Lessons in the Mansion of my Heart-Conclusion?

I woke into the dream and the warmth of her on my lap. She was listening but looking at me often and smiling. I didn't understand the whole thing at all, everything was in broken stutters and rapid clicking and syllables, all running together in bits I could discern then not.

For some reason, I decided to speak, "I don't think I understand," I said. "Could you repeat that more slowly?" I asked, looking at the last person to speak, a man who had a vaguely familiar face.

"The point is that we don't break down all the barriers we build up until we come here, because they don't come with us," he said. "So, we were discussing how barriers are built, and how much easier things are when they never are put in place."

I nodded, and he continued.

"Barriers are protection, and they keep us from feeling vulnerable, even when they are figurative," he said. "But barriers limit us, not just the world around us, so it's more of a weakness to have them than a strength."

Gary cut in at this point and I looked up at him. Marcie squeezed my hand... "Listen..."

"The main discussion is about the stuff outside your house, there, Frank," he said. You build the barrier, you don't just lose the contact with the people you want to lose it with, or the exposure to them, but a lot of other things never some to knock on your door."

I looked out through the weird window and the mountains beyond and saw piles of stone and wood, barbed wire and building materials. a small assemblage of vehicles, tractors and trucks, seemed to be parked close by.

"That would be one big wall, and a lot of barrier to get through or over," Gary said, continuing as I inspected the faraway scene. "We were just talking about how few fences you have, but how much of a maze your world is to navigate as is."

I nodded. I looked into Marcie's eyes, their blue brilliant and glowing a bit, as I was used to now in these dreams.

Marcie whispered, "Honey, if you build it up, you'll never tear it down, and someday it will just be you in a crumbling mansion, with no way to get out from behind it and grow." Somehow, silently, the class disappeared, and she was all that was left, and stroked my nape as she talked to me quietly, melodically.

I looked in her eyes and smiled, bit my lip, "Well, a lot of things keep landing on my doorstep that I don't want because the house is so open."

"You don't have to answer every time, and you don't have to ask people in past the foyer, and you don't have to let the ones you keep into the innermost part of your heart, you just have to keep making room when you need to, and let people wander around and out, if they want." she said.

I nodded and gulped, and she cupped my face, something only she ever really did in all my life. It had been so long since I felt it, I had almost forgotten that special touch. But it was so vibrant, real. I felt hot tears.

"Don't make a fortress out of your mansion, because I love that place the way it is, and so do you," she said. "Just keep it in mind, and keep your heart open. I know you'll get more joy out of being the wild and untamed man you should be than some crazy hermit in a castle."

I looked up and realized she meant more than just my thoughts to be less open, and that some of the other ideas I had in my life may be just as strong for barriers as a hard heart.

"Okay, I will wander but I won't isolate myself," I said. "But sometimes I am going to need to retreat. It's all way too much sometimes, and I am not my best when it is."

She nodded and smiled, "You know where our friends are, and you know who really loves you, so don't retreat, just go love them back a little."

The dream ended with a kiss, and my pillow and face were wet. It was 5:25 AM, so I stayed up and watched the sun rise over Mt. Helix. It was cold in the morning again, but I did not really feel it overmuch. When the ground was lit, I went home.

A question answered by an older poet

Someone at an Irish bar asked me a few days ago where Marcie's grave was and if I visited. I said, "She visits me!" At her quizzical look, I explained Marcie's cremains were in the house and slowly being spread over the world.

When I see this lass again, which may be far in the future, I will share this poem I found, which itself is Irish:

Do Not Stand at My Grave and Weep
Do not stand at my grave and weep,
I am not there... I do not sleep.
I am the thousand winds that blow...
I am the diamond glints on snow...
I am the sunlight on ripened grain...
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you waken in the morning's hush,
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of gentle birds in circling flight...
I am the soft star that shines at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry—
I am not there... I did not die...

Lessons in The Mansion of my Heart-2

I watched her sway around and put on her jewelry. She was always so simple in her tastes for it. Here, in the opulence of this place, she still wore simple earrings, with little blue stones hanging from hair-thin but brilliant golden threads.

She smiled at me in the mirror as I watched, then said, "You should get up and get ready, we are meeting some friends on the other side of campus."

I got up and seemed to know where I was going. I stepped into a walk-in closet, modest but well filled with clothes. Everything was white and touched by colors, from vivid blues to intricate patterns in small accents.

I reached into the clothes and a light, silky shirt with a small red looping embroidery seemed to just slide into my hand. I slipped it on, and noted the hanger held a pair of pants and even some boxers.

I slipped it all on. It was light but felt somehow strong. It was all loose enough for comfort but did not make me look big. I smiled at her and caught myself in the mirror. As young as she looked, I felt old.

"There's my handsome man," she said, kissing me on the lips and holding my cheeks with that stroking, gentle touch she always had. She tugged my goatee.

I slipped on some sandals as we headed to the door. Garfield accepted my pat on the head but then curled back up in his little velvet bed.

We walked through the mansion and I realized I was asleep in that strange space with her again. That dream space without dominion, where I could not control everything, but also was not forced to play a part I did not control.

It made me happy. I was with her. She squeezed my hand.

We passed doors with names on them and I smiled at them, felt an ache at others. She stopped and said, "Let's go see someone for a minute,"

"Oh, Francis, look at you," the young woman said as we walked in. "I sure have meissed you, son."

We hugged and I did not know her name, but I felt familiar and safe, and she talked for a while about me and my love for the pool as a child. We had never had a pool, but I had loved swimming.

I was about to ask a question but was interrupted as she took out a book. "Well, you two have someplace to be, and I will be right here whenever you want to visit. We don't take turns around here, you know."

I was almost confused but as we walked out I went to close the door and stopped, looking back in. "Bye, Grandmommy," I said.

"Goodbye, Francis," she said, seeming pleased I had figured it out.

We walked past a few rooms and one made me stop. It was someone special, someone I had cared for. I wondered if her room being there meant she had died. I sighed and Marcie touched my hand as I went to open it.

"She is in there, but you can't see her right now, because she can't see you, okay?"

I nodded. I opened the door and looked around. It was like a teenage girl's typical room, stuffed animals and posters, superimposed over the wood and finery of the house itself. The bed was made, and I felt a chill as I looked at the pictures on the wall.

"Let's go, sweetie," Marcie said, stroking my back.

We left the house through a side door. A clean, cement road with stone or tile lines in it stretched off into impossibly steep and beautiful mountains. I gasped at the deep blue and white clouds. I could see for thousands of miles,

"How far?" I asked.

"We should fly. We don't need to, but I know you like that," she said, kissing my cheek.

We were off. I followed her and she wove graceful, arcing swoops and turns through the strange mountains, which soon gave way to green valleys of trees and grass.

I recognized the campus. The University sprawled below in a some strange mix of antebellum and Greek architecture. Advanced modern touches like glass domes and green roofs with pools if shallow water were throughout.

We landed on a small balcony, and she gripped me in a hug as I floated tentatively down.

"I have one little surprise for you," she said. "Someone you always could learn from."

"Hey, Frank! What's hoppin?" a man said.

I looked into the room beyond. It was an impossibly well-appointed auditorium-style classroom. People I did niot recognize filled the seats. But I knew the man in front of the class.

"Professor Melton?" I asked, guessing his name despite his youthfulness,

"You betcha, man!" he said. "Take a seat! I think you'll enjoy our discussion."

I tried but woke before I made it to the chair.

Almost Home..

So tonight on the way back from my friend Vince's in Phoenix, I nearly died. I hit a big rock in a pile of rubble and went a little on two wheels, steered and fishtailed, then oversteered and did a donut on highway 8, stopping barely in time.

But what happened in my head as it all was going on really is why this is here.

I just remember thinking as the car spun toward the edge of the Tecate Divide, "Oh, man... and I am almost home." One hour left on the road and I was going to fly off and down.

I was calm and everything was in slow motion. I accepted it, even as I tried every trick in the driving book to recover.

"I was almost home, this cannot be happening," I thought.

Then time caught up with perception and the world stopped with my car. I thought maybe I wasn't here any longer for a second, out of my body and looking at the great ravine outside my car window. Then I heard the crickets and the radio.

I was facing the wrong way and had lightly smacked my front driver's side fender against a boulder a bit as I had come to a stop. I looked for lights and slowly pulled around to face the right way.

I felt an urge and parked, then puked into the chasm almost as soon as I rounded my back fender. I stopped retching, the radio in my car static-babbling and the crickets chirping away in the high mountains.

I felt exhilarated and pondered the great mountains I loved all around me. The same mountains Marcie only loved when there was rain and greenness or snow to see. The ones she went to with me, "just because" when there wasn't any of those things to enjoy.

The exhilaration faded. I gulped and gathered my senses and thought of Seamus waiting for his meal. I washed my mouth with some mouthwash and lots of water, then drove down the mountain.

And even though I was thinking on an entirely different level in the rush of the near-accident, all I could think coming down the hill was that I was calm in the face of my assumed sure death not because I wanted to die, or because I was ready.

It was just that whatever happened, I was, at that moment, going to make it home.

A day in the sun...

I was recently returned a flash memory card with some precious memories on it. I decided that I would share Marcie's joy at a trip kindly provided by our friends Walt and Lisa Soto... out along the California Coast, sailing.

It was a beautiful and enjoyable day, and a perfect one for Marcie, whose taste buds were finally ready for regular food again.

We were definitely in a recovery mode, and she was so tired but strong and pleased with the end of chemo and the beginning of what she thought would be a simple recovery.

For now, though... her joy, as I captured it in pictures, and our friends. Also, a picture of a marine mammal and his harem, as she demanded I get a shot or two...

Letter to Marcie-Sweet days in the sun

The fall sunset, so special still...

Saturday I was watching one happen from the rooftop of Park Manor Suites as two new friends tied the knot. I so remember seeing one just like it one cool November evening and I glanced over to old Mister A's.

"This was way too expensive," you said.

I nodded. It was. But I wanted to have a special night with you, and I had gotten it. And all the extra hours in the world could not make that any less of a thrill. I was so in love with you.

The fires up north created a spectacular backdrop to the ceremony Saturday. It was so close to our night above the city, I swear.

I felt you hold my hand again as I closed my eyes and clasped my little glass of Crown Royal. I listened to the wind and the crowd and went back. I remembered the smell of your Fendi and the slinky slide of your top against my chest as we swayed.

I remembered the long kiss and the feel of your nose in the crook of my neck, then the soft weight of your head against my chest and your hair in my hands as I rubbed your nape gently.

"I love you," you said.

It was just one of the many times you had, but it is distinct. And Saturday I danced with mothers and grandmothers and wives and two new brides, and thought of you. And I smiled for them because of it.

Love,

F.

Letter to Marcie-Music

Dear Marcie,

You gave me music. Of course, in the figurative sense, we made beautiful music together. But you gave me music from people I had not before appreciated.

Who knew I would learn to like some of these things. Sure, we had our common ground, U2,The Who, English Beat, The Cure. So many others... but you gave me the idea that current did not necessarily mean "sucks." I am so very grateful.

You always stretched the edges a bit. You went from ABBA and Beegees to ZZ Top and the Cars, to Tori Amos and Sara Maclauchlan and back to Led Zeppelin, over to Soft Cell, The Violent Femmes and Concrete Blonde, even some Sex Pistols and threw in a little En Vogue and Mya.

I remember flipping between 101.5 and 91X, 102.1 and occasioanlly 94.9 You indulged my need to listen to classical, and you even had your own favorites in that genre. We had a million songs just for us, all of them based on something or some sweet moment we were living together in.

I Have saved your last MP3 set. I hear so much in them and I had to stop listening for a bit. I will get back to them. You communicated so much in that music, in those songs. I will finish and think about each of them, no matter how much it aches, I promise.

I am most grateful to you for introducing me to the songbirds of our age. There is nothing that lulls me to sleep and calm or just relaxation like a songbird's voice. I have been accused by a friend of being "pretty damn Lilith Fair for how aggro your are."

Yeah, it was Dean. Of course you knew that, right?

Well, there was only one voice i truly could not stay angry in the presence of, and it was yours. It still is, actually. I so love when I can recall it and you are so clear in my heart and my ears. When you visit in dreams, it echoes for weeks.

It is and was a small but potent part of you that I still cherish. Thank you for both the music I listen to now, the broadening of my tastes, and the sweetness of your own music in my soul.

I know you did not like her, my sweet, but one person I never won you over on was Natalie Merchant. However, she does ring a note in me, and sometimes as much with her words as her voice.

This last discovery crushed me at first, but I realize now that much of it would never be. I could never disappoint you by not finishing my work here, but the song is beautiful, and I wish I had the years with you it is written around.

Someone did justice to the song in pictures. I wish I had seen us at that age, but that will never be. We deserved to see those days, I know that.

For now, my love, good night.

Me




Someday I will sing this song myself, and change just one word. When I do, I will share it with all of you in a more illustrative video of Marcie and I.

A quiet time at a loud place

So, yesterday I went to a birthday party at Dean's for Braxton, a freshly minted Devilish Deuce of a boy. It made me reflect on Marcie and I and how we saw the question of kids. Well, I won't cover that here, but soon in another post.

Yesterday, as I sat with a friend and watched a small army of toddlers bounce, eat cake and generally enjoy life, I noticed on thing lacking: a redhead child. There was not one in the over a dozen present.

Well, it was still an interesting time.

At any rate, Marcie was not one to spend time with our friends or do kids' birthday parties unless they were for her close friends, like Chrissy's. But she may have enjoyed this one in the cool winds of autumn on Mt. Helix.

Thanks, Dean-O and Joey, for a great time and a nice, life-affirming event. These weeks, I need those. And happy birthday, Braxton :)

Birthday Girl! (a blog post that should have been)

Dear pals,

So Marcie turned 41 Sunday, as all of you know. here in San Diego we had a nice brunch at Jake's and sipped a bit too much in the Mimosa department. We were late for her dinner at Bob's and Barbara's, but we made tardy worth the while, for sure. Thanks to everyone, what a crowd!

She scored the Lost DVD set with all the episodes she missed when she was bedridden, a ticket to San Francisco (for both of us... for the first time!) and some MORE Jo Malone. God, how much loot does one woman get? As much as she wants, methinks. Send more, she hates that but secretly enjoys it, too...

I can't believe last year I was facing a life without our girl. I would have been utterly lost. Somehow, I just know I would have been broken down and maybe died myself. I am so proud of her. So tough, and so sweet. She's my hero.

I am sorry it has been a week or two since I updated, but I am thinking I might change the blog to "crazy husband loves redhead" or something. This old blog was more about keeping everyone up on her struggle. She's not entirely comfortable with it, now.

Thanks again, everyone! I'll update on the changes and anything else to come when I have it fleshed out. What a strange chapter in our lives. I am glad to turn the page. This one will stay up so we can all remember just how tough it was.

G'night folks!

F.

I wish... so much.

What a trip

There will be no photos shared publicly about my trip, save a few generic skyline shots and, perhaps, an approved shot of the hostesses (once they okay one). I will also not share much about this one here, except the Slow Food Nation event, as Marcie would have been in heaven there.

Suffice it to say that this was the first trip that I went on really more for myself and my future than for her and my past. This is not the place for such things.

Pictures of it all later. For now, we're going back to my memories of moments of my Marcie. I have some thoughts to share about Marcie and how I felt looking out on my next home city, one she almost joined me in. That will be all that one finds here.

Friends, of course, can ask in person or email. I will have some private albums to view...

F.

Photos from the Debauch, Much to share

The trip has been outlandishly lavish. I'll share more and photos with it when I get a chance. For now, I have to get ready for more lavish outlandishness. My God, I love these women named Christina and Jane, if you didn't know. They simply rock.

They have kept me guessing. Today, they had me at the Slow Food Rocks, the musical component to the Slow Food Nation Festival. Awesome fun was had and pictures (evidence) will be posted.

There was a Marcie moment... I'll share later. Night for now,

F.

Our One-Time Sod Anniversary

I made mention of a brief visit to the Ould Sod here. Last night was the anniverary of that little visit, and also corresponded to friend's invitation to go listen to some music. I have come to spend a couple nights a week, an hour or two at a time, in the Sod.

I have reviewed the Ould Sod on my Yelp page. They've been good to me, and I hope to make them the sendoff party location when I pack up and sail away from San Diego for good. We'll see.

I had an enjoyable time listening to the strains of Irish folk music, all instrumental, being played. I just pine for a Irish lass to belt a tune or two out along with the band. That would be something, now wouldn't it?

Of course, I would also settle for the off-key-but-adorable redhead wandering around the house and trying her best to sing whatever song was on her mp3 player at the top of her lungs. That would be something for sure.

On the Sod, I will post pictures later. I ran into my first professor of philosophy there last night, and he's a cool guy.

A Moment with Marcie-Epilogue

It was the most clear and concrete long dream I have had of her, this last one, and there was of course a lot that I left out. But I think what was most striking, both in the garden and tea house-cum-shrine-cum pagoda, was how direct Marcie was.

One of the things that most bothered Marcie was that I took my time to decide on a course of action or a matter at hand. It frustrated her.

In most of my dreams, there is a modicum of control. I can manipulate the world at will around me and change the scene however I like. But in dreams with Marcie, things do not always work my way.

However, our conversations have always been very soft. This last dream was much more eye-to-eye, There was something she needed.

I always ask myself if what we dream is simply the firing of random neurons and nothing more. This always has put a sad little doubt in my dreams of her. But I think what Marcie's message was went well beyond, "I am real."

Marcie, in the place she visited me, wanted me to see these visits as just that and take them at face value. We discussed them long before she passed and she promised me them. She also said she might not know how she would feel about it.

Marcie was concerned I would never move on. She was right in her own way. I will take my time, likely infuriating her with my "Hemming and hawing" as much as this post, "agonizing" and analyzing the dream, probably makes her toss her hands up, roll her eyes and sigh.

Inasmuch as she can, that is.

What strikes me is not that she simply says, "I am who I am." That came across very strongly in my dream. Her honeymoon with the hereafter and her confusion were not even on the table. Her eyes were open and she was playful but sharp and incisive.

Of course, the question remains as to whether or not the dream is just a random firing of neurons that line up in a very favorable or enjoyable way. I think her answer is that it doesn't matter.

Mine is that as well. I agree with her reasoning, that she will be with me whether I decide she is not there (and suffer), or decide she is and embrace it. But I also agree for my own reason.

Even if everything is the pseudo random or random firing of neurons as far as how we perceive and experience the world and our minds in a dream state, the fact that Marcie did not "guess" what I was thinking and was off a bit was very important.

We can convince ourselves of anything, but the fact that something in me wants to be convinced to have an open mind on this situation and its implications.

So my reasoning is this: in life we were two people who grew to become a part of each other in addition to being our own separate selves. That which I took in from Marcie continues within me. I did not always agree with or understand her, and she did not always agree with or understand me.

That being said, it does not matter if she is made of memories and patterns and thoughts, or she is simply a soul coming to visit me when I am open to her or most able to sense her. That is not important or valuable.

The fact that I can experience her and her motives and personality in such a detailed way that we still do not have the same mind on things, that she left in me an understanding and a bit of her will so strong it makes its point and mistakes mine means I can continue to learn from her.

I don't care what the nature of it all is, as far as her presence's source.

Some ask me about all of this and faith. f it is a question of faith, then I will simply say that what faith I have is vested in the idea that we all continue to affect the universe as the ripples of our presence , relationships and actions multiply and go on.

That the phenomena that we collect around our existence, which can be said to describe us, now may lack one companion, "physically alive," in their company does not mean that they do not grow in number, or that we no longer direct them to.

I enjoy that she is still there at all, and I would rather agonize a little than decide, then get too hard-headed and -hearted to accept that beautiful maybe it all implies. And if I am just enjoying a little ripple of her presences, then it's a good wave to ride.

The Patio

I suppose I should have uploaded the shots of the patio earlier, but I promise to do so tonight. Certain flowers are emerging, some plants that were on their last legs are back and stong, and I have some herbs and other plants thriving, too.

Marcie loved our plants a lot, and tended them very carefully. The people I leave behind here will have a shot at having them for themselves, except for a few I want for me. Write me if you want to reserve one.

F.

Characters: "Otto Van Otterson" (pt.5)

Marcie, her interest piqued, simply had to see Otto for herself. The description I drunkenly relayed carried the double disadvantage to her of being both intriguing and less than reliable, given my state.

Of course, it wasn't really unreliable, but Marcie had her issues early on with any drinking of any kind, due in large part to alcoholism in her own family and her awareness of it in mine.

"Honey, you were so drunk, it could have been some random homeless person that you decided looked like Otto," she said. "I just want to go up to Hillcrest and see if he's there."

This was, of course, a mini-adventure, and she would have it with or without me. With sounded safer, not because of Otto, but simply because there was such a profusion of shady characters invading the Hillcrest homeless scene in 1995.

"Okay, we'll go on an Otto safari," I said. "Let me pack a bag with some water and get my wallet."

I packed some water, Marcie's puffed Cheetos, some fruit and a sweater for Marcie in my backpack. Then, while Marcie waited and watched, I also packed a transit map of downtown, a compass, binoculars, my camera, and her survival knife.

"We go to track the almost impossible to find Otterson," I said, effecting a British accent and the breathless excitement of the stereotypical upper-crust documentarian. "This is an ambitious endeavour, and not without its perils."

Marcie started doing her silent laugh as she slipped her own backpack on. We walked down to the stop for the 11 bus and waited, but soon Marcie was antsy.

"You know, I have seen his crew up on 6th by the park lately," she said. "Maybe he has moved there, too. Can we walk up and check the west end out?"

I nodded, and I followed her up the hill a ways, then relieved the silence of the trek. "So where is he from?"

Marcie turned around, eyes wide and biting her lip. "I don't know," she said, voice a little high. "But I used to tell the girls at CVS he was abandoned as a child by the river."

"So he was like Moses?" I asked, smiling.

"No, don't be silly," she admonished. Marcie rolled her eyes and continued walking, the clapping began as she hunched forward and the story poured forth.

"I think his parents were vacationers from Hungary or Austria, and one day, they decided to go home," she said. "They decided that Otto should stay, so they went down to the river and waited until he was playing in the water, then slipped away."

I listened and smiled, but I interjected, "Oh, poor Otto was abandoned!" I said.

"Mmm HM!" Marcie murmured, continuing. "An urchin, lost in a land where nobody spoke his language. All they left him was a paper napkin and some flatware, because they wanted him to not eat with his fingers, which he had never learned to do properly."

I noted the nice summation of the origin of the flatware in the coat pocket, but wondered what food he had. "How did he eat?"

"He spent his early years working the farms in Mission Valley, doing hard labor for money to buy food with," she said. "He also bought a watch from time to time. He never learned to wind them, so he replaced them when they stopped ticking, keeping the old ones."

We both laughed. Marcie looked back with her gentle, doting smile, head cocked a bit. She appreciated our interaction and the attention to her story. I was enjoying it and I stopped her and kissed her, then took her hand.

"How did he know what to do?" I asked as we walked, arms swinging, hands clasped. "Farm work is labor, but there are some basics you need to know, especially with a language barrier."

She smiled and a little laugh escaped her. "His parents were goat farmers in the old country," she said, turning to me and smiling again as I laughed. I shook my head.

"Well, that's what I like to think!" she said. "They were goat farmers who decided to leave Otto behind in the land of opportunity. Unfortunately, he never had one."

I nodded as the story obviously prepared for a dark turn with her voice changing.

"When he was noticed by a police officer one day, wandering round talking to himself, he was taken away," she said sadly. "He lost his little knickerbockers, now way too small for him anyways, his silverware, and his watches."

"Aww," I said.

"They kept him for years and years in a mental hospital, then when Ronald Reagan closed all the hospitals, he was let loose," she said. "He promptly wandered back to Mission Valley."

I nodded and scanned the last bit of Balboa Park's west side for homeless. There were a few, but the weekend volleyball games at "Gay Beach" had likely chased off most of them.

"Everything was different," she said in a mournful tone. "There were few farms and the valley now had a big freeway in it. Otto had only the plastic ware he left the hospital with, a set of pajamas and some moccasins he sewed himself in occupational therapy at the hospital."

I started cracking up, but she grabbed my arm a little higher up and tried to calm my guffawing as she continued, suppressing her own chuckles.

"But in a stroke of luck, he found a suitcase dropped on the side of the road, perhaps fallen off a station wagon, with just what he needed," she said. "Soon, he was in a new woolen suit, sporting not one, not two, but three watches, and with a set of silver utensils."

She stopped as we prepared to cross west toward Banker's Hill. "And what made it fancy," she said. "What made it fancy was the CLOTH napkin, actually a handkerchief, which he found inside the suitcase."

"So he was all set?" I asked.

"Yes, he was all set," she said, clapping her hands as we walked northward. "But he needed work, and for that, he turned to the river, where his destiny awaited."

I began to ask, but she stopped me. "Honey, let's go see if we can find him in Mission hills. I don't think he usually wanders this far. He's not very mobile."

I nodded and we walked on in silence for a while. When we passed Jimmy Carter's, I prompted her. "So was his destiny to be ambassador of the river people?"

She fell forward a little, acting silly. She looked up at me. "Oh, so you're enjoying Otto's story?" she asked.

I nodded and she took my hand and squeezed it. "Well, I'll share more later."

A little more notice

I received an email from someone who argued that there was some kind of sour grapes involved in what I have written in some places on this blog. There are not.

Marcie loved the people in her life, despite a lot of pain she faced. To show the strength of that love, it is important that the reader have an inkling of the obstacles she faced in maintaining it.

I certainly do not feel comfortable with some of the stories I relay here. Many of them lay bare some of my own faults, some of which I have since, with Marcie's help, buried and moved on from. But they cannot be hidden without obscuring the real story.

Marcie was silent and often asked me to hold my tongue. I won't do that, since every time I didn't, she seemed to benefit.

Why would I change that now?

Thanks for reading onward, thanks for writing in. More to come.

Marcie's love of sidewalk markers

Marcie loved to read sidewalk markers. She loved to know how old where she lived was. She had favorites from 1912, 1903, McKindle & CO, Gearson Public Works, and any number of companies who would place a brand on the end of a strip of laid concrete with a date the path was formed.

Today, the apartment owners next door repaved part of the sidewalk. I knew what I had to do. Thanks go to neighbor Rob Wheatley for taking a shot of me next to the work afterward. Good on you, man. Another everyday memorial act.

Maybe someone will wonder who she was. Maybe they will know.
A few hours later.
The vandal.

She also loved the other kinds of marks, from kitty, dog and kid silhouettes with names and simple slogans like "NH rules" to pop culture reference like "Kilroy was here" and even "Redrum," oddly scratched in in front of a convent on Hawthorn, they all lit her imagination afire.

I hope they don't scratch it out. We'll see!

Times Apart That Were Just In Time - Visits to Jane

Marcie's departure for San Francisco was no sudden whim. She had actually long planned it with Jane. But, as was her wont, Marcie did not distinguish random circumstance from those more intentional. However, she had only told me she was going after our long breakfast war, which began before her plans were firmed up.

We did make up somewhat before she left, and by Wednesday afternoon we were healed and things were normal. But the bad weekend morning were taking their toll, an I was glad, I admitted, to have a weekend without the tension.

She slid into my lap and in a smooth motion curled into me, one arm behind my neck and her free hand on my chest. She laid her head against me and kissed my chin, watching my eyes with her mischievous smile. "Will you miss me?" she asked, watching me carefully, her very acute dishonesty sense completely engaged.

"Yes, I said. "But I won't miss fighting over whether bacon should take an hour to cook."

She nodded, tight-lipped, a little miffed, for sure. "I hope you realize when I am gone just how much I do for you, Frank," she said. "Most women would not do half of what i do, or put up with all your shit all the time."
I just listened and nodded, and I was a little miffed now. "I know, honey," I said. "I appreciate what you do, but sometimes you start doing things that just drive me nuts. Let's not talk about it, since you're leaving tomorrow, okay?"

She did not say anything, but curled into my lap again and rested. She soon fell asleep, and I stayed there until a documentary on whale's songs lulled me into sleep with her. We slept on the couch the whole night, a rare treat. But in the morning, the smell of war filled the air. Bacon fried in the kitchen, its intoxicating fumes filling the apartment.

I went in and checked my email, then did some working out, trying to block out the smell and my natural desire to get it on my plate and into my mouth immediately. I Built up a sweat and took my sauna clothes, stopping to ask "When should I come back?" I did so very gently.

"Why do you have to leave?" Marcie asked, biting her lower lip. A test!

"I don't have to," I said. "But I just worked out and I want to take a steam before we eat."

"I don't know," she said. "I'm making coffee cake and I haven't started that, yet."

She had the morning off for her trip, and had decided to test me, knowing I had the whole day off as well. I smiled and kissed her cheek as I left. She did not look me in the ey, but as I left she said, "The coffee cake will be about 45 minutes."

The bacon would cook for a record-shattering 2 hours. I croaked a meek, "Okay," and left.

I came back 40 minutes later and she was putting the coffee cake into the oven. I could swear she had waited on me to put it in. I bit my lip and went to take a shower. I took my time, letting the water soothe away the tension.

It was thirty minutes after I emerged that breakfast was served. I ate it quietly and looked up at her, smiled and leaned across the table, whispering "Thank you" as I kissed her.

"That's all I want, Frank," she said. "Just be sweet and thank me, and don't complain and pressure me because you're hungry. I took my time this morning because I wanted to see if you had the patience to wait. You know you can be patient, so just lay off and we'll be okay."

I was pissed. She admitted to testing me. I put my fork down, and though I was hungry, I walked out and set my plate in the kitchen. "I'm done, honey. Save the rest and I will eat it later, alright? Or I can put it away when I clean the dishes."

She sniped at me the whole way to the airport in her mothers car. "Remember what I said," she cajoled me. "Think of everything I do for you and everything I put up with for you. You're very lucky."

As true as all of that was, I could only think  was lucky at the moment to have her flying away to San Francisco for a weekend.  As we waited and she talked to her mother about what she had planned for her visit, I spoke up. "Well, as long as bacon is not on the menu, there should be plenty of time for all that."

The cold stare and pursed lips told the whole story. Barbara looked confused, a look she seemed to have mastered long ago. Marcie got up, grabbed my arm and pulled me toward the bar at the center of the terminal. I followed. "You had to? Really? You were so close and you just had to shoot your mouth off?" She searched my eyes, her own going back and forth. She slapped my shoulder and then her hand went to her mouth. She was near tears.

I tried to hug her but she wouldn't. Barbara excused herself to get some food. I tried again, and she looked away. Se left me without a kiss when her flight was called to the gate. I did not hear form her when she landed or for three whole days.

I did, however, consider her and all the things she did for me. Barbara called Sunday and said that Marcie was on her way but she wasn't going to pick me up to go get her. My mind went wild with speculation, and I was distraught.

Thoughts of Food and Marcie (Breakfast Pastries)

Marcie had a special relationship with pastries. Certain pastries, that is. She could eat a few things from a few places, and none others.

Hob Nob Hill Cinnamon Rolls. Yes, she would buy these whenever she could. I will have a review on Yelp later highlighting these. We ate at Hob Nob once in a while, but this... heavenly, and to go!

She loved them, and she would pick them up, bring them home, wrap them in tin foil, add butter to the top and cook them at 400 for about 10 minutes. It was heart-stopping bad for you, heart warming tasty.

Another favorite pastry was, of course, croissants. Any kind would do, but the plain kind was best, or occasionally one stuffed with almond paste and bits was good.

Finally, donuts. "Glazed Raised, Rainbow Sprinkle and Chocolate" was her response to my queries on her wishes. Off I would go to Golden Donut down the street, delivering her precious cargo untouched and whole.

I'm hungry for bad things now...

Looking for you

Looking For You

Just half a year ago today,
You broke your bonds and slipped away.
I nearly went with you that night,
Sometimes I hope that I still might.

Five months ago I was alone,
Left here without you, on my own.
You'd come to see when I'd dream,
To comfort me, or so it'd seem.

Four months ago I traveled North
to see two friends your life brought forth.
Among your angels, I did start
to see a future for my heart.

Three months ago I knew despair.
I dreamed but did not feel you there.
Then back you came to see me through,
and give my soul a taste of you.

Two months ago I looked for light,
But you had gone beyond my sight.
And so, with heart and dreams bereft,
I wondered if your spirit left.

One month ago you came to me.
You said you were not sad, but free.
Insisting that you felt my love,
but soon would be too far above.

This month I waited for your voice,
your touch, your taste, your scent so choice.
I caught them in the morning's mist
A fog around me, coolness kissed.

Today I look around and live,
and try to share what I can give.
Sometimes I do and feel your soul,
and for a moment, I am whole.

But half a year ago today,
You broke your bonds and slipped away.
And one of those was in my heart,
It's simply called "the missing part."