 feet. Narrowed profile well.
The real benefit came along, nicely.

A half dozen woodworkers saw my ad!
Responded - 'taking holly down? I'm game'.
They wanted the timber, for lumber, crafts.
I didn't want to push it, ask them pay.
Removal of tree was my goal, not greed.
Two came, with chainsaw, inevitably.

For price of ball ticket, I bargained one
to join me in yard, days after dancing
He ran the chipper for me, all day long
I lopped, and lopped -- two days after, still, my
body rang with pain. I am good for my
word, though. New Years resolution fulfilled.

Craigslisted woodworkers; he and I; we
labored for hours together, contracted
on nothing but good will, neighborliness.
I am still impressed, tell this story like
others speak of fishing. Shaggy holly
leviathan, me Ahab, triumphant.

Not unlike processing a whale in one's
front yard. Ballsy. We stunk of single stroke
engines, sooty, covered in sawdust, dirt:
goggles, ear foam, gloves; rats nests, debris, chips.
The yard looked like a shocking white moonscape.
Makah have nothing over on me, now.

The whale was white, but on the inside - see.
Disappeared under chai, coffee compost.
My conquering, with co-opted crew just
foretelling of the year to come. I schemed
two years straight, willed its three stories come down.
Rented chipper, cart, only outlay made.

The stump still stands. The utility, gas,
lies below. We will burn it out, soon - scheme
some more - holly does not die easily.
It seeks to rise again, as do fungi
we enjoy view of: a sign of demise
feeding on the bright-white buried debris.

The holly felling was the first figure -
arbor choreography, last winter
is another tale, shorter to relate.
I enjoy garden-sagas, so restate.
The garden's bones have been re-set, and soon,
Hard labor's benefit be seen in bloom.

garbage 'n' karma

we somehow get all our crap into one
normal size can. usually, I need
to literally stomp it down. get in.
stand in the garbage, if bagged up, both feet.

what a great metaphor! get right in there!
so, again, last night. others got most all
of it out - my responsibility
is, still, quality control - buck stops here.

childhood training assists, I guess, on this.
like preparing for communion: inspect.
check the basement and neglected places,
get it all to the curb inside one can.

or, if it won't all fit, decisions make:
what can wait 'til next week, or delegate
to have another send off somewhere else
how much garbage can we now tolerate?

it's cheaper to dispose of by the can
if we needed a larger one we could.
somehow, we're managing, despite the fact
our household's double, triple other's size.

how odd to be proud of a garbage can.
silly, dumb in most respects, really, seems.
owning up to one's garbage: generate
as little possible - then, compress it.

footnote on christmas tree source

While floating in the flotsam and jetsam
of craigslist, or dating, or similar,
many a strange tale may be come across.
Here's another one, for your perusal.

I am now acquainted, poorly, with one
MD-PhD. degree collector.
I am not impressed. No reason to be.
Though he does try, to do so, in his way.

He had responded to my post, titled
'this old house, episode one', he was charmed.
His brief note poorly edited - NB:
from now, avoid all types of 'word salad'.

His first line cannot be true: his claim was
'emotionally available'. huh.
doesn't describe subsequent behavior.
NB: actions speak louder, look at them.

We wrote a little. We were to attend
the potluck show reunion. I purchased
tickets, but, then, no show. No time to let
anyone redeem abandoned billet.

I found Harvey at the show. Draping arm
along my chair, he asked me how I was -
I replied 'stood up for date - how are you?'
Consoling friend. Lovely show, anyway.

Voice mail, heard later, made no reference
to his regret. Only offered he'd call
my other phone. No message. He has four
cell phones. impossible. next, is my fault.

NB: under this rubric, give up, now.
Conciliatory note is stupid.
Everything else I did, I guess only
can be for more story material.

We were to meet the next weekend, North Bend.
He was to help me get a christmas tree.
Sounds like fun date! My idea: not his.
NB: it was his move, not yours. watch out.

Not surprisingly, day-of, wants to change.
Offers to bring me a tree, instead. well.
I'm still learning about this character.
I decide to let it play out. Too far.

He must re-re-schedule delivery.
This is a set up for imminent doom.
That is what we got. It was so comic.
Toxicologist tree-deliverer.

After rush hour, here at the door is
a disheveled cowboy, rude to my hands,
demonstrates real lack of any horse sense
disperses stocks of graciousness, all coralled.

Maverick needs shave; rumpled shirt, stained slacks.
Toxicologist look: underslept, -kept.
He can't just set tree down, philistine.
Asks for money in front of both roommates.

At once, I summons full spinal column.
Shall I give him bills, show him door? Or, be
the person I prefer to be: let this
play out, have no fear that it will linger?

I serve him enchiladas made for the
previous night, when tree last expected.
Consumes in three minutes, flat. Then, showing
all the gall I can bear in my kitchen --

He actually asks to chew. This, after
an early note spoke of a "friend's" advice
on chewing tobacco, part of my post
What a piece of work. Amazing. Great Scot.

He had written that my house sounded like
the new Bob Newhart Show. Perhaps so. And,
perhaps, he's a walk-on character. We
do not have any further want of him.

He's from Moab, Utah. His drawl is, too?
Knew Edward Abbey, quakers, contradance.
What do we have in common, say again?
Forty-six, I understand. Such a mess.

Fare thee well: thanks for good will, lessons, tree.
Conflicted gauche gaucho, such memory
deserves to be recorded, and so is.
E would call you 'lumberjack' to your face.

about that tree...

It was another lovely evening of vignettes at This Old House, and for my loyal fans gained in another venue, I thought I'd write a wee Christmas offering from the artist's colony we call home. But, Rachel's picture of the tree prompts me to offer this, here.

We meant to get a Christmas tree installed much sooner than we did. We also meant to get it from good 'ol Freddy, while racking up enough purchases to get a free Thanksgiving turkey. But, Thanksgiving was a little early this year, and other purchases were more expeditious.

A most odd, and actually annoying, experience ensued that nevertheless resulted in getting a tree, delivered. It was delayed by a week, involved Serious Improvements to the tree stand (?!?!?), creating still yet another project for E the Longsuffering, but here we are, big honkin' tree in front parlor, once again. Ole! Hopefully the venerable lampshade on the valuable lamp will get a replacement shortly. If a tree falls in your parlor, and no one's around to hear the sound, well, it still might take out your stiffel...

So, the tree's been milling around for a week, got a strand of lights on it a night or so ago, and a star on the top. Lame. C'mon, people! Where's the 'ol xmas spirit, eh?

Well, here it comes. I got actor-roommate to commit last night to helping. While heading off for a holiday party, our young darling Amelia Earhart figure and male consort said they'd do a wee bit of trimming. Good. I came home, holly in hand, put on some xmas tunes, placed the ladder, and started stringing lights.

And stringing lights.

And stringing lights.

It still looks kinda' bare, in spots, but that's SEVEN strands, already. huh! Glad they're leds...

E the Longsuffering arose from the depths, and was amused that we'd discovered one new ornament was a second star tree-topper. E was less amused, when he went to look, that ALL the night-light (aka nite lite) light bulbs on the Infamous Staircase Storage Area were burnt out. GAA!! It's our running gag. You look there for something, and if it's not disappeared, it otherwise Not Quite Right. So, there was like FIVE burnt out bulbs. How annoying!!! Well, it was his turn. Inside of this month I've gone for a flashlight to find all five AWOL, or told someone the match jar was there, and it wasn't (why can't you just take the last book of matches, and leave the jar? why take the whole blooming jar?!?)

Anyway, the stars, in his estimation, on his first assessment "looked like they were going to take five paces". When he said this, I immediately collapsed into my chair, peeling with guffaws and snorts. Glad he fixed it. As Designated Curmudgeon, he was a little off-put by having two lighted stars... but I like it. It's symbolic. We all follow our own lights around here... and what's it to 'ya, anyway? Due to how the tree was 'shaped' at the Daisy Hill Xmas Tree Farm or where-'ere it came, it had TWO appropriate points to affix something too. A bit to far apart for most angel-skirts...

So, the roommates made short work of the tree. It took about 1.5 plays of the xmas album to get the tree to its current festive level. And then good 'ol A decided as a gesture to re-install the surround sound system. What a guy. And E decided to put up some more greenery. I even got the wreaths up, finally, finally. whoo! What a little florists' tape can do. Another roommate, flying out at an regrettable hour, took breaks from packing to cheer us on, offer beer to those so interested. Didn't hurt the festive spirit.

During all this the Curmudgeon Emeritus (we have one of those) was having some fits with his hearing aids, which, on his random entries and exits into the cheery scene made it all a little dada-esque. Most interestingly, after shunning the room for upteen months, he did, indeed, make an entrance to view the house tree, and enjoy the twin stars, and symbolism. I still need to work on accepting the unmatched plaid.

And then A turned off the switch, and all the leds promptly turned off. And the tree stayed upright.

o christmas tree
o christmas tree
your astronomy is curious

o christmas tree
o christmas tree
your light-show not del-e-terious

your household is a busy one,
but once at hand, attend you some

o christmas tree
o christmas tree
stay upright, please, we're ser-i-ous

minutes from ad hoc committee meeting

even my roommates think we should be a tv show. i agree. minutes from the kitchen popcorn 'n' late nite committee meetings are a good way to get to know us. here's what late night at the self-styled artist's colony looks like:

we convened slightly after 10p. I apologized to my elderly dad, while taking the roast out of the oven. Nothing burnt, but I MEANT to be home an hour prior. Got caught up on the phone w/ girlfriend while getting home, comparing dramas while topping off the garbage to go out tomorrow (the garbage cans are their own feature of this drama...)

E the architect/sculptor came into kitchen, I offered him some roast. He took a plate, wandered out again. Three more roommate entered shortly after: the dancer and the pianist to raid the fridge, have some late supper, the actor to be social. We start going at it. Fun. Soon E returns, L the 2d artist joins us. E and L and I are the recently-formed Chair Committee, and E and L began to work on committee issues.

L, senior in age to me, and desirous of comfortable seating, maintains that the kitchen chairs suck. Well, they do. But, they were free, and her willingness to fund replacements and find something more aesthetically and ergonomically pleasing is the only reason I'm willing to consider others. E's a true design geek, so he belongs on the committee: frees me RIGHT up on some selection issues. yay.

Meanwhile, house staffing issues are at the fore. We're choosing between a couple people to work with my dad. Hilarious perjorative monikers were coined, the virtues and vices (namely, chewing tobacco...) of the two individuals were back 'n' forthed on. It was heartening. Dad got into and out of the bathroom to brush his teeth, was rolled back into the kitchen (in his executive office chair... and mis-matched pjs...) and we let 'em know the house has been discussing this pressing concern. He had his own clear opinions - good. i think we can live with our options, here, all of us. a big relief to me, after an ardous couple months. After this last guy, chewing tobacco (and SWALLOWING!) while being interviewed.... i am so over the whole interview process, at all, at all. This is wonderfully colorful, and I clearly have enough material for a book, but I really don't need to collect any more.

Ask me about the Bhutanese caregiver with the same name as the olympic archer. whoo.

Dad's falling asleep to the classical station again, one of us has gone off to bed, the rest of us have finished the popcorn, opined that the current caregiver has thrown away our Netflix list and we need to write another roommate email and ask what happened to our big tv. He works on TVs, he probably gave it away to someone. Gotta find out.

but, we're well entertained, regardless.

Christmas Redux

boy, it's fine when christmas comes twice a year.
not very far apart, not much hoopla'd
requires Russian champagne, chocolates, candles
we wouldn't have it any other way.

Oleg entered, we found each other, lit
candles, assembled, cork popped, more cheer, jokes
the Chekhov-level cinema briefed on
(russians have bigger souls, you know that, right?)

Now another roommate, no bubbly left
Now still another, he'll come 'talk', even
without the slav-requisit alcohol
depth to sound on this holiday, observed.

do they watch movies on christmas back home?
we didn't ask host. we ate our borscht.
we drank his wine, had bon bons foisted on.
we're looking forward to the New Year, now.

An Honor and a Delight

I would like to offer a toast to this house, to the wonder that abounds within its three purple and one white wall. Being the youngest (and definetly least worldly) of this group is quite an honor in that I am reminded gently that I still have so much to see; the banter, though frequently over my head, is neither pretentious nor exclusive. Living (or should I say storing my stuff) with a group of artists and getting to enjoy personalities you don't find in freshwater ecology is, well, really damn refreshing. There aren't many octogenarians in roller chairs out on the river. So, a toast from the parlor (or maybe not the parlor...). To toast, bicycles, and freezer space.
-RLF

in black and white

open invite

We want to keep the vibe here, of this house -
The whole damn town came through, in Sandy's reign!
If you've attended parties here, or dined -
We'd like to hear from you, it's all the same.

The tow-truck driver who deposited
me home again, he'd been here entertained.
The looks of recognition and delight
Make one like task of opening front door.

We take all comers, story time! Let's go!
Possums, racoons, mayoral visits, all.
We'll swap our tales of neighborhood alike
We seek anecdotes, fellow raconteurs.

Let's get things down and send 'em 'round to share
We'll love to learn of what's occured, right here

rainbarrels

They fill up quick; then, not long stay empty.
My household can't, will not attune itself
to them. Too anachronistic, and work -
work not understood, appreciated.

Sandy would chide, goad me about them, when
she still held reign, here. Now, it's all on me.
I get to harass, educate, exhort,
and find uses for Seattle's finest.

Two barrels are near the laundry. One was
directly piped to tub, via hose, through
former window pane. another, out door.
My roommates think I'm nuts. Of course, quite true.

They don't have the history of hauling
water that I do. They've not visualized
all the water a laundry load goes through.
Nor most toilet tanks. They think I'm silly.

Yes, and know savvy exercise on sight.
Full body workout, circuit training, free!
Who needs a gym? I've got a street to sweep.
The city doesn't do, obviously.

So, if not a laundry-step class, then its
Dutch pre-parade, with some encouragement
from surprised passersby, pedestrians.
Anyway, the water does some work, here.

I am still surprised how few house fellows
know how to operate a push broom. weird.
They seem to get it, and get the point, when
the debris ceases wandering in, afoot.

Someday, we'll gang the barrels three abreast.
We'll horde the water, better, for summer.
Until then, or a cistern, I'm still found
dealing with the dams of Eridanus (*).

Best enjoy it then. And so, I do, if
solitarily, in the greater part.
The goldfish are bemused to see their tanks
Rise and fall with every passing shower.


* one of the rivers of Hades.

What I do?

a lot of people ask this question. while gearing up for the next thing, I'm obviously taking a bit of poetic stock. here's something to explain the fine art of casting

These last three years, have been a practicum
on the interview, for me. House members,
caregivers, partners, or at least those who
might make a second pass, or third, or more:
it's a much lengthier recruitment, that.

From choosing roommates, I have learnt, mostly,
to just hold up a mirror. Fine. Done. Good.
No single mothers, especially not those
who prove borderline, soon after locating.
Hardest roommates to have: older women.

Watch auto owners, pet owners, and pot.
See how well they notice detail. Will they
get a glass of milk for dad? Won't make cut.
Have much stuff? Smoke? Tell me about cooking.
How do you feel about storm windows? heat?

A lot of applicants drop off. That's fine.
I've made enough mistakes, now, but own them.
I'm breaking a couple, even now: age.
A room of two under thirty: they're cool.
The room meant kept vacant for house-guests: well...

Caregivers are a different story.
With roommates, truth is told - less artifice.
Everyone wants to live comfortably.
Those seeking work seem more disposed to lie.
I think I've seen nearly everything, now.

Brilliant references, chews in front of me.
TWO - imagine. Garden variety
potheads: we've had three. I think I ferret
them out at interview, at least nearly.
I've surely learnt a lot less tolerance.

Those that don't know their schedule, need to
get back to me, won't. Language problems
will not get better. Disabilities:
what's someone who's twenty, with back problems
doing here? We've got a fall risk at hand.

The fainting violets are soon chewed up
and spat out by this hard to love parent
the inattentive, too: if I'm not heard
and dad isn't, during interview, well,
how can person work with us anyway?

Later on we learn about competence.
This is the same as dating. Defensive
speech, behavior, get both parties nowhere
Tardiness, absences; excuses please
only those that make them, usually.

In this way caregivers, dates intersect.
The last sort of interview, however,
involves the most art, but yields the greatest
levels of artifice of all of them.
Very difficult, indeed. Frustrating.

Much like how I play bridge, sad to say. I
don't know the conventions, to offer them.
Or, the ones I know, he across from me
does not. Not enough chance to learn the game.
Doesn't keep us away, despite our faults.

Reading people, like tea leaves. Gut counts lots.
Learning to trust the gut-response hurts head.
Both gut AND head double-minded, opposed.
Deliberations, time, not well disposed.
The man across the table departs.

So, the floods of people coming through here
to see a room, or me and dad, they serve
to further hone the skills taken on to
Dining rooms and cafes, concerts, and such.
Practicing makes perfect? One part of it.

The house is more settled, now than before.
The caregivers seem stable for us, too.
Addressing my own life again seems apt.
Moving past initial date overdue.
(I've less control on this last, however.)

313 sings!

a little parody of a perfectly good Baptist hymn, you would recognize as Great Is Thy Faithfulness

Great is thy grumpiness
oh, God - my father -
there is no shame to your turning on me
all you have needed, I've worked at providing
great is thy grumpiness
Lord! unto me

Great is thy grumpiness
Great is thy grumpiness
morning by morning new complaints. I see.
all I once needed, thy hands once provided
Great is thy grumpiness
Lord! unto me

Summer and winter and springtime and harvest
you seek recourses most discomfiting
I and whole household in manifold witness
offer great bearing-with, mercy, and love.

Great is thy grumpiness
Great is thy grumpiness
donut by donut, more crotchet-y-y.
all we have pleaded, they scoff hath retorted
Great is thy grumpiness
so hard to see

Pardon for sins, soon comes peace that endureth
summonsing mem'ry to cheer and to guide
Strength for today and some hope for tomorrow
Blessings will come if we just can abide

Great is thy grumpiness
Great is thy grumpiness
even a wendy's can't placate, we see
all the newspapers from here to perdition...
Great is thy grumpiness
oh Lord, unto we


well. wasn't THAT therapeutic? and a little insight into just WHAT I was doing in all those hours and hours of parochial school and sunday school and what-not.

character sketch: curmudgeon emeritus

or, The Danish Crisis

My father has become a character,
a caricature, a cause of mirth, plus
consternation. His diet, if you would
call it that, is horrid. His attitude,
even worse. Breakfast takes a champion,
a real saint figure, to finesse. I am
retired from this. Everyone else, gets hell.

Dad loves donuts, and a lot of pastry.
Dad eats donuts, pastry, exclusively,
or close enough, for all of us. I try
to not comment, forbear, ignore, what not.
This is real work, and grueling, and my job.
Dying is arduous on all parties, and
common wisdom says to eat dessert first.

He must have heard this, and to heart taken.
If only this was all, would be easy.
He has even more preferences, still.
Not just a danish. A cherry one: no
apple, no cheese, God no raspberry, not
anything with seeds. Just you try, dare try,
in town to buy ONLY cherry ones, now.

You can't! impossible! In Soviet
sense of word! Danishes are sold boxed up,
three types, two per, six bucks. unworkable.
Such a lose. The household is swamped with stale,
inedible and awful, rejected
carbohydrate. Imperiousness is
unworkable: commerce vs curmudgeon.

So, all get briefed. Danish Situation,
like rookie diplomatic corps. Temper
erupts, and long memory is invoked
on any that come between elder and
coffee-time preference. I can't keep up.
I have resigned. The kitchen table is
stacked with half filled plastic clam shells, hopeless.

Maybe someday, I'll miss this. Meanwhile, at
least I have witnesses, galore. When we
memorialize him, we will have much
to say. And much of it will amuse us.
And we will most likely not eat danish,
And we will most likely miss him, despite,
And we will drink our coffee black, not sweet.

this morning's episode: toasted

Dad didn't watch _Ran_ with us
but has taken up reenactment.
We awoke to loud thumps on first floor
First responders opened doors

Billows of smoke rose upstairs
I cannot explain house drafts right now
Just keep closing doors opened, open
doors ignored, un-stormed windows

Dad will tell of smoke. truth is
another matter. comedy, errs.
Our oven is not a space heater.
Our kitchen is not bedroom.

Agreed, we dislike white bread.
Agreed, passive drying techniques are
unworkable, in haze of morning.
Incongruities abound.

Dad as Lear: wide eyed, awake.
Disillusioned, irresponsible.
Walking through thick smoke? I doubt it now.
Aghast, remorseful? Pick one.

Waking to thick smoke, indeed.
It's not dry ice, no movie set here.
Serves for character analysis,
And for ensemble work, too.

a prelude

god bless all brave enough to live with me
courage is a requirement: big, big hearts
big enough to forgive, forbear, not see
or see and love, regardless, more and more

few seek to live with others they don't know
few seek to live with many more than one
few healthy deign to live like this for long
few odd enough to want to carry on

we're not a family. just two by blood,
two others by their vows are so attached,
two more attend the elder and their room
is something of compensation package

we choose to love the accidental home
inhabited by those we've never known

Island Of Lost Toys

In a Purple House behind a pumpkin patch in Seattle's Center District, there live 10 people whose diverse backgrounds and character have made many wonder. Experiences which range from crash-landed WWII Submarines in a Burmese Mangrove forest, to Communist Russia. From Broadway, to the Civil Rights movement in the 1960's. From jailtime, to ragtime. From Quaker Meetings, to the Janewayean Captainship of Vessels of Ocean Law.
Stepping into 313, is as into a secret hiding place kept private by all the creative ones. Such things must have a megaphone into the blinking night...