The passage of time, so organic and so arbitrary, gave me a surprise... I looked at my tatoos and was shocked to see them. How long have those been there??

It's been seven months to the day since my last post, how funny.  Time is so funny.  Heh. I didn't plan this.  

I woke up to the second exquisite rainy morning this week, feeling as I did yesterday, that I was waking up in a cabin somewhere on the North Shore.  Languishing in bed for about five seconds I turned to the book I was nearly done reading at page 816.  I knew what was coming. I've read this book so many times that the thing is nearly in tatters which is strange because until the last few years it was a rule of mine never to read a book more than once; there are so many why waste time re-reading?  Then I got out of bed, made coffee and french toast and finished watching the travesty of translation from book into film, The Time Traveler's Wife.


Apparently I have a bone to pick.  Or something.


Both of these stories culminate in the death of a husband, each at 40ish years of age.  Death has been a strong theme this year, giving me much to consider. Being a semi-social person and not in fact a recluse who never sees other living souls, I have heard a handful of stories over the years about a person awash in a tide of deaths.  I think you have known these folks too, perhaps you are one of them, who have spoken of numerous deaths in the span of a year or less.

I have always feared this time and in the back of my mind wondered when it would be my turn.  

In my childhood there was only one, my stepfather Bill.  In my twenties it was Edyth Ann, Heather and my big orange kitty, Shelley... each death was devastating in its own unique way. Ten years later, this February, it was JayBee, though his death would show me something, maybe even a million things that just mean one thing.  I'm weary of the statements in my head that want to be said and written; if I have learned anything at all it's that I know so little.

side note: Strangers in Paradise is coming to mind, another story whose final arch involves the death of a male partner... a scene just before a plane crash when David says to Katchoo, "You must confess!" to which Katchoo replies, "I confess I love you. I confess I love the clouds in summer. I confess I love this ocean... and so many things beneath it. But all I'll miss is you... Francine."

I know, in the next couple of months that I will be taking the next fork in the road and leaving this state to go home to Illinois, back to my family.  However much I know that Minnesota remains I also know there isn't any coming back, even though I'm sure to visit.  It's not so much the place as the time I must say good bye to now.  It's the proverbial river I can't stick my foot into twice.

I came here in 1995 having aimed for Seattle, fell in love and fell in love and fell in love and became entangled and lost and lost... thank you all for that.  When I found my apartment on Grand I found a deeply needed refuge and another great love that would help me get even more lost, lost enough and sick enough to really find myself.  What seems so impossible to commit to text is a bold enough statement that perhaps it looks like I'm asking for a challenge (I'm not).

Having searched and dug in and wept and struggled and rejoiced and... there are so many threads I wish I could describe right here but I'll settle for telling you this: I was repaired, made whole again and thankful for the revelations brought by the terrible tearing.  I feel equipped with the gifts of perspective and a clear open heart.  I believe the truth about myself and I know this requires constant reflection and unerring honesty.  I have worked hard for the stripes that enable me to say this and I feel that I can say it in large part because of my teacher and friend, JayBee:

I do not fear death.  All that we are, all that we will ever be, is who we are in this moment and what we carry within us and engender between us.

I understand, for the moment, that I do not miss you because you are not gone.  I still here your giggle, still feel your breath, still see you with your pants down wiggling and laughing in the sunshine.

waiting for the bus i started to say, am i lost again? then i saw the penny shining in the snow.

I've been reading my favorite comic again. This will be my 6th time through it: my crack and my escape.

Reading something I love so much has a way of holding up a mirror. I admit it now. I've been hiding, trying to fend off a state of panic I've been too ashamed to admit to friends and family. I've been using movies and comics the way some would use over-working, drinking... whatever. Though they have been good and provocative distractions (okay, Gossip Girl does not fall into this category:)) I have nevertheless taken a brambly turn into a wallow-y dead-end.

Almost four weeks ago I quit what I thought was my dream job. I had solid reasons for quitting, even made sure I had a fair replacement, but I let an old shadow get a ring around my rosey's. My old acquaintance, doubt, crept in. Are doubt and fear the same thing? I let my doubt tangle with my commitments. Yesterday I said it out loud, "I wish I had just stayed in hell." That's when it hit me. I quit for a good reason, one more compelling than what I thought would have made me quit a year ago when I nearly sued the company for harassment. I made the choice to stay and work through what happened last year. I am so glad I did. But this last scenario was just too much.

It's always been "easy" for me to choose between what my heart tells me and what my mind tells me. Some people say I'm an impulsive, non-committal, fair weather sort, that I don't know how to follow through with anything. Maybe. Maybe it's more that I know what I need to do and I'm not afraid to do it, no matter the consequences. I even tried to stay and make it work based solely on the fact that the money was useful. I tried. But I am not the person who stays in a bad situation for long. But that's me. I'm not fucking sorry about it either.

In the last two years I have had such amazing, heart rending, mind blowing experiences. I learned so much about temperance, tolerance, patience... procrastination, fear, and the corrosive power of self doubt. Giving myself to this panic-y last few weeks flies in the face of what I say I've learned.

I know I need to work. I know I will pay back my enormous student loans on likely minimum wages for the rest of my natural born life. No matter how I struggle with the cost of existence in a primarily capitalist world I must strike a balance. No matter what. I don't aways know what I want, sometimes I want so much I can't see straight. Sometimes I don't want anything and am lost in my blindness.

However.

My personal happiness and well being are the only gifts I have to offer this world. Without them I'm a useless brain-dead, sourpuss who's not much to be around.

This is going to sound kind of funny, but I know I'm not the only one who finds meaning in little random things.... little is an arbitrary judgement anyway. I read and re-read Strangers In Paradise because it sends me back to square one every time. What's square one? First, it means you need to read Strangers In Paradise;) and second, it's everything that matters... love. I know love doesn't put food on my table or a roof over my head but it sure does send me out into the world to try again and again, no matter what.

I miss Katchoo and Francine.

www.strangersinparadise.com

I Love Terry Moore. This is from his new work, Echo. There's something about his work that is absolutely alive.

TerryMooreArt/StrangersInParadise/Echo/Blog

I've always been a sucker for a wink.

Okay. So anyone who's talked to me this year knows how completely and utterly I've given myself over to Terry Moore's Strangers in Paradise.

This is Katchoo.

As a piece of fiction I've been thoroughly enjoying for the better part of a year, Strangers in Paradise has me on the edge of my seat. What fun! As a piece of visual storytelling it seems to be reaching a sort of perfection. It's breathtaking. And funny. I was of course smitten from the start. But this last issue was a real zowie. Four solid black pages spoke profoundly without saying a word, not the tiniest scratch was implied on the perfect pages - just blackness. Like aweful deep space, terrifying in its possibilities.

And the wink. This wink nearly shred me to bits. I would show you the two frames before and after this one but it might spoil it for Those Who Do Not Know Yet.

So I wrote to Terry Moore today and this is what I said about #86: I've always held a deep appreciation for a well placed pause in poetry, in art... SIP has had this in hand on so many occasions... The possibility in those black pages holds infinite breath and life. That said, it was the wink that did me in. What an awesome acknowledgment of a beautiful, complex and mutual friendship. There's so much love in a wink like that. It's easier to bear the parting with such astounding love.

Since it's my personal goal to get you all addicted to Strangers in Paradise I cannot explain some of the details. But what inspired me to say all this, right now, is what I said, taken out of context.

(I've also been reading Margaret Atwood's Writing with Intent.)

Occasionally I write something that goes out into the world very near to the way I actually mean it to. It makes me feel happy.