Morning

She sat on the couch with her feet propped on the table and a gigantic mug of coffee carefully nestled in her lap, supported by the folds of her kimono. She smiled as I came into the room and gently rocked her legs at the knees as her eyes followed me. I blushed and she sipped, and no one said, "good morning," because it was understood.

A little tiny moment

NOTE: Reference to fooling around (brief).

There was a muggy summer day in Humboldt County. Marcie had been to Wildberries, leaving without me and coming back in the misty heat. She slipped into the room as I toiled at the computer, pulling together a piece on The Dunes.

"Honey, are you hungry?" she asked.

I had heard her come in and kept working. But I stopped and considered the question. As was usual when I was working, my mind over-thought everything. Would this be a menu request afterward? Does she want to go have breakfast?

Her hand slid over my neck cool and soft and she began to massage me. I took a deep breath and enjoyed the sensation of her touch on me, the smell of her hair as she leaned down to read my work, and the smell of blueberries.

I saw in her other hand a little plate of blueberries, strawberries and bananas. A "donut stick," an unhealthful favorite of mine, was there, too. I smiled and licked my lips. She turned and kissed me, smiling.

It was a good, content, quiet kiss. Seamus did not even stir in my lap. Afterward, the story seemed clearer and I rushed through it with ease.

"You need to eat, Mr. Reporter," she said. She fed me the fruit and the donut playfully whenever I paused.

When I was done, she smiled as I saved and shook her head. I looked up quizzically.

"Oh, honey," she said. "It was a great story, I'm sure they'll like it. You're really good at this."

I was very proud, because she was a discerning reader. We fooled around, then bathed each other in cool water, and lounged the rest of the day in front of fans, watching television. It was just a simple, good day.

I miss those. I cherish that one in particular.

A Call to Breakfast

Some of my friends know that I have been on a diet of sorts. Mostly I am simply eating healthier and running, but I have definitely kicked in some calorie counting. Today, I was reminded to occasionally cut loose and enjoy a good hearty meal.

It almost didn't happen. I almost did an all-fruit smoothie. Tragedy.

I arose and ran 7.3 miles, according to Google Maps, and then got home and started making my list of things to do for the day. Since one was shopping, I started chekign my refrigerator.

I found a disc of some sort in the freezer. I drew a blank. Wrapped in a Glad Freezer bag, I turned it over and saw her writing: "Ham Steak, Fully Cooked, August 12."

Her writing always stops me dead in my tracks. I could see her hand on the Sharpie as she labeled the freezer bag and tucked it away. I gulped down a lump in my throat.

I decided that, despite being off pork for some time, I would make a breakfast.

I cooked the ham steak her way, slowly, in a pool of water, preparing the rest of my breakfast as it simmered.

I laid out tomato slices and spinach, and a mix of herbal and green teas. I chopped onions, some leftover home-roasted red bell pepper and a bit of (sweet) banana pepper.

In the refrigerator, I took out the last of some Italian mixed cheese we used for our last Trader Joe's pizzas together. It was still good and not a spot was to be found after 9 months. More lumps to swallow.

I beat some eggs and, after the ham finished, tossed the vegetables into the pan to absorb the taste, as I know she would have liked. I waited until everything was a little wilted, having added a bit of olive oil, and slid the egg over the veggies.

I knew it would stick and just dealt with it, flipping the whole omelet and adding the cheese inside. After I had lightly browned the edges of it, I plated it.

It looked very authentic, except Marcie would have insisted on toast or added her potatoes. A picture:


I sat and ate the plate and felt a little closer to her again, having enjoyed a little bit of her Sunday Breakfast tradition, albeit imperfectly. Someday I'll do the whole thing for a friend or six.

We'll have to have waffles, then.

Marcie's favorite foods: Stuffed Treats

Marcie loved stuffed foods. Be it a chicken breast stuffed with feta cheese and sun-dried tomato with a bit of oil or white wine to cut it, or a mushroom cap filled with alouette and baked with a bit of red bell pepper chopped in the bottom, a tamale or an empanada, Marcie loved her stuffed foods. Some favorites:

1. Twice-baked potato topped lightly with with cheddar, bacon and chives, sour cream on the side or mixed into the stuffing before the second baking (halves or deep skins)
2. Twice-baked potato with Parmesan shavings atop, garlic, green onion and Italian herbs in the stuffing (halves) Served aside an Aioli-parsley covered steak and cold salad.
3. Stuffed RED bell peppers (made by me) with Spanish or yellow rice soaked in a tomato puree with tomato diced with green onions, cilantro and chives in a red wine, garlic and cayenne or paprika reduction. Topped with crushed flax, almonds and bread crumbs before baking...
4. The same as 3, but containing sauteed tiny bits of seed-removed Serrano peppers and red onions, stacked on chopped rare-cooked steak in the vertical middle of the pepper and covered with more rice and then soaked in the tomato base (it all finishes in the baking). She decided she liked this hotter variant after getting one of mine she initially was grossed out over. 5. Stuffed mushrooms of ANY sort, any size, and almost any stuffing, especially featuring roasted peppers.
6. Stuffed chicken breasts: (a) black olive tapenade, fresh tomato and alouette with a lemon-garlic-sherry-pepper sauce on the plate. Asparagus side. (b) feta, green olive tapenade processed with basil and capers, baked covered and then finished with a quick broil after being rubbed with a lemon on both sides and spiced to taste. Served cut into slices over a simple olive oil-tossed, basil-and-pasta, mixed-vegetable plate. (c) the above wine-based selection.
7. ANY empanada will do. ANY empanada, from the standard beef to the chicken and the pork.
8. Tamales, including dessert tamales such as the pineapple, cinnamon and apple, and other sweet variants.
9. Stuffed chicken in too many variants to list here, but especially with pine nuts and garlic, bread crumbs and a mix of white wine and broth. She loved those ingredients passionately
10. Stuffed pork chops with crushed rosemary and apple pieces, and a creamy sauce that included sage and peppercorns.

There are more, but I am hungry... I'll do this again tomorrow.

Finally back at the Beach

So today it was hot, and I decided to try going back to the beach. I made a review of mission Beach for Yelp... I thought I would share it here, too.

I almost had to leave you forever, Mission Beach. Your funk, your wide swath of the social fabric, none of it could obliterate the pain. But I went back and we were back, buddied up for madness and fun.

Yeah, bra. You know me. I used to pop in for breakfast. I sometimes had a beer. But me, I come see you to be on your sand and in your water. Back on my hardboard days, by the jetty. Body boarding days? That sweet break in the summer swim zone, in front of Canes.

Now you remember me. Hey, remember when mom took off and lived down by the volleyball nets in that cool little beach house with that new dude? She visited that day with us and I learned to surf? I sure do. I was nine, man. Wow, that was a great day, seeing mom after three months. Thanks, you were a great host.

Remember all the trips to see you with my aunts and uncles and dozens of cousins, sneaking away from Mission Bay Park where they made us stay to come see you so I could play in the waves. Awesome, man. It was worth the spanking, totally!

Remember the girlfriends I took there, all of them needing to have that special "you get to know this place through me" quality. Yeah, of course you do. Even the one who didn't much like you.

In 14 years she only came with me five times. Each time, I made it a point to be in tune, riding and carving to impress her under her skin-shielding encampment, my little pallid Sultana. She liked it, but the beach was just not her thing. You played a good host, though.

I remember she urged me to be in the water whenever possible. I was. She was your biggest cheerleader. Then she was gone. I forgot she urged me to be in your water. I just remembered she didn't like to go with me to see you. I was afraid her spirit would not be with me.

I was wrong, and I finally went to see you today again, ready to ride the waves for the first time since she left me here. The first song on the radio was the one that reminds me of her. "Big Hard Sun." She wanted to let me know she was coming with me.

We've been buds for a long time, bra. You're my homie from the home break. Hell, you are the home break.

You might not be the best surf spot ever, but you have the goods to get me in the water, and there's a boardwalk for me if I want some non-natural beach fun. Not bad, not bad, but a little gawdy. I prefer the sand and waves.

Hey, bud. If I bring a new girl or a pack of friends around, try to do something to score me a fire ring. It gets busy and I can't camp out all day. You understand, man.

And do you think you can bring the broom painter back, the guy who does the sand sweeping designs on the lot surface? That would be keen, even if he sells more Jesus than an immigrant smuggler with a labor service on the side.

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...

The Sunday Brunch Ritual

Sunday brunch with Marcie was always a treat. The meal was elaborate and dressed up in every possible way. As we were both cooks, it could get a bit excessive, but it was always delicious.

Marcie would cook up meat, whether ham, bacon, leftover Saturday steak, or sausage. She or I would whip up eggs or omelette's, to order. Then the potatos.

Marcie was a potato queen. From a potato, she could summon baked (included twice and thrice variations), fried, french fried, mashed, hashed, homestyle and scalloped goodness at will. Sundays were a potato bonanza of potential, all from scratch.

By far my favorite tater from Marcie's kitchen was the broiler homestyle roasted breakfast potato. This flavorful and somewhat healthful treat was always dressed up just right. Marcie would bake the potato, red or russet, for just a little time, then chop it up, still firm, toss it in oil and broil or bake it to crispy goodness as she made everything else.

It was delicious. We not only used variants of it for breakfast, but also to side along our roasts and various dinners. The potatoes were always delicious reheated, too. A recipe for you all to reproduce them with:

Marcie's Roasted Breakfast Potato

1 potato per person (two if of the small rose variety)
2 mushrooms per potato
1 tsp per potato dried onions
1 tbsp olive or canola oil
cayenne pepper*
black pepper*
Sea salt*
dash of sage*
*(use what you like!)

Bake or microwave the potatoes until about halfway cooked. Chop them into small disks or wedges, as you prefer. Heat the broiler to 500 degrees or 450 if roasting, and toss the potato slices with the chopped mushrooms and dried onions and oil in a small bowl. Arrange it all on aluminum foil on broiler or cookie sheet. Broil for 10-15 minutes or until lightly browned or crisp. Roast for 25-40 minutes, or until browned as above.

To this we would sometimes add special breads, from waffles to pancakes, toast to cinnamon rolls from Hob Nob Hill. But by far Marcie's favorite was my French toast. I took pride in whipping up fluffy, light and well-flavored French toast for her.

Another recipe I hope you will enjoy:

Frank's French Toast

2 pieces of soda/sweet bread per person
1 egg (or equivalent egg substitute) per person or 2 pieces of bread
1 tbsp heavy cream or half and half (milk okay, too) per egg
1 tbsp cinnamon
2 tsp powdered or confectioner's sugar
dash of nutmeg for each slice of bread
syrup and butter (to taste)
slice of apple (garnish)
mint leaves (garnish)

Combine the egg, cream/milk, cinnamon and sugar in a bowl and mix it well. Heat some vegetable or canola oil in a pan (butter is okay, too) big enough for two pieces of bread (at least) to lay flat. Prepare some syrup , either by heating it in second pan or in the microwave. If making roasted or broiled potatoes, a steel bowl in the oven will also do. You can add the nutmeg to the syrup.

When the pan is hot (about medium heat to high-medium will do), quickly dip the soda or sweet bread into the egg mixture and then flip it, coating both faces lightly. Do not let the bread sit in the mix. Place the egg-washed bread on the pan and cook until just brown on each side.

Add a pat of butter if desired to the hot syrup. As soon as you finish cooking the French toast, garnish the bread with apple slices and pour syrup over it all. Top with the mint leaf garnish and a dash of nutmeg if it is not in your syrup.

This was the core of our best breakfasts, our anchoring repasts for calm and luxurious Sundays in our mutual company. Occasionally, I would make Marcie a screwdriver or a mimosa, taking one myself. That almost always fueled a wonderful after-breakfast treat or languid make-out session on the couch.

I replicated it all today for old time's sake, changing out healthy options for everything as I could, and sighing that I would not be kissing her or taking a contented nap in her lap. But it was nice to do something I know she would be happy to see me do what I grew fond of distinctly under her influence.

But it was not always joy on Sunday mornings for my sweetie and I. Marcie and I had one nearly unresolvable difference. It concerned when we ate, and it could get heated at times. Marcie could not eat a heavy breakfast too early in the morning. I was starved from the moment I awoke.

Mind you, it is hard for a person who eats breakfast early when he eats it at all, usually some cereal or fruit or a combo thereof, to wait on food. Adding in sloooooowwwwlyyyy cooked bacon, home fries and other wonderful-smelling items, and you have one impatient eater.

"You need to let me cook how I know how to and go do something else," I remember her saying after I urged Marcie to turn up the heat.

Marcie took an hour each Sunday to cook bacon, slowly bubbling it in its own juice and fat, spreading a pork smell all over the neighborhood. Ditto for ham. She took her time.

Maddening! I pushed a lot, and too far at times. She booted me out of the house once over it, and tossed all the food away twice aside from that after I groused about it not being ready yet.

"Why don't you just go down to Denny's and eat their breakfast food if you can't wait for me to cook for you?" she said, torqued at me just too far. She dumped the food into the trash can and hauled it out to the dumpster, infuriated.

I learned eventually. I left and went surfing or walking when she started cooking, and I tried to have a cup of coffee to hold down my hunger until she was ready to eat. Still, I would find myself going crazy with hunger when I got home.

Which I think she rather enjoyed, as long as I kept my mouth shut and ate gratefully, which I alwats did eventually.

This little meal, this ritual, was just one that Marcie and I shared. Many other meals we cooked were also cooperative efforts, complementary dishes put together on a whim with indulgent details. I do not hold out much hope of finding anything like it ever again, but at least we had it, and eventually got it right.

Little moments of tease

So, Marcie has been making her appearances again in my dreams. But there is a different feel to them now. For one, I am not aware that I am dreaming.

I have had several of these new dreams. There are no surreal or grand visions, no strange transformations of reality or unnerving sensations. There are just relatively simple little chats and cuddles.

The best one was one that happened last week after the crazy spring in our mattress drove me off the bed and onto the couch. I dreamed I was laying with my head in her lap as she sat "Indian style," a rare treat.

Oh, geez, I miss that simple little thing. So you know how it works:

I usually would slide into her lap as I laid on my belly on the couch, wrapping one arm around her hips and the other under her thighs, then lay my head down. She loved to keep a pillow on her lap when she sat, conveniently enough. She only let me when she planned to stay put.

I had a tendency to fall asleep there, actually. I did almost every time.

In my dream, Marcie was stroking my back and leaning down, holding me and kissing my head as she basically petted me. I rolled over on my back and admired her as she watched something on the television.

Her soft little cotton pajama bottoms and the warmth of her body under them always made me want to stroke her, if not always out of my enamored state then for the tactile pleasure of it. She smiled and blushed as I got a bit fresh, but did not protest.

"If you can't behave, you can go," she said, smiling and leaning down, kissing me and stroking my hair off of my brow.

"I don't want to behanve, but if you try to make me leave, I will tickle you mercilessly," I said.

She gave me her look of defiant warning, one of my favorites, and the play ensued. By the time I had her on her back with her arms pinned, we were kissing. I let her hands go and she stroked my back gently and looke dup with such loving eyes.

Eyes I knew. Eyes I very much wish I could stare into again.

"I love you, honey," she said, and smiled. Then a tear rolled down her cheek.

Then I "remembered" she had cancer, and she was under treatment. I kissed her tears and her nose and her face, gently holding her head and stroking her face with my fingertips.

"You'll be okay, baby," I said, holding back tears and gulping at the lump in my throat.

She smiled and nodded, then looked up at me with a strangely calm and happy face. "I am okay," she said. "You'll be okay, too, honey. You'll be just fine, I promise."

I kissed her lips and slid down, hugging her waist and settling my head just under her breasts, kissing her tummy. She stroked my hair for what seemed a long time. Though I did not drift off, she said "Honey, you have to get up."

I pushed up and she sat up and kissed my forehead. "You have to go to work," she whispered. "I love you."

She smiled and stroked my cheek. I woke in our front room, laying on my belly, her kiss of the phantom of it still warm on my forehead and the stroke of her hand's tingle not yet quite faded.

For once, I felt not just loved but undisturbed and not as bereft as I awoke, and I went to work happy and well-rested for the first time in months.

I hope these are the moments I can expect when I take our trip.

The promise of honor

Compliments complement. Nothing we do in love becomes worse with a compliment, everything is just made better. But sometimes, I know the tendency is to let them slow or stop, or to be used as bandages when we wound each other.

Marcie and I served each other compliments constantly. Some were too much. My head would swell when she called me a genius, her handsome man or, most preciously to me of all, her hero.

She was better at it sooner than I was, but I am very glad she taught me to be free and direct with them.

The issue really came up in Humboldt. I was under constant stress, working after a full load at school every day, full time, and trying to find little gestures for Marcie to enjoy her life more in Arcata.

I was also a reporter who took his work on the community page of the school paper very seriously. I was neglecting her. One night, she just broke down.

"Frank, I don't even know why I am here," she said. "I hate this place, I hate the hippies and the rain and the cold. I hate my job, I hate how far it is to the city, and I feel like you don't even acknowledge me anymore."

She burst into tears and I remember holding her as she cried on our old green couch, whispering my love to her.

"You don't tell me anything anymore," she said. "We have sex and you don't talk to me, you don't say nice things to me, you just take me for granted and I'm too scared to complain because you're so happy here."

"I don't know why you are just soo distant from me now," she said, wracked by hitches and moans.

I was crestfallen. I had no idea how it had come to this. I remembered how I had spent the morning admiring her as she prepared for work, watching her from the bathroom doorway that morning.

I loved watching her put on her makeup. But I most enjoyed watching her put on her clothes in the soft twilight, her nude form silhouetted by the light in the bathroom, the smell of her lotion my own little alarm clock.

Then it struck me. I had become caught up in my own head. I thought about how hot Marcie was, and I thought about how good she was to me, but I was just not saying it.

Marcie always told me how sweet I was, how good I looked dressed up and how proud she was of me. I was ashamed.

I promised to improve, and I did. At first, she thought that it would pass. But I added little bunches of hand-picked flowers from the roadside and my long hikes in the woods and fields, just because.

I would always try to pick a flower or two with a special connection in my head to her.

"This bunch is for your red hair and your white skin," I said once, holding a bunch of what I did not know was a rare lily in Humboldt County. "It captures my eyes and makes me want to lean over and inhale you."

They were corny but honest, and with them and a conscious effort, I slowly moved my thoughts into words. Now it is habit.

From time to time, when I grew slack in my attentions, I would revive them with an occasion, not noting them but simply reinstating my conscious will to honor her.

She noticed last year the difference and as we cleared our hearts of all our pains and all our unsaid things, she told me about it.

"You have never stopped telling em how you love me, how beautiful I am to you and how happy I have made you and bearable I make the world for you," she said. "I always thought you would just need to be reminded from time to time."

I nodded and kissed her tears as they welled up and slid down her pale cheeks. I was dying inside.

"You have never stopped telling me, not since we had our talk in Humboldt," she said. "Do you remember our talk?"

I nodded and held her close. I whispered to her that I would never stop telling her all of the things she deserved to hear. She wound my fingers with hers, squeezing and massaging them between her own.

My last compliment to Marcie was how good she smelled with her lotions and creams after I had sponge-bathed her on her little hospital bed. I kissed her and she smiled and nodded, mouthed a thank you and rested. She never awoke.

That I kept my promise was the first soothing realization I came to when some of my pain passed, but that it was no longer possible to keep holding up was the most painful one I had to acknowledge with it, despite the honor I pay her here.

I never took her for granted, and I know I never will.

Chasing Marcie

*Warning* TASTEFUL adult stuff in this post.

So, when we left off, I was walking away from Marcie's house after our first (if platonic) sleepover with my jacket tied around my waist. Classes went by in a blur. I decided to call Marcie after a quick workout at the gym. When I got no answer, I headed back to my little hotel room.

"Hey, Frank-o!" the front desk clerk called to me as I entered.

His name was Gus and he was a retired Navy man with a drinking habit that had outgrown his pension but not his spirit. He always had a salty comment to make, usually to a greatly mirthful reception. I stopped.

"Somebody left you a message," he said. "Marcie called and said she'll see you in class tomorrow, she's working late at CVS."

"Thanks, Gus," I said, taking the message from him and pocketing it. "She's really cute, man."

Gus looked at me funny. Then he shrugged a little and spit his New York accent at me with a little barb. "Huh. No shit? You like girls, then? Hell, I thought you were a queer."

"Sorry to disappoint, Gus, but I like the ladies," I said.

"Yeah, yeah," he said. "Until one of them finally drives you into bad habits, too, huh? We're not so different, you and I."

Gus went back to reading the Reader's Digest, one of the little lodger hotels' subscriptions, pressing the button to buzz me in as if to dismiss me. He was a quirky old guy.

The night passed slowly, and the morning classes seemed to go on forever. Then, when speech class began, she was not there. Stood up! I knew angst for the first half hour of the hour-and-a-half class, wondering where she was.

She floated in while Ken discussed rhetoric and persuasive speaking. I turned and watched her walk in, shooting her a win. She rolled her eyes and slid into her chair, giving me a critical look.

The class dragged but we were let out early because we had had no break.

"Stop it," she said as I tried to hold her hand. "Hold on."

We were out of sight of the classroom when she finally let me take her hand. But she set her book bag down and slipped into a deep, wet kiss under the City College bridge that doubled as a plaza above B street.

"Come on," she said. "Let's catch the 7 and go to Balboa Park."

I picked up her bag and she held my free hand. We both had passes and within 15 minutes were at the Balboa Park Fountain. We strolled through the park and stopped in various places to kiss. we ended up making out for a long while on the western end's soft, unkempt grass.

"I have to eat," she said.

"What would you like?" I asked. "Some French food?"

"No, no," she said. "Just something simple. Are you hungry?"

I was less interested in nutrition than she was, but I nodded. "Sure."

We covered the ground between her house and the park in no time. She sat me down on her bed and turned on her television to the news.

Within 15 minutes, we were eating Macaroni and Cheese, the Kraft kind. It was a lifelong favorite of hers, thought not mine by any means. Some red wine helped wash it down, and we enjoyed a cigarette afterward. She told me we were being "very French."

She handed me the toothbrush I had used before

"Go brush your teeth," she said. "Close the door, too."

I did, and brushed giddily. There would be more kissing, at least.

I was on the right track. When she opened the door as I still brushed, she was in her robe. She slide it against me and I got the feel of her nipples against my back. She hugged me from behind and whispered, "Go finish out there," before she kissed my nape.

I was completely turned on and just threw the toothbrush into the sink and rinsed my mouth. I half expected her to shower or something, but she came out of the bathroom and turned off all but the nightstand light.

She stood silhouetted in her clingy bright green baby doll, massing her hair on her head with her hands, then clipping it in place.

"Well, do you need a written invitation?" she asked me.

"No," I remember I said. "But I do enjoy the view."

"Oh, that's cute," she said. "But you're sure talking a lot, aren't you. Are you nervous?"

I most certainly was not, but decided to show her, not tell her. My clothes practically flew off me and in seconds, I had slid my hands around her little waist and kissed her.

She giggled in our kiss but broke it and handed me a condom from a fresh pack in her purse. "Now," she said. "Or no way."

"Now" sounded really good.

Marcie was an amazing lover, even the first time. Before we slept, I remember holding her in my lap as I sat "Indian-style" on the bed in a gently rocking straddle as we talked and kissed playfully, somewhere between an afterglow and another go around.

"So now we have to slow down and get to know more about each other," she said. "I don't completely trust you, I just want you to know that."

I nodded and kissed her lips, smiled at her. "Okay, we'll do that."

She bit her lip and shuddered a little, then smiled at me, "But that doesn't mean we stop or anything. That just means there are strings attached, mister."

I nodded, looking up at her with what had to be a pretty sated, stupid, dopey smile. "Uh huh."

She laughed a little and kissed my neck, then set her elbows on my shoulders and nuzzled me. "Oh, my god, this is so fast."

I whispered in her ear, "No, it's ten o'clock. I think we're taking out time."

She laughed and kissed me, and sometime later that night we went to sleep in a tight, comforting spoon. I remember waking up to the smell of her skin, and sex, and golden, dust-stained rays of sun over the building's eastern side.

I kissed her neck and she slid against me. I remember feeling, secretly, that I was in love already, and I remember feeling great comfort in her little studio, tucked away together.


I am grateful that it was not the last time, but the first of many mornings like that, and I am pained that I wake and look for her still, until my mind remembers and my heart, and eyes, burn yet again.

Possible hiatus

I am pretty ill at the moment and may need to take a break from blogging and life in general to deal with it. Then again, maybe being sick will inspire more nostalgia and the time to think will override the fevered state of my mind. We'll see.

Marcie's Wisdom

I never fully woke from Marcie's passion. But I remember a distinct transition from the lingering touch of her lips on mine to a warmth all around me as I came close to waking but fought to sleep.

I woke suddenly to her voice.

"So, honey, what are you going to do?" she asked, taking my hand. her own was warm and her fingers were strong, supple my hand.

"I don't know," I said, and felt hot tears with it. "I guess I'll go see you in Europe and Africa when I can, and you can come see me."

She whispered hoarsely, "Okay, Frank, you do what you think is right."

It was a stock answer, or so I had thought over all those years. Her hand squeezed a little, and I looked at her.

She was of an age I had never known her in. She looked to be 19 or so, and she was dressed in a familiar outfit I knew I had never seen her wear, a long black lace gown that went down to her ankles.

She stood and I did as well, and looked down and saw the suit I had never worn before her memorial. She smiled and we danced.

"If you do what you think is right, you'll be fine, honey," she said.

I nodded and she went on. "I hope you do everything you want to, honey," she said. "You need to get out there and do your thing. I really meant what i said."

And I gulped. It was all old words, words she had said before. The idea that I was in a dream, asleep began to intrude on our little, fantastic reality, and then it fled.

Marcie was glaring at me.

"You need to listen to me," she said. "You need to do all these things you say you want to do. Because from now on, I am not there to blame for what you don't do with your life."

I nodded and took a deep breath. The heat of tears again on my face, and this time I imagined my vision blurred with them. She stopped dancing a moment and wiped my face, kissing me lightly.

"I love you," she said. "I told you what I wanted from you."

I nodded and she recounted her wishes for my life. She gave me oddly specific instructions about myriad events I don't clearly recall but apparently should expect.

I do recall that she told me to avoid the home in Big Sur, it was going to slide into the Pacific after an earthquake. But then she reminded me of our situation with a single sentence.

"I want you back for myself," she said.

I felt a great pain in my heart as she said it, and felt as if I could not breathe from the pain. But it soon passed and I closed my eyes in the dream, though her voice continued.

"I said I will love you forever, and you said you would love me forever, too," she said. "I'll come get you when it's time."

She looked up so sadly at me. "When you have to go, remember I am here waiting and that this all only does us part in body, sweetie."

I nodded. "I'll see you soon?"

"You come find me," she said.

And I woke to the alarm, which I let run for a while in the bedroom. After I turned it off, I slipped under the covers and slept dreamlessly. More importantly, I slept in our bed for the first time in almost two months.

A Slow and Busy Morning

Marcie's morning ritual took a little tonger this morning. She needed some extra care and I gave it to her.

I woke her at 7 a.m., first clearing her throat of some phlegm and wiping her face, dabbing mostly, patting it dry. I gave her drops of natural tears and cleaned around her cannula:


After the accumulated moisture and grubbiness of Marcie's sleep was off her face, I changed her bed. I gave her a bath while I did it, slowly shifting her to her left side from her right. She quietly watched or snoozed when it suited her, serene.

After almost an hour, I took her laundry out and got it started. She generates a lot of it. I like to use clean washcloths and towels for her. The latter, at least, are plentiful.

I came back and she was snoozing hard. I finished changing her clothes, carefully giving her a fine coat of her favorite oils, salves, unguents, balms, lotions and emulsified suspensions of every type. She woke and indicated she was quite amused by it all, since the home health aids take about half the time and don't "moisturize."

It was time to grind her medications. I did that, made a mix of it and water in a syringe. She took it with OJ. I got her to take some orange juice and more water, finishing two loads of laundry as I set her up with some gentle classical music to drown out the hum of the air mattress and the oxygen rig.

Her pupils are mismatched. I gave her Ativan and massaged her again. She's warm.

Heavy Breathing

Marcie is gurgling again, so I have requested oxygen. The nurse got me some antibiotics to crush into her ice cream (or apple sauce). She needed pain medication, but she sounds clearer now. We'll see.

I managed to get out today (thanks to our hospice aide, Shawn Marie). I had a four-hour break and got some exercise, then came home and helped the nurse check Marcie out and diagnose her. Marcie took in some orange juice and some water, but that was about it. I'm just giving her love and waiting for the oxygen tanks and prescriptions to come in.

A New Morning

So, Marcie is fully lucid again this morning. She refused medication and did not grouse overmuch as I moved her onto her left side. She is tired, though. She took two syringes of water before I had to leave for work, we'll see how much more she gets.

I am planning something special to lift her spirits and will post it after I have the details worked out. I'll post it later. F.

On the Outside

I spent the night turning Marcie from side to side to keep her from gurgling when she breathes. She has not been swallowing, so some of her food and soup may have gone down the wrong pipe. Later, I am going to make Marcie a little cocktail of honey and a drug we were prescribed to help cut down on the secretion of mucus into her throat.

Marcie is occasionally lucid, but so far has not taken in any water, or has tried but cannot swallow it. According to the hospice nurse, Marcie has two weeks, and that is "at the outside." I am doing what I can to make that not the case, but without some intake of water, death could come at the hands of an infection and a fever.

Thank you for all your thoughts and prayer of support. I share them when she is lucid, though all she can really do is nod in response.

The Vigil Begins

Marcie is not taking liquids of any kind now. She's awake, but she is refusing. I can't blame her. She has a lot of trouble breathing and has liquid in her chest, from what I hear. I do not believe Kaiser personnel who told me it was in her throat yesterday. She takes shallow, rapid, rattling, ragged breaths.

Keep her in your thoughts, if you are not dodging fires and sorting out evacuations or cancellations of them. Her mom, Barbara, is here and watching her with me.

I am able to administer some medication by crushing the drugs, suspending it in honey, then putting it under her tongue with a syringe. It was my own idea, and it works fairly well. Just a tip for anyone visiting from outside our circle of friends.

Maybe a little Bounce

So, the fires have me home with Marcie and her mom, since the school asked that only essential employees, ordered to come, in go to work. I wasn't on that list. It's a good thing. Marcie had a rough night, coughing and wheezing. She is having trouble breathing and it appears she is clogged up. The nurse visits later today, so I will let everyone know what is going on afterward.

On the other hand, Marcie's speech is clearer today and her mind is, too. She ate A LOT of the homemade soup Jane left us (as seen in the picture) and her medications went down with nary a hitch.

On another note, thanks for all the kind words of support. Keep your prayers and thoughts on Marcie, though. I'll relay your greetings.

Grapes Among the Flames

So, while San Diego burned this morning, I woke Marcie up and she was more coherent than yesterday. She took about 10 grapes and all her medicines went down well. Jane came back over to help us out for the day, but her mom may need her to go help with evacuations. We'll see.

Here's hoping Marcie does well for the rest of the day and the smoke doesn't knock her down too much. The news says, "slow down, take it easy and drink a lot of water." We'll give it a shot.

Slow Start Today, And Visitor Stuff

Marcie is looking forward to her day, but she couldn't quite wake up this morning, so she's snoring away for the moment. She took some grapes, which helped me feed her the decadron, and I'll be making her a more elaborate breakfast later on.

I have had inquiries about visits. They're fine, but be patient. I can't accommodate everyone who wants to come by for now. However, I can lay out a few ground rules and some links to read first. First off, read this page on visiting cancer patients. Secondly, this page is public, so not everyone will get a visit who might ask for one.

Some common-sense:

• Visits are for family and friends only.
  
• Marcie gets final approval of visitors.
• No drop-ins.

Some less intuitive rules:

• No children on visits, please.
  
• Don't visit if you are ill.
  
• Contact me before you send or bring flowers or gifts.
  

Okay, I hope those are not too onerous. If you would like a visit, flash me an email and we will see what can be done. Have a good day, folks.