quinanne

i've started writing nano fiction on twitter...it seemed to be one function twitter was good for.

a short story in 140 characters... good fun!


the batch from this week:

1. the cat's meows are broken by angry hisses. her family was much the same; bellows for her attention cut with smiles. she hated both equally.

2. she stood frozen,eyes locked with the handsome man across the alley while she processed two facts;her curtains were open, and she was naked

3. mom's breath rattled like empty boxcars moving through the train yard at night. a few moments holding the pillow on her face-peace at last.

4. she sat-quiet,resigned, head bowed. he stood above her-shouting, aggressive, hand raised. he didn't know marriage would be this way; she did.

5. nothing made her happier at the end of the day than washing down her oxy-contin with a nice glass of wine, right before she nursed her baby.

6. he grew as he grew; three full meals a day, that he supplemented with copious snacks.he preferred obesity to the gnawing pain of loneliness.

7. there were times in her life when she felt she had the world on a string. times she felt it exploded in her face. today was one of them

8. ed hated working in frozen foods. if it wasn’t kids stealing ice cream, it was menopausal women standing in front of open freezer doors.

ages since i've blogged anywhere, aeons since i posted here.

working 70+ hours a week is a killer... working for no pay is stupid.  i'm doing both.  when i started, ruby was able to get herself up from her chair, use her walker... help me help her.  now, her legs are gone, she's in a wheelchair, and she falls when she insists on trying to get up.  i have to then dead lift her 190 lb body off the floor... and when i did it on thursday, i heard a pop.

now, the knee, the knee that had five procedures performed on it, hurts like mad.

this, too, shall pass.


hope all of those who take a look on occasion are well... we've internet at the house, so, i hope to catch up.


oh, the up side... the daughter is cheerfully preggers with a boy, due 17 january.  he's huge, and fills her tiny frame...she swears she won't use drugs, i think to myself, "yeah, right."

Margaret Mary Doyle set Saturday aside for shopping when she moved to a Chassidic neighborhood off the Jamaica line in 1970. This meant the shops were fairly empty and she could wander at her leisure, humming along with the Muzak, looking over the meat in the butcher’s section, finding relaxation in the beigeness of the chore. A change in her job schedule found her going on Sundays, when it was crowded with the women of her neighborhood; Brooklyn made wigs in place, lists at the ready, children in tow-- each one wanting the biggest chicken, the nicest kinsh, the freshest vegetables.

Eventually, they would congregate in the produce section, squeezing fruit and looking over vegetables with a small frown of concentration between their eyebrows... daughters learning the subtle trick to finding good ears of corn, sons standing patiently with yarmulkes bobby-pinned to cropped hair, pasez tucked behind their ears. It was there, the second summer she lived in the area, that someone finally answered the murmured hello she had offered many times. Weeks became months, and they saw each other enough to share a smile and a nod when their eyes met... accepting that the produce department and discussions of food would always be the extent of their friendship of sorts. The boys would watch Maggie from under their lashes, not wishing to speak to a stranger, much less a gentile stranger...wondering why their mother did. Maggie never failed to smile at them, comment on their growth--and they never failed to ignore her existence.

Over the next year or so, she watched the boys grow taller... knew when the elder made his Bar Mitzvah by his sudden absence. She congratulated her acquaintance on the upcoming birth of a child, bringing a small gift the week after she’d seen them back in the market. Passing the gift from one set of hands to the other caused them to touch--this action brought on the odd forced laugh one does in uncomfortable social settings.

Time passed, seasons brought squash and vine tomatoes and finally, the glory of summer melons. It was in late August when Maggie dashed in, late for a bar-b-que she was attending, focused on her list of items to buy, whispering under her breath and mentally ticking each thing off as it went into the basket. Unconsciously, she sorted meat from dairy, never allowing them near each other.

Cheese. Buns. Hamburger. All that remained was lettuce, two tomatoes and the cantaloupe she would cut up there, letting it chill while they all ate...knowing the fruit dripping with it’s juice, would cool throats rough from too many cigarettes and wine.

Looking the fruit over, she heard the voice she knew coming up behind her, speaking to the baby. The two women had never exchanged names, however, the children were known to her from their mother saying them as she sent them to get a bag of potatoes or some apples. Asher. Samuel, who was now a man. Yakob. Baby Rebekah, sitting strapped in the front of the cart, content to suck on her fingers, not caring who you were; if you smiled at her, she responded with her whole body wiggling. Maggie felt a twinge of irritation...she didn’t have any time to converse, not even for their brief conversations. The manners drummed into her head by Sister Mary Paul put a smile in place, the words of Hello, how are you? already leaving her mouth... a question put forth that she silently prayed to God wouldn’t be answered.

Discussing the price of cantaloupe, comparing it to larger, messier watermelon...never stopping in their testing, searching. Each had a different technique; Maggie sniffed the end, trying to scent the distinct flavour of the fruit. The other had the shaking method...holding them close to her ear, listening to hear if the seeds were at the point of coming loose from the flesh--a sign of perfect ripeness. As they stood and sniffed/shook and debated if this week or next would bring forth the best of the season, an older woman walked over, the younger boys holding her hands, all of them speaking rapidly in Yiddish.

Turning from greeting the three back to Maggie, she said, “This is my Mama. She is visiting us.”

Turning back, another set of hands joined the testing to find a cantaloupe that surpassed the usual standards. Like daughter, like mother, she, too, shook each round bit of fruit...moving from one to another, her wrist near her ear, listening for the ripe sound. All three concentrated on the task of finding that fruit; it bound them in the way only women are bound, the ancient voice hidden in DNA reminding them they were once the gatherers in tribes. It was then, as the older woman held up the yellow globe she had chosen, shaking it next to her ear, the long sleeves worn even in this weather slid back --Maggie saw it.

There. On the inside of the arm. Right. There.

Maggie stared. All else became unimportant. Those black-blue numbers held her eyes, her focus...stopped her breath. She wasn’t sure if it was the pale skin or the black knowledge of how it came to be there that caused them to suddenly stand out even more. With it, she’d been listed, tracked, made a thing. Maggie stared, knowing it was her memory for life.

A 24762.

She heard something, focused on it, realised it was the older woman speaking to her.

“.....Auschwitz, in August, 1943. I was 10. My Lilach stared that same way, the first time she understood this.”

Lilach took her mother’s arm, turned it so the tattoo was facing up, kissing it.

Putting the melon down, Maggie turned, leaving her cart, leaving the group that suddenly seemed closed to her. Swinging her purse over her shoulder, she moved towards the doors, towards air. Towards something she could comprehend.

She reached the bus, her seat, her stop....it was habit, and required no thought. In her apartment, sitting on the sofa, purse still in one hand, house keys in the other, she sat, trying to find some memory that didn’t have a dark place. She thought of the Leon Uris books she’d read, Mila 18, QB VII,...the works of Chaim Potok, books read since her move in some odd attempt to ‘understand’ her neighbors-- the books discussed the events, none had given her the skills to process what she’d seen.

The tattoo changed the words of fiction into reality. That string of numbers, created to de-humanize, to annihilate--numbers given to create what was held to be a perfect world. It had been a world envisioned by those who took part either actively or passively... both groups were equally responsible.

The loss of six million was there, in that number. The loss of homes, security, freedom...of generations that would never be born. All of that and more was contained in the cheap ink, the badly drawn characters.

A 24762.

Margaret Mary Doyle sat on her sofa, letting all of this settle into her brain that was still skittering over those details she’d never grasp, and knew something in her had changed.

With that knowledge came a great fear she’d do nothing about it, nothing to step up and voice her anger over genocides that still went on in the world. Standing, she let that fear find a hiding place in her soul, accepting it would stay hidden, accepting she’d live her life as it had always been...turning her head, remaining passive.

Unfolding the newspaper, she started to circle apartments in Manhattan.



----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

First they came for the communists, and I did not speak out--
because I was not a communist;
Then they came for the socialists, and I did not speak out--
because I was not a socialist;
Then they came for the trade unionists, and I did not speak out--
because I was not a trade unionist;
Then they came for the Jews, and I did not speak out--
because I was not a Jew;
Then they came for me--
and there was no one left to speak out for me.


----Pastor Martin Niemöller (1892-1984) about the inactivity of German intellectuals following the Nazi rise to power and the purging of their chosen targets, group after group.

weeks had dashed/crawled by.

beth lay on her bed, in that dark where you find either boogeymen or the answers to your unvoiced questions, with her hands resting on the belly that was finally showing what lay beneath. she slowed her breathing, listening for--something. beneath her hands, the baby stirred, no longer rocked internally by her daily activities. slow somersaults shifted him/her from one side to the other... something--a hand or foot or head or ass--something pushing upwards, then settling back into the depths of her body with the same languid movement she/he used when it started the action. there, in the dark, in the pool of her breathing and the clock ticking, she could swear she heard it's contented sigh slip through her pores.

trite but true.... she never thought she’d be in this position. it hadn’t been her first time making love, nor her first lover. what gave her a head-shaking chuckle of irony as she lay in her room (because she did grasp irony to her parent’s surprise), was that it was the first time she’d used any form of birth control...the first time she insisted a guy use a condom.

and it broke.

the result of that breakage dwell in his/her little sac of fluid, trying to get comfortable in her/his smaller and smaller quarters. alice/alec ate the cake, and was getting too big for the room. a foot kicked, she poked back... tit for tat.

her parents. her friends. her teachers. her doctor. they all knew. she listened to advice and lectures and laughter from each of them in different doses, different voices. the pile of adoption/abortion pamphlets had grown in her closet, each giving their version of what should be done, how to deal with this matter. they all begged her to choose them; offering early term, late term, parents who will love this child. they all gave a way out of wonderland--this was a situation for adults, not 15 year old girls who liked to fuck, so, deal with it one way or another.

she’d no idea what to do, which way to go...finally, she picked the two best looking brochures, one from column a, one from column b and left a message on both machines... waiting to see who called back first. abortion. adoption. adoption. abortion. it was her version of ‘the morning after pill’, far too many mornings after. both options had pros, cons... neither repelled nor attracted her. for her, it would be first come--wins.

she slept. the child slept, too... both of them curled on themselves. dreams fluttered--she saw herself holding a little penguin or a cat or something with all the parts in the wrong place, wondering how she’d change it’s diaper. the child had dreams of it’s own-- of all that the universe had told it--knowledge that would be erased with the first breath of life. no one guessed the reason babies cried at birth was not the shock of air on their faces, but, in sorrow over the loss of the answer to everything.

wrapped in silence, warmth, odd dreams, they heard the phone ring...

“hello?”

their collective future was decided.

it's difficult.

i sit, all day, between 9-6, listening to her breathe, to her muttered comments as she finds some odd dreamscape to dwell in, to the movements of the nurses tending to bags and tubes and medicines.

i knit. i read. i have my coffee. and i listen.

she's a bit better now, sitting up for longer periods, unhooked from a number of the bags, finally able to eat again. she's still attached to a machine to feed her drugs to numb the pain, although even that's being weened away.

there is something missing, though. this fighter i'd always known is gone. she's old and weak and scared. she sees her mother coming to take her, and cries. she lives inside the television shows she's watching, and is querrelous. she's not my mother, she's some stranger in my mother's wrinkled skin.

it's difficult dealing and caring for one you respected and loved... it's another game altogether to do the same for someone you are not close to, not attached to, not wishing to have to be in this spot.

i put a cool cloth on her head, hold the drink, answer her silly questions. i leave, hurry home to the cats, then over to ruby's to spend the night, listening with half an ear for her to get up and wander around, possibly setting off the alarms...again.

i'm scheduled to go to new york for two weeks, to help a friend there... i leave on the 2nd. neither of them are happy with my decision, however, i have to go, or i shall sink into a deep well of sadness.

it's difficult. a difficult task, a difficult schedule, a difficult time.

it'll pass. it always does.

jesus.

has it been this long?

so much has happened, and at the same time, so very, very little.

shortly after my last post, i found myself over at my mother's home.. well, her temporary home.  she was living with a long time friend who is 86, had lost her husband, and needed some help to get around.

mother asked me to come over and see ruby... who had asked for me.  there i was, back in the presence of my teen years (ruby was a huge mentor in many of my hobbies) and my mother; who did what she could to stop me from being me.

a few days after that, i was awakened in the middle of the night by a phone call--mother was ill, and needed to go to the hospital.

long to short, i ended up at ruby's caring for her (very bright, but, infirm)... and dashing to the hospital to deal with my mother.  right now, mother is out of hospital, and i go every day from 8.30 until 5.30 to cook and care for the two of them. it will be darker before my dawn, as mother has to have a kidney out next week.. and i'll be there 24/7 for a bit.

i'm not sure why i'm doing this..  it takes all i have in every way to deal with my mother...

the plus side? i'm cooking again.  i'd forgotten how very good i am in this field...  i create and play and cook and someone else pays for the food i fix.  i cook very european, by buying one or two days food at a time, and preparing it.  i seldom make too much, causing leftovers.

the rest? well, i have no energy by the end of the day, and that includes creative energy.  i've stopped all writing, for the most part (including blogs)... i missed out on a chance to enter a competition because i simply couldn't find the heart to write.

this, too, will pass. all of it--dealing with two old ladies, driving across town, not writing, leaving sophie to play alone.

i will not miss any of that stuff... and, i know i won't miss the constant drone of cnn/fox (depending on the bedroom you are in) going on all the time.

ack.

the weekend.  well, the weekend that was sunday.

a great occasion--the celebration of zori's second birthday.  i keep that forefront in my mind.... the rest? gargh.

the ex, his girlfriend (there's class! bring your girlfriend to a family event that has BOTH of your ex wives there--how difficult for her), his mother, his brother, a niece, a nephew... the first wife, her boyfriend, her daughter from the second marriage (he died--meh), zori's dad and his family, who dropped the 'n' word all day, and smoked around my pregnant daughter and all of the little ones there.

and me.

one table held the maternal family, one the paternal family, one held the partner's family... and one held me and my eldest son who circulated.

bless him.

one table had a cloud of smoke, two had clouds of irritation, and one held a lot of laughter.

i was glad to be at the last one.

as for zo-zo, she ran and played and kissed everyone and smeared cake all over her face and laughed some more, so, all in all, it was a successful gathering.

thank god i don't have to do it again for a year.

i have to go to a party tomorrow for little zori... in attendence will be  my ex husband, his first wife, my ex mother in law, the eldest daughter's partner and his family (who look forward to the day when they can advance up the social ladder to trailer trash) and my mother.  


i anticipate a huge migraine.

we are settled.

not unpacked, but, settled all the same.  the trip was fairly uneventful... sophie managed to chew her way out of her cardboard carrier in around 5 minutes... then, she tried to free kitty.  i ended up letting them both have the run of the truck cab, which elicited strange looks from people who passed me, and saw sophie sitting on the window edge on the passenger's side, surveying the passing scenery.  both of them managed quite well, holding in all body functions for 11 hours, then dashing for the litter box at miss h's house when we arrived. 

it was not a bad trip, looking back on it... sure, it was 11 hours of driving a 17' truck packed to the gills, but, it was smooth driving, i kept to a steady pace and my itouch held a charge all the way, allowing me to have good music to ease the drive.

the apartment is very sweet...  i won't be able to have a dining table, since my writing desk goes in that area.  there is a nice eating ledge thingy between the kitchen and living area, so, that works.  i made the decision to unpack my good china and crystal and silver... and use that to eat with.  why not use it is my thought.... silly to keep it packed away.  i have it because i like to use it, so, use it i will.

still unpacking the 4762 boxes... the ones that are neatly numbered, and the numbers are listed in a notebook with the contents next to them, thus allowing me to know what is where.  sadly, i packed the notebook, so, i'm surronded by 4762 opened boxes, and i dig through one at a time, looking.  it's like christmas with a twist.

i'm close enough to coors field to see/hear the fireworks tonight.  once i figure out where the hell i am, i imagine i'll walk to the light rail and take it to the center of denver.  deborahsof and i are going to see 'osage;august county' in august... there is theater all over denver, which is a good thing for me.

on the 7th, i have my first production meeting with the film crew i'll work with at the end of the month.. i look forward to that. 

i discovered the whole foods that is the size of walmart... two hours and $130 i left the location dazed and content.

and then, there is zori.  miss h's little girl, my first grandchild whom i've not seen since she was 5 months old.  she has her mom's bigass grin, beautiful cornflower blue eyes, and a head full of blond ringlets.  she told everyone, "my nonnie coming!"  "mom, where nonnie?" and when she woke up to see me there on thursday, she said, "who you?".  she's well aware who i am now, and comes easily into my arms.

hrh and her family arrived this morning at 7am after driving all night... i wasn't happy about that.  but, they are safe and fully moved and her new house is much like her; warm and welcoming.  it is sad for me that she's 30 minutes instead of 3 minutes away, but, we are all adjusting.  my location puts me in the middle for all of the kids... i just don't have room for all of them at once. 

it's late, i'm done for today, and i still have to get laundry folded.  all in all, i'm happy with the move.  i'm pleased to be back in denver after years away, and look forward to seeing good friends tomorrow.

life remains good.

i am stil in utah.

still.

chait (the daughter and soninlaw) should arrive tomorrow night.. we have three days to pack the rest of their things, and then unload my storage to a truck and head out.

i'm still not sure of where i'm living, as the amazing art deco was rented from under me (blargh!) and the loft hasn't finished my paperwork.  oddly enough, i found a wonderful place that will be ready to be rented next april... i've already worked with the landlord on that, and it's just down the street from the loft in lodo.


mostly, i read and watch films and eat frozen milky way bars.  the last occupation isn't such a great idea.

sophie has settled in here.. i often think of my friend, e.k., and her cats...   i understand the term 'little angels' now.. except when sophie has cleaned herself, and expects to clean me.  or, when she plants her six pounds on my forearms, preventing me from typing.

creative work moves forward, with ventures into short stories and the work on the play.  i've already found a indie job in denver--second string acting and being the production manager for an indie film.  so, i'll arrive, unpack, and go to work for a month.  good fun.

i still do not talk to my mother... i'm still good with that decision.

wishing those who read my little bit of my world on here good health..

His planned demise turned out to be just as chaotic as his life had been.

He’d decided to choose his own way out of this mortal coil--whatever the fuck ‘mortal coil’ meant. Although he often quoted Shakespeare, he’d never really liked the guy, finding his writing tiresome to slog through and the iambic pentameter made him feel fidgety. What also made him fidgety were people who had more than 12 items in the 12 item line, the use of the word ‘like’ over and over in a conversation, hedgehogs, birthday parties and Thanksgiving.

His life had never run smoothly; if something was going to go wrong, it usually did. A friend told him once it was as if before he was born, he decided to pay back all of the crap karma he had coming in one fell swoop. Every time he became involved with someone, it ended with the person cheating on him. He’d even tried having a relationship with a guy he’d met and found oddly attractive. It looked as if it was going to work out when he came home and found his lover had left him for a transgendered woman. His love life now consisted of a once a week masturbatory session in the shower, because it was easier to clean up after he was done. Afterward, he’d make a cup of hot chocolate and read a book until he felt sleepy.

Promotions had come and gone; never really his fault when he was passed over. He didn’t make a strong enough impact to give cause for anyone to want to move him up, so, he stayed in his cubicle, which always had enough paper on his desk to cause spontaneous combustion.

Pets ran away. Plants died. His parents moved and didn’t tell him the details. The last he’d heard was via a distant cousin he discovered on Facebook. Turns out they were in Boca, and enjoying their savings. Soon after this bit of news, the cousin blocked him from her account, and his friends dropped down to three, including the advertising company that promoted hair growth.

He'd put things down, and couldn’t find them again. He tried to move to new apartments, hip lofts, only to discover they’d set aside his deposit, and rented to someone else. His weight went up thanks to his habit of eating ice cream at midnight out of the carton while standing in front of the freezer. His car died. So did his neighbor, who wasn’t discovered until a slightly disgusting odor drifted into the hallway.

It was this event that got him to thinking about his own death. How would it be handled by others. Who, if anyone, would come to his funeral. What would happen?

Thus, he decided to take matters into his own inept hands. He had a vision of what should happen, and he moved forward with a purpose to make sure everything would be in place. He started to make lists, losing some along the way, discarding others as too vague. He worked and thought and wrote notes, wanting some kind of peace of mind on his way to ending it all. This way, too, he'd avoid Thanksgiving for once, a fact that made him oddly content.

First, he called around, then went to pay for, a cremation. Not being sure of how many would attend, he felt he could hope for at least one person to carry the urn out of the chapel. Next, he taped the music he wanted played, since it seemed silly to pay for a musician for what could be a small number of mourners. He chose the flowers and pre-paid a caterer to bring both the flowers and the food over to the small banquet room he rented at the Best Western near the airport. Cleaning out his savings was a small price to pay for knowing he’d be taken care of, that a decent funeral would be in place, that he could die knowing for once, he’d controlled the event, the event hadn’t controlled him. For once, things looked as if they would be neat and tidy and it brought him pride in his planning of his death.

The Sunday morning of the Big Event, he rose, showered, dressed and had his favourite breakfast of Capt’n Crunch and a bacon sandwich. Two cups of coffee later, he stood up to start this last day on earth... his elbow catching the bowl with the yellowish milk in the bottom, knocking it to the floor. It took him a good 10 minutes to clean up the mess, rinse out the dishrag, and make sure the floor wasn’t sticky. He wanted to finally make a good impression.

Going into the small bedroom, which had been advertised as ‘quaint’ (a nice way of saying a bed will fit, and that is it), he started to put on his suit fresh from the cleaners, only to discover it had a button missing, and that they hadn’t removed the grease stain from the fly area, where he’d dropped part of his tuna salad sandwich the week before. While tying his shoes, one of the laces broke just below the eye, and it wouldn’t thread through to allow him to tie a small knot and still use the lace. Switching out the black laces for a pair of white ones from his sneakers, he moved into the bathroom to brush his teeth and comb his hair... he wanted to look as clean as possible when found.

The blue toothpaste left a small smear on his white shirt, even after he’d dabbed at it with a wet washcloth. His hair refused to obey, being too long to lie straight on his head, instead going into an unattractive wave that flopped over his forehead. He wet it down, slapped on some gel, and again combed it into place, something that only served to give his hair that creepy sex molester look you see on ‘America’s Most Wanted’---stiff with the grooves left from the comb showing.

Finally, he was ready. Exhausted, but, ready. He opened up the bottle of sleeping pills he’d managed to get from his doctor, citing insomnia, and washed them down with a half empty (in his eyes) glass of tequila. Making sure his apartment was unlocked, he taped an envelope marked “CALL THE POLICE BEFORE COMING IN” with his note to the world inside, along with the instructions on how to carry out his funeral and his small Will, which left everything to that same distant cousin; it was the least he could do to pay back the information he’d been given. As he shut the door, the draft from it’s closing caused the envelope, held up by cheap tape, to lift off the door and slide under the hallway rug, where it wasn’t found until the following Spring, too late to do any good.

He went to the sofa, and lay down upon it, waiting to go to the other side.

He drifted off, never knowing it took three days to realise he’d not been into work. Four days before anyone remarked on that same matter during a coffee break. On the Monday of the week following his Big Event, his supervisor wrote him up for not coming in, recommending he be fired. It wasn’t until the next day, a Tuesday, before they finally sent someone over, who, along with the Super, found the door open, giving them easy access. They both came in and found him, not on the sofa where he’d started and planned on being found, in his some what rumpled suit and the blue tie he really loved with his hands folded on his chest, but, in the bathroom, quite dead.

The autopsy said the pills and booze had mixed in his stomach, churning and gurgling...and it must have roused him enough to realise he had to empty his stomach. The bruises on the back of his hands were from hitting them against the doorway on his trip to the bathroom, to deal with his sickness. There, he’d sank to his knees, bent over the open toilet, and passed out into the water, thus drowning.

The landlord took possession of everything in the apartment, selling it on Craigslist, to pay for the complete fumigation of the apartment. When his parents came into town that March, finally stopping to visit on their way to see the distant cousin, they were told he had left no notes, no instructions, nothing, and his body been handed over to the city to bury. His grave was unmarked, his funeral unattended, and the pre-paid food was dutifully delivered to the Best Western, where it sat for a day, finally being thrown away by the cleaning crew. The maids took the flowers home, enjoying the beauty of the roses and lilies, never wondering who had ordered them nor why no one had shown up.

In May, when the building owners decided to renovate the common areas, the rug was picked up, and the envelope found. It was too late by then to do anything, really, so, it was crumpled up and thrown away, as forgotten as the man himself.

as soon as i had an apartment in place... not my first choice, but, a decent place... the apartment i've been drooling over came back on the market.

$800 a month for 1040 sq feet of art deco wonder.  hard wood floors, a great denver location, a courtyard, built in storage in the dining room (yes, it has a dining room), a sun room and an 11x15 master with two closets. 

sure, i'll lose covered parking...and it's $140 more a month than the first one... but, it's almost twice the size, and did i mention art deco?  and a fireplace that works?? 

i'm waiting to hear from the owners...  fingers crossed.

it's amazing the people you meet via the interwebs.

oh, i'm not talking about dating or networking, i'm talking about people you start to communicate with because of the gasping little voices that fill blogs.. my own included.

i now count as people i enjoy talking to, exchanging letters... even making plans and meeting up.... at least 10 people who started our relationship via my main blog. 

i've met another, via lj, and i enjoy our correspondence.  he's amusing, and rather talented when it comes to writing..  i enjoy our 'conversations'.

i had no idea this would occur when i started my blogging three years ago..

...i'm glad it's happened.

i have an apartment.

the flat in new york, sadly, didn't come to fruition. i do have a standing offer to stay there when i visit, which is swell...but, he wasn't quite ready to retire to the shore. so, denver it is!

i ended up with two front runners... one was on the top floor, had hardwood flooring, and a great kitchen along with a washer and dryer in the unit. the second is ground floor, overlooking the courtyard (this is an historic landmark building), carpet (ew!) and only a laundry room. the first had open parking, the second--protected parking. the first has larger windows in the bedroom... the second has 11 foot ceilings.

what decided me was two separate factors... one, the covered parking. second.. the one i chose has an extra closet.

i'll notify everyone on my list of the new address (effective 22 june) as soon as i have the call today.

i was going to get a two bedroom, however, i couldn't justify the extra $130 a month just so sophie could have her own place.

but, trust me, i thought about it.

my dad would have been 82 today.

i vacillate between a continuing sorrow over his death and a sigh of relief about the same event. i know he wasn't happy the way he was... he knew he was suffering from alzheimers, he'd not reached the point where he didn't have the realisation, he lived with it daily... railing against his continued health problems--his macular degeneration, that didn't allow him to see his beloved books or choose his music by name...having to rely on the grab and play method... the need to call myself or the kids to come fix his remote control or find his cd player or plug in a lamp. his hearing had faded and he suddenly had to use a cane, when only a few years before, he'd walked up and down the mountains of southern utah without stopping to catch his breath.

he shaved his beard, i'm not sure why... that action added to the age of his face. his eyes, that used to sparkle on a regular basis, only caught that light when we went out to eat, or, when he saw hrh... he adored her.

he was proud of jarhead, shushing my concerns about him joining the marines, telling me to suck it up, i was the daughter and the mother of a marine. the investment made him laugh...and he would say, "he'll be like you, and come into his own later in life. don't worry." he regretted his outbursts of anger set off by life, and his lack of control over that anger--control taken away by that shitty, shitty disease.

he loved me.

i loved him.

we didn't always have a good relationship, he was a harsh father. we learned to be friends, then, chose each other for family... the best of both worlds.

he was proud of the brother and thought my sister in law was gods gift to the world. she, in turn, with her laughter and kind ways, always enjoyed his time with them, and loved him for him.

in a way, i'm glad to leave my little utah town because there are so many one on one memories that remind me of him. restaurants, shopping...even wal mart, a place he loved to shop. we'd push the cart, i'd grab, he'd talk, and he always called me on the 1st of each month, when his retirement check hit, and say, "hey, we have new money!!" i can't even go to the dump without thinking of him, and how we'd laugh on our way to remove boxes from the house when we first moved here. "well, what fun, lets go to the dump!!" every morning, i'd open the little town newspaper, and he'd say, "well, who are we at war with?". he'd just said that phrase, on 11 september 2001...when i turned on the tv and we saw the second plane hit. he never said it again.

my father always promised me that we would go to tuscany. we talked about the trip, planned it, drooled over it... and one day, i'll go, and spread the last of his ashes that i keep here at home.

i'll cry, as i am now... and miss his hand on my shoulder, his encouraging voice in my ear, his dear face in my vision. when i wrote his obituary, i did it to honour him... not the man he was when i was a child.. but, the friend i'd lost. it's not a traditional one...but, it fit him. it bespoke his time in korea, his love of so many things, his abilities to accomplish many things in his life.

the last trip he took, he and my mother drove an rv for weeks and thousands of miles.. and from that came the photo the brother and hrh and i all cherish... dad, at a campground with the brother and his wife, in a tshirt and shorts, full beard, reading elmore leonard, and flashing a smile and the peace sign. it bespeaks the essence of the man he'd become. although my mother and i don't really get along, i am forever grateful she took that trip with him... giving him one last long enjoyable time before he was slapped down, before we knew, when there were questions and no answers. she took care of him, and pampered him and drove him crazy. but, she drove that rv like a champ, and he always spoke of the trip with fondness.

i have never been able to listen to the song below, and not think of my dad. he loved judy collins and, when we were on car trips, he'd ask me to sing it in my alto, so different from the larkvoice of judy...it was something i always did, the words causing me to cry at the end. he'd thank me, and then, we'd sing together all the songs we knew, crossing our fingers my tone deaf mother wouldn't join in...




in his honour, i'll ask all of you to do what i suggested in his obituary... take some time, your favourite spot, your favourite book, and read. if someone should come up and disturb you, say what he would have said (in fact, he proudly wore the tshirt that had this very saying on it)

"shut the hell up, i'm reading."


happy birthday, daddy.

i thought i was all set to move to denver.

then....


....an old, dear friend gave me a heads up to a flat in hell's kitchen in new york.  sublet, two bedroom, five floor walk up, rent controlled... r e n t   c o n t r o l l e d  flat in hell's kitchen.  i am going to talk to the current resident tomorrow.  his only stipulation is that he can come back when he wants to spend a week or so in the city.  he's retiring to the coast, it seems, and wants someone who would love his apartment, who loves the city, who loves theater... so, she gave him my name.

we'll see, we'll see.

he was a man who found no happiness in sports or dating or in the company of others.  people talked too much, asked for too much, exuded too much energy, in his mind.  the rest of the world expected him to embrace their way of life, when he felt his own was just fine.  he found all of those hustling, bustling bodies dreary in every possible way, causing him to seek comfort in those he did take joy in being around.  with them, he could be who he was, not timid nor soft spoken, as perceived outside this place, but, gregarious voiced, with grand gestures and a raucous laugh.  granted, they never spoke back, nor laughed, nor responded with a joke of any kind. it didn’t matter to him, nor did it matter other people thought his occupation far more than they could bear--they simply didn’t understand the beauty of working with the dead. 

i've done fairly well for the last few days.

suddenly, i'm overwhelmed... packing, moving--yet again--trying to adjust in a new environment, a birthday approaching, not opening that email address...  all of it is shoving and pushing and beating me down.

i'm struggling to stay level, to not any of it win in my move through the next few weeks... still...  i want it to be july, and over, and a month of pain behind me, the basic skin over the scar formed...

i've canceled all of the things that would have contained a name that would make me catch my breath.  i put away the books and the tshirt given to me, and treasured.


i am renting blind, relying on the zenmaster to suss out the apartment...  and having to hope it'll suit me when i move in, because i'll be tied into a year long lease.

i usually embrace the future... right now?

i want the future to be the past, and know i survived.