Preface: I have been trying to revisit this for the last week, but it did not return until last night. I stopped thinking about the dream and just slept, doing a little breathing exercise to relax and fall deeply asleep.
However, Marcie did pop into a dream I was having about a hike in Humboldt County.
I was wandering around the forest above Humboldt State with some long-lost Zendik pals and my old dog Spot, which was weird but comforting, and I essentially knew I was dreaming.
Nom said, "Fen, redhead alert!" and I followed his finger, seeing a flash of red hair and some blue disappearing over a hill in a clearing.
We hiked out of the redwoods and over the little rise and Marcie was there, picking a little white gardenia from what looked like a hedge of them.
"Hi, hon," she said. "Try to come home. I am going to put some of these gardenias in bowls of water and put them around the house, then I want to work on the fence."
I nodded and she hugged me, a cool, almost cold kiss on my neck no less nice for the fell of her against me, and she was gone."
"Dude, that was your wife?" Dawna asked.
"Yep, that was her," I said, beaming with pride.
"Well, we're heading up the mountain, maybe you should head home?" she said, and she winked and wiggled a bit.
I blushed in the ears. "Yes, maybe I should."
Spot barked and ran down the hill ahead of me. I chased him then jumped, and soon was floating down towards Arcata.
And I awoke.
Showing posts with label Visits. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Visits. Show all posts
Monday, October 19, 2009
Monday, October 12, 2009
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.
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.
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
Old friends and plans to put in place
Marcie knew my friend Chris Cerutti pretty well and was able to help him out with a ride home once when we worked together. I've known him since the old Gashaus days. It was good to hear from you, man!
He lives in Portland now, and contacted me on Facebook. Interestingly enough, this is a place I am considering moving, along with San Francisco, Hong Kong and Canada. Maybe I will pop in for a visit. I have an offer of a spare room on the table. Sweet!
Then again, things can get sticky here in San Diego. We'll see what's what as some new and interesting opportunities continue to develop. Television work? Heh. We'll see for sure. Anyways, more this week as I try and wrap up a big project for a client.
He lives in Portland now, and contacted me on Facebook. Interestingly enough, this is a place I am considering moving, along with San Francisco, Hong Kong and Canada. Maybe I will pop in for a visit. I have an offer of a spare room on the table. Sweet!
Then again, things can get sticky here in San Diego. We'll see what's what as some new and interesting opportunities continue to develop. Television work? Heh. We'll see for sure. Anyways, more this week as I try and wrap up a big project for a client.
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
Visits:Tea with Marcie
I had a little visit that I sorely needed.
I was inexplicably sitting at the Kensington Coffee Company in my slippers. I knew it was likely okay to do so, but I also knew it was not what I might choose, myself, to do.
I was also drinking tea. I noticed another cup across from me and I recognized the burnt red shade Marcie had always work to work.
It was the same, unmeasurable and unquantifiable presence I could not predict which washed over me next, and I knew by this that it was real. A visit.
I started straightening my clothes out, checked my face in the mirror and cleared my throat. As I started to roll up my sleeves, I felt hands on my shoulders and the light touch of a kiss on my neck.
"Oh, sweetie," she said, her lipstick and perfume (Fendi) mixing in my nostrils. "Don't worry about it, you look fine."
She sat and put her purse back down under her chair and smiled with that mischievous grin she had perfected.
She was beautiful, as if she could be anything less. But all her earthly charms, her glowing hair back-lit in the sun, her perfect skin and blue, blue eyes, all of them were on full display.
"I just had to come by and have you out for some tea," she said. "I love you."
She got up, leaned down and kissed my cheek and smiled. "I have to get back to work, but I will see you soon."
I don't know what her work might be. I do know I look forward to another visit. I'll keep you informed.
F.
I was inexplicably sitting at the Kensington Coffee Company in my slippers. I knew it was likely okay to do so, but I also knew it was not what I might choose, myself, to do.
I was also drinking tea. I noticed another cup across from me and I recognized the burnt red shade Marcie had always work to work.
It was the same, unmeasurable and unquantifiable presence I could not predict which washed over me next, and I knew by this that it was real. A visit.
I started straightening my clothes out, checked my face in the mirror and cleared my throat. As I started to roll up my sleeves, I felt hands on my shoulders and the light touch of a kiss on my neck.
"Oh, sweetie," she said, her lipstick and perfume (Fendi) mixing in my nostrils. "Don't worry about it, you look fine."
She sat and put her purse back down under her chair and smiled with that mischievous grin she had perfected.
She was beautiful, as if she could be anything less. But all her earthly charms, her glowing hair back-lit in the sun, her perfect skin and blue, blue eyes, all of them were on full display.
"I just had to come by and have you out for some tea," she said. "I love you."
She got up, leaned down and kissed my cheek and smiled. "I have to get back to work, but I will see you soon."
I don't know what her work might be. I do know I look forward to another visit. I'll keep you informed.
F.
Monday, October 20, 2008
Into the dreams
She calls me again and I slip into sleep,
run to her and then I fall and I weep.
She lifts me anew and I rise to my feet,
to take in her view, of a life now complete.
She sings in my soul and I dance to her heart,
We embrace, are made whole, though waking apart.
Urging me, no matter how hard it seems,
to be strong and proud, in her light, in my dreams.
run to her and then I fall and I weep.
She lifts me anew and I rise to my feet,
to take in her view, of a life now complete.
She sings in my soul and I dance to her heart,
We embrace, are made whole, though waking apart.
Urging me, no matter how hard it seems,
to be strong and proud, in her light, in my dreams.
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
The HK Visit - Butterflies
It was all about the butterflies.
By this I knew right away, or at least believed, the thought that she was not really here, and she could not be. But I wanted to, and I wanted to touch her, so I sat at the table.
"They are really nice, honey," she said, her voice rising on the last syllable in the way that told me she was pleased. She slid her pale, cool hand over to my forearm and looked me in the eyes.
And I smiled and thought, "Of course she likes them, because she is just in my head right now, and I have been collecting those butterfly pictures slowly and agonizingly for a week."
"I am glad you like them," I said. "Some of the best are too active to catch, and none of them seem to like to display when they rest."
She pulled them out of her purse, the brown one she always loved to carry and smiled, flipping through them. I walked around and stared at her face as she perused them. She sighed quietly.
"I love that you send these to me," she said. "I have every picture you've ever sent."
I thought to myself, "I have very few pictures of us together, I regret that so badly," and gulped, holding her hand.
"I know you regret it, honey," she said. "I know you do. But you don't need proof of anything. Everyone knows I love you and everyone knows you love me."
I fished around for my camera and she posed, smiling, then I set the camera on the dilapidated Coke refrigerator Mrs. Chan owned and set the timer. She smiled and bit her lower lip, then slid onto my lap.
I managed a smile, and as she turned and her big, blue, beautiful eyes sank into mine she became a blur, and tears burned down my cheeks.
"Why are you crying?" she asked. "Oh, honey. It's okay. It's okay..."
I thought, "I am crying because she is dead, she is not on Lamma, she is not even here in the dream with me. She is just a memory and a fantasy and I have not even printed a picture in a year."
She squeezed me against her chest and I felt and heard her heart beat against mine. She whispered, "If I am all those things and not me, aren't you grateful you have such a clear memory of me?"
I nodded and she kissed my nose. She wiped my tears with her thumbs and stoked my hair. "You're taking care of yourself," she said. "Thank you."
I shrugged.
She shook her head and sighed. "People lose the people who died before them because they become convinced that everything is just in their heads about their feelings of this whole hard, sad loss of that connection is real, and they think the dead can't feel or learn or change."
I looked up at her and they were all blue, then they opened and I sank into them again. I lost sight of all but those blue pools of unfathomable kindness and gentle love, and I knew that though she may not have been there at first, she was now.
I looked away, at Mrs. Chan and her peers, who now ignored us utterly, as opposed to the furtive, slightly annoyed glances they offered before.
"I love you," I said, the hot stng of tears on my face again.
"I know," she said. "You love me like I never left, because you know I never did. And I have felt it the whole time. Every thought of me, all your pains, your little offerings and your tears, I feel them all."
I nodded and sighed. "I know, sometimes they must be very sad."
"No, sweetie, no," she said, her cool skin against my face in her decolletage a sweet relief from the Honk Kong humidity. "You are so good to me, you don't even know."
I looked up and she smiled, but then looked concerned. "Don't throw me away, though, okay?" she asked.
I was confused and hurt all at once. I looked up at her and felt great weight.
"Don't disperse it all, not all of me," she said. "I love what you want to do for me. I love that I am here with you, that your love is so very strong. But don't let all of me go."
I nodded and croaked, "Okay."
"Letting me be free is not the same as letting go of me forever, and I don't want to let go of you, and I don't want you to let go of me," she said, holding my hand. "Keep a little of me close, sweetie, just a little."
And I was sure she was there now, so I asked, petulantly, sadly "Do you miss me?"
She gulped and sighed, "I can see you any time I want," she said. "I don't miss you. But I do know you miss me terribly, and I wish you could be with me as easily as I can be with you. But I am sometimes sad that you are in so much pain."
"I'll see you as often as I can," I said.
We stared out at a sunset over the ocean as the day closed, and I leaned against her as she sat in my lap.
As I woke, the heat of Lamma on my skin in the night was less where I felt she had been, and the absolute quiet slowly faded into the sounds of a less reverent night of a living island.
I knew she had been by and I was solemn for the moment. As I went to sleep again, Istarted awake at the sound of a voice.
I think it said, "I'm looking forward to the turtles."
By this I knew right away, or at least believed, the thought that she was not really here, and she could not be. But I wanted to, and I wanted to touch her, so I sat at the table.
"They are really nice, honey," she said, her voice rising on the last syllable in the way that told me she was pleased. She slid her pale, cool hand over to my forearm and looked me in the eyes.
And I smiled and thought, "Of course she likes them, because she is just in my head right now, and I have been collecting those butterfly pictures slowly and agonizingly for a week."
"I am glad you like them," I said. "Some of the best are too active to catch, and none of them seem to like to display when they rest."
She pulled them out of her purse, the brown one she always loved to carry and smiled, flipping through them. I walked around and stared at her face as she perused them. She sighed quietly.
"I love that you send these to me," she said. "I have every picture you've ever sent."
The Butterflies of Lamma - For Marcie
I thought to myself, "I have very few pictures of us together, I regret that so badly," and gulped, holding her hand.
"I know you regret it, honey," she said. "I know you do. But you don't need proof of anything. Everyone knows I love you and everyone knows you love me."
I fished around for my camera and she posed, smiling, then I set the camera on the dilapidated Coke refrigerator Mrs. Chan owned and set the timer. She smiled and bit her lower lip, then slid onto my lap.
I managed a smile, and as she turned and her big, blue, beautiful eyes sank into mine she became a blur, and tears burned down my cheeks.
"Why are you crying?" she asked. "Oh, honey. It's okay. It's okay..."
I thought, "I am crying because she is dead, she is not on Lamma, she is not even here in the dream with me. She is just a memory and a fantasy and I have not even printed a picture in a year."
She squeezed me against her chest and I felt and heard her heart beat against mine. She whispered, "If I am all those things and not me, aren't you grateful you have such a clear memory of me?"
I nodded and she kissed my nose. She wiped my tears with her thumbs and stoked my hair. "You're taking care of yourself," she said. "Thank you."
I shrugged.
She shook her head and sighed. "People lose the people who died before them because they become convinced that everything is just in their heads about their feelings of this whole hard, sad loss of that connection is real, and they think the dead can't feel or learn or change."
I looked up at her and they were all blue, then they opened and I sank into them again. I lost sight of all but those blue pools of unfathomable kindness and gentle love, and I knew that though she may not have been there at first, she was now.
I looked away, at Mrs. Chan and her peers, who now ignored us utterly, as opposed to the furtive, slightly annoyed glances they offered before.
"I love you," I said, the hot stng of tears on my face again.
"I know," she said. "You love me like I never left, because you know I never did. And I have felt it the whole time. Every thought of me, all your pains, your little offerings and your tears, I feel them all."
I nodded and sighed. "I know, sometimes they must be very sad."
"No, sweetie, no," she said, her cool skin against my face in her decolletage a sweet relief from the Honk Kong humidity. "You are so good to me, you don't even know."
I looked up and she smiled, but then looked concerned. "Don't throw me away, though, okay?" she asked.
I was confused and hurt all at once. I looked up at her and felt great weight.
"Don't disperse it all, not all of me," she said. "I love what you want to do for me. I love that I am here with you, that your love is so very strong. But don't let all of me go."
I nodded and croaked, "Okay."
"Letting me be free is not the same as letting go of me forever, and I don't want to let go of you, and I don't want you to let go of me," she said, holding my hand. "Keep a little of me close, sweetie, just a little."
And I was sure she was there now, so I asked, petulantly, sadly "Do you miss me?"
She gulped and sighed, "I can see you any time I want," she said. "I don't miss you. But I do know you miss me terribly, and I wish you could be with me as easily as I can be with you. But I am sometimes sad that you are in so much pain."
"I'll see you as often as I can," I said.
As I woke, the heat of Lamma on my skin in the night was less where I felt she had been, and the absolute quiet slowly faded into the sounds of a less reverent night of a living island.
I knew she had been by and I was solemn for the moment. As I went to sleep again, Istarted awake at the sound of a voice.
I think it said, "I'm looking forward to the turtles."
Monday, September 29, 2008
Marcie in Hong Kong - Visit
Marcie visited last night, but I was too conscious and couldn't go with the flow. Still, there was a moment at the end... far too brief.
She continues to console me, but I still wake and fall apart after her appearances. For a little while, until the comfort of her presence and the specialness of that connection wraps itself around me like a hug.
More later.
She continues to console me, but I still wake and fall apart after her appearances. For a little while, until the comfort of her presence and the specialness of that connection wraps itself around me like a hug.
More later.
Monday, August 11, 2008
San Francisco Trip Part 2
Ah, vacation(s). On August 29th, I will be in San Francisco, visiting Jane and Christina and perhaps scouting. This is something I have been forced to put off time and time again as the school district and other items have thrown me curve balls.
Just know that there will be many images and possibly some films. Unfortunately, the long trip along Big Sur from last time will not be repeated. I am a flying fool.
There will be a visit to Izakaya for sure. I wonder if everything is still "gorgeouth."
Muahaha. I plan to wreck the place. Hell, I need to. In a Marcie-approved way, of course.
When booking my little room in Japantown, I noted all rooms are for two adults (assumed) when reserved. Sure I am happy to be going, but those little things really sober you up.
Just know that there will be many images and possibly some films. Unfortunately, the long trip along Big Sur from last time will not be repeated. I am a flying fool.
There will be a visit to Izakaya for sure. I wonder if everything is still "gorgeouth."
Muahaha. I plan to wreck the place. Hell, I need to. In a Marcie-approved way, of course.
When booking my little room in Japantown, I noted all rooms are for two adults (assumed) when reserved. Sure I am happy to be going, but those little things really sober you up.
Friday, August 1, 2008
A Moment with Marcie Pt. 2
"Honey, there is no answer, there is nothing at all," she said. "What I am, right here and now, is what I am."
I felt a little let down and I bit my lip as I looked up at her with my head bowed a bit, but she stopped me cold. I felt a little less than enlightened.
"Let me ask you, honey," she said. "Do you believe in me, being here with you right now, or do you believe I am just some thought you had or some story you lived? Because right now, I feel like you think I am memories turned into, I don't know, a mannequin or something."
And though the hurt in her voice and its tone, combined with her upturned hands, was so very touching to me, I was at first ready to cave in, and it occurred to me that what had been in my thoughts was very different from what she had said.
I shook my head and she shrugged, questioning with a look and on the verge of tears. She was rarely so vulnerable in life.
"I was thinking," I said, my throat tight. "I was thinking that it is very nice to see you and it is nice to have you here in a way I remember my little redhead."
And she was in my arms and I simply absorbed the sensation of it, the softness of her, the warmth and her breath on my neck.
"I know you miss this, honey," she said. "I know you do."
And she sounded almost insecure, questioning. But I knew there was no question that I missed holding her in my arms.
"I miss you, I miss you so much. I miss everything, especially just being with you," I said, stroking her hair gently, her soft and thick mane of red, her head and her nape.
She looked up and closed her eyes as she asked, "Then why do you agonize and hem and haw over me so much?" she asked me.
I kissed her forehead and took a breath. "I don't mean to," I said. "But I just didn't know what to think of all these dreams."
She held my hand and she walked with me, up to the little tiny door on the pagoda, and smiled, then opened it, pulling me into it. I did not squeeze in so much as I simply popped into a different place.
Marcie walked out in a qipao with a tray, her hair up in a rare favorite of mine, a single bun, chopsticks through it. I smiled as she lowered the tea and varied sweets onto the table I kneeled at.
"I know it's a qipao and I should wear a kimono," she said. "But you like qipaos on me."
I nodded and looked down at my own kimono and shrugged. "I like you in a kimono," she said. "I liked that kimono from Okinawa."
It had been eaten by moths in Humboldt County after I stored it away in my closet. I had been too chubby for it. I had also forgotten it.
"Thank you," I said, smiling as she poured me the tea. I felt so very comfortable.
"So there's more," she said, matter of factly. "It bothered me that you thought of me as maybe just a figment or a memory or a dream."
I nodded, "I didn't mean to hurt you."
"Pfft, you didn't hurt me," she said. "I can't be hurt. But if you keep it up, you are going to hurt yourself."
I didn't get her, really, and my mind was reeling already. I was usually almost able to predict the course of the conversation, the tone and flavor of it. Now I was distinctly out of sorts and a million things to say, to do and to think vied. But I listened instead, very gladly.
"Agonizing," she said, smiling up at me. "You always, always agonized. Everything was complicated and full of implications, nothing was ever simple. Except one thing."
I sipped my tea and carefully set it down as she sipped and smiled back. "I never had any questions about how I felt about you," I said.
She held her hand to her face and bit her lip as she spoke, looking up at me as she tailed off, "You never left any question. I could not question your love."
She came around the table and kneeled next to me, her hand sliding down my arm and into my own.
"I want you to know that I still don't have any questions about us," she said, her blue eyes, the green flecks shining as I listened. "Nothing you do will make me change how I feel towards you."
I nodded and held her hand, squeezing, and said, "I know. Thank you."
She set her tea down and took my hand in both hers, earnestly rubbing it between them. "You need to decide how you want to see my visits and just accept them, or reject them," she said. "Because no matter what I am, you will only know me now as you decide to."
I nodded and she kissed my cheek. "I am not just a memory," she said. "I am not some thing you made up in your head."
"Okay," I said, pain turning me to gasps.
"Frank," she said. "I will be here for you, but if you keep telling yourself that you're making it all up as you go along, it won't matter. But if that is what you need, then do what you need to do."
I turned and kissed her cheek, and she let go of my hand and hugged me, then slipped into my lap. We were silent, and as I slipped into a sleep within a sleep I awoke.
And I still smelled her and tasted her kiss, and for a second my critical, doubting mind was silent and my heart was light.
I have thoughts on my dream to share next time.
I felt a little let down and I bit my lip as I looked up at her with my head bowed a bit, but she stopped me cold. I felt a little less than enlightened.
"Let me ask you, honey," she said. "Do you believe in me, being here with you right now, or do you believe I am just some thought you had or some story you lived? Because right now, I feel like you think I am memories turned into, I don't know, a mannequin or something."
And though the hurt in her voice and its tone, combined with her upturned hands, was so very touching to me, I was at first ready to cave in, and it occurred to me that what had been in my thoughts was very different from what she had said.
I shook my head and she shrugged, questioning with a look and on the verge of tears. She was rarely so vulnerable in life.
"I was thinking," I said, my throat tight. "I was thinking that it is very nice to see you and it is nice to have you here in a way I remember my little redhead."
And she was in my arms and I simply absorbed the sensation of it, the softness of her, the warmth and her breath on my neck.
"I know you miss this, honey," she said. "I know you do."
And she sounded almost insecure, questioning. But I knew there was no question that I missed holding her in my arms.
"I miss you, I miss you so much. I miss everything, especially just being with you," I said, stroking her hair gently, her soft and thick mane of red, her head and her nape.
She looked up and closed her eyes as she asked, "Then why do you agonize and hem and haw over me so much?" she asked me.
I kissed her forehead and took a breath. "I don't mean to," I said. "But I just didn't know what to think of all these dreams."
She held my hand and she walked with me, up to the little tiny door on the pagoda, and smiled, then opened it, pulling me into it. I did not squeeze in so much as I simply popped into a different place.
Marcie walked out in a qipao with a tray, her hair up in a rare favorite of mine, a single bun, chopsticks through it. I smiled as she lowered the tea and varied sweets onto the table I kneeled at.
"I know it's a qipao and I should wear a kimono," she said. "But you like qipaos on me."
I nodded and looked down at my own kimono and shrugged. "I like you in a kimono," she said. "I liked that kimono from Okinawa."
It had been eaten by moths in Humboldt County after I stored it away in my closet. I had been too chubby for it. I had also forgotten it.
"Thank you," I said, smiling as she poured me the tea. I felt so very comfortable.
"So there's more," she said, matter of factly. "It bothered me that you thought of me as maybe just a figment or a memory or a dream."
I nodded, "I didn't mean to hurt you."
"Pfft, you didn't hurt me," she said. "I can't be hurt. But if you keep it up, you are going to hurt yourself."
I didn't get her, really, and my mind was reeling already. I was usually almost able to predict the course of the conversation, the tone and flavor of it. Now I was distinctly out of sorts and a million things to say, to do and to think vied. But I listened instead, very gladly.
"Agonizing," she said, smiling up at me. "You always, always agonized. Everything was complicated and full of implications, nothing was ever simple. Except one thing."
I sipped my tea and carefully set it down as she sipped and smiled back. "I never had any questions about how I felt about you," I said.
She held her hand to her face and bit her lip as she spoke, looking up at me as she tailed off, "You never left any question. I could not question your love."
She came around the table and kneeled next to me, her hand sliding down my arm and into my own.
"I want you to know that I still don't have any questions about us," she said, her blue eyes, the green flecks shining as I listened. "Nothing you do will make me change how I feel towards you."
I nodded and held her hand, squeezing, and said, "I know. Thank you."
She set her tea down and took my hand in both hers, earnestly rubbing it between them. "You need to decide how you want to see my visits and just accept them, or reject them," she said. "Because no matter what I am, you will only know me now as you decide to."
I nodded and she kissed my cheek. "I am not just a memory," she said. "I am not some thing you made up in your head."
"Okay," I said, pain turning me to gasps.
"Frank," she said. "I will be here for you, but if you keep telling yourself that you're making it all up as you go along, it won't matter. But if that is what you need, then do what you need to do."
I turned and kissed her cheek, and she let go of my hand and hugged me, then slipped into my lap. We were silent, and as I slipped into a sleep within a sleep I awoke.
And I still smelled her and tasted her kiss, and for a second my critical, doubting mind was silent and my heart was light.
I have thoughts on my dream to share next time.
Thursday, July 31, 2008
A Moment with Marcie
I have missed her, though she has been in my dreams, alive and well, her body no longer infirm and her countenance unmarred by the fear and pain the gnawing of cancer inflicted on her. Sometimes, her appearance has been fantastical and her demeanor absolutely supportive.
But those have not been the most important visits. Of late, there have been few because of how little I sleep. I stay awake into the wee hours and plan and work, then wake and work at the school district. Sometimes, I seek out a little company and stay out late instead of in.
Last night, I dreamed of her for the first time in a long time. Perhaps it was because my work is beginning, or perhaps because my life is on the verge of changing wildly yet again. But what stuck out was how very present she seemed and how engaged. We had a strong, real conversation.
It's still haunting me.
I walked into a garden and saw a Buddhist treasure tower. Red and white, with intricate inlays and detailed carving, I stood near it and felt my awareness slowly open. I was dreaming.
"I'm in the Japanese Friendship Garden," I said, smiling. "I can stay as long as I want. It's my dream, and the garden can be as big as I want it to be."
The hair on the back of my neck stood on end a moment as I touched a beautiful pink Camellia. I listened to the wind in the trees. I felt a lump in my throat as I realized that I would usually be stealing bloom for her at this point.
"Of course you would," her familiar and smiling, mischievous voice rang out.
I knew I was dreaming. I bit my lip and my eyes burned. I wfelt tears in my sleep, I thought.
"Oh, my god, would you buck up?" she said, much closer now.
I turned and nearly ran into her. I was startled and stepped back, but she stepped in and grabbed my hands, squeezing them. I was hugging her and felt a wave of relief as her smell and the feel of her skin sank into me with a familiarity I do not believe a simple memory could summon.
"Ooookay," she said, impatience in her tone. "Okay, honey. I know you love me. I'm here now. Are you okay?"
I looked into her eyes and saw so many little details in them. The greenish and white flecks, some large and distinct, others so familiar they were distinctive to me alone, likely. I nodded.
"Well, I need you to listen to me, honey," she said. nodding. Her hands lifted mine and lowered them.
I nodded. "Okay, honey," I said, wondering what my unconscious had to say to me now.
"Frank!" she said, her eyes hardening and widening a bit. "Don't you do that. You need to listen to me and hear me out. Don't dismiss me like that."
I looked at her and she turned her head askance a bit.
"I didn't say anything," I offered.
Her eyes narrowed a little. "You don't have to say anything. I don't have to hear anything. I know what you are thinking, and I can't tell you what to think, but you would probably do well to just hear me out."
I nodded and bit my lip, turning my head a bit and squinting. I felt tears again and blinked. "I'm sorry," I said. "I miss you."
Usually, the Marcie in my dreams would pulle me into her arms and hug me, whispering and soothing me. But this time, she broke down with me and her tears flowed.
"Oh, honey," she said, her voice almost disappearing in the high range. "I know. I miss you too, sweetie. I worry about you so much."
I took her in my arms, and I held her, and she buried her head in my neck again, for the first time since she had died, really. She kissed me and we sat until quiet returned.
I felt her warmth and smelled her hair again. My heart slowed. "I don't know what to think," I said.
She looked up and she shook her head. "You agonize so much," she said. "Sometimes you think I am your thoughts, sometimes I am my spirit, sometimes it is your memories. Do you want to know?"
I bit my lip and remembered the tears and the dreams and the visits and the strength she gave me, and then I looked down, unsure.
She turned her head and looked stern. I suddenly understood that I would not know unless I told her I wanted to.
"Yes," I said. "I want to know."
She smiled and her eyes watered then teared as she replied breathlessly, "Okay."
And when I had held her a little while, afraid of what i would learn, she began.
I cannot continue tonight. Tomorrow, I promise. It was a long visit.
But those have not been the most important visits. Of late, there have been few because of how little I sleep. I stay awake into the wee hours and plan and work, then wake and work at the school district. Sometimes, I seek out a little company and stay out late instead of in.
Last night, I dreamed of her for the first time in a long time. Perhaps it was because my work is beginning, or perhaps because my life is on the verge of changing wildly yet again. But what stuck out was how very present she seemed and how engaged. We had a strong, real conversation.
It's still haunting me.
I walked into a garden and saw a Buddhist treasure tower. Red and white, with intricate inlays and detailed carving, I stood near it and felt my awareness slowly open. I was dreaming.
"I'm in the Japanese Friendship Garden," I said, smiling. "I can stay as long as I want. It's my dream, and the garden can be as big as I want it to be."
The hair on the back of my neck stood on end a moment as I touched a beautiful pink Camellia. I listened to the wind in the trees. I felt a lump in my throat as I realized that I would usually be stealing bloom for her at this point.
"Of course you would," her familiar and smiling, mischievous voice rang out.
I knew I was dreaming. I bit my lip and my eyes burned. I wfelt tears in my sleep, I thought.
"Oh, my god, would you buck up?" she said, much closer now.
I turned and nearly ran into her. I was startled and stepped back, but she stepped in and grabbed my hands, squeezing them. I was hugging her and felt a wave of relief as her smell and the feel of her skin sank into me with a familiarity I do not believe a simple memory could summon.
"Ooookay," she said, impatience in her tone. "Okay, honey. I know you love me. I'm here now. Are you okay?"
I looked into her eyes and saw so many little details in them. The greenish and white flecks, some large and distinct, others so familiar they were distinctive to me alone, likely. I nodded.
"Well, I need you to listen to me, honey," she said. nodding. Her hands lifted mine and lowered them.
I nodded. "Okay, honey," I said, wondering what my unconscious had to say to me now.
"Frank!" she said, her eyes hardening and widening a bit. "Don't you do that. You need to listen to me and hear me out. Don't dismiss me like that."
I looked at her and she turned her head askance a bit.
"I didn't say anything," I offered.
Her eyes narrowed a little. "You don't have to say anything. I don't have to hear anything. I know what you are thinking, and I can't tell you what to think, but you would probably do well to just hear me out."
I nodded and bit my lip, turning my head a bit and squinting. I felt tears again and blinked. "I'm sorry," I said. "I miss you."
Usually, the Marcie in my dreams would pulle me into her arms and hug me, whispering and soothing me. But this time, she broke down with me and her tears flowed.
"Oh, honey," she said, her voice almost disappearing in the high range. "I know. I miss you too, sweetie. I worry about you so much."
I took her in my arms, and I held her, and she buried her head in my neck again, for the first time since she had died, really. She kissed me and we sat until quiet returned.
I felt her warmth and smelled her hair again. My heart slowed. "I don't know what to think," I said.
She looked up and she shook her head. "You agonize so much," she said. "Sometimes you think I am your thoughts, sometimes I am my spirit, sometimes it is your memories. Do you want to know?"
I bit my lip and remembered the tears and the dreams and the visits and the strength she gave me, and then I looked down, unsure.
She turned her head and looked stern. I suddenly understood that I would not know unless I told her I wanted to.
"Yes," I said. "I want to know."
She smiled and her eyes watered then teared as she replied breathlessly, "Okay."
And when I had held her a little while, afraid of what i would learn, she began.
I cannot continue tonight. Tomorrow, I promise. It was a long visit.
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
Things to look forward to
I will be returning to our friends, Marcie's characters, visitors and urchins and their associated stories, in due time. Due time means this week.
I will be launching a new site which will correspond with my travels to places Marcie wanted to see and my visits to locations she would have wanted to experience in those places. Oddly enough, the first stop is not in her longer list, but someplace she always spoke to me of.
I am going to Hong Kong in the next months to help a friend launch his publishing empire into the web 2.0 world. I may end up with a piece of that empire for my help. I will also be making stops in Thailand for the Moon Festival and possibly stopping in Fiji for a day or two, another visit Marcie wished to make.
The die is cast.
I will also begin the long goodbye, a blog dedicated to her memorial journey itself. It is time to set the plan in motion and start my new life with those first few steps to honor and complete hers. But we are not done here by any means.
The goal is publication. I will entertain offers and ideas on how to monetize my ongoing efforts. I am also hoping to hear back from friends so I can plan a trip to San Francisco. This will, as stated before, be a scouting mission for my eventual resettlement.
That's the big news. I return you now to our regularly irregular programming.
I will be launching a new site which will correspond with my travels to places Marcie wanted to see and my visits to locations she would have wanted to experience in those places. Oddly enough, the first stop is not in her longer list, but someplace she always spoke to me of.
I am going to Hong Kong in the next months to help a friend launch his publishing empire into the web 2.0 world. I may end up with a piece of that empire for my help. I will also be making stops in Thailand for the Moon Festival and possibly stopping in Fiji for a day or two, another visit Marcie wished to make.
The die is cast.
I will also begin the long goodbye, a blog dedicated to her memorial journey itself. It is time to set the plan in motion and start my new life with those first few steps to honor and complete hers. But we are not done here by any means.
The goal is publication. I will entertain offers and ideas on how to monetize my ongoing efforts. I am also hoping to hear back from friends so I can plan a trip to San Francisco. This will, as stated before, be a scouting mission for my eventual resettlement.
That's the big news. I return you now to our regularly irregular programming.
Monday, June 2, 2008
Just a simple sharing post
Marcie was worried that I would be too overwhelmed to function when she left me behind. We spent sad days preparing and making sure I knew where to find materials, checkbooks, bills, records and all manner of household business items.
I have had occasion to change my insurance and add new documents to the pile I keep in the Elantra. But I never took apart the whole bundle when I did, I discovered another one of Marcie's little notes, guiding me on what she thought I might not understand.
It doesn't matter that I may not have needed it. It was her way of nesting a note somewhere I would find it months later. I still hope to find more.
I have had occasion to change my insurance and add new documents to the pile I keep in the Elantra. But I never took apart the whole bundle when I did, I discovered another one of Marcie's little notes, guiding me on what she thought I might not understand.
It doesn't matter that I may not have needed it. It was her way of nesting a note somewhere I would find it months later. I still hope to find more.
Sunday, June 1, 2008
Affirmation: Another Note
I have always wondered if these dreams constitute any connection between Marcie and I, or if they are just the workings of my mind, weaving tapestries to occupy my thoughts and soothe me.
I have explained how I feel about the intertwining of phenomena and perception, especially as it regards the potential for life and ego survival beyond death. But a path to acceptance of life after death does not a proof make.
Regardless, the merest of coincidences can do so much for me as I face Marcie's absence. She seemed to have wanted me to run into her in my daily life long after she was gone. Her presence, as was the case before her death, is one of assistance and a deep understanding of me.
I have found another note. This note clarified a part of our lives and a function I have to assume that Marcie previously handled for us. I will share it tomorrow, when I have had time to fully formulate a context that relays the depth the simple missive otherwise hides from the reader.
Have a good Sunday, folks. F.
I have explained how I feel about the intertwining of phenomena and perception, especially as it regards the potential for life and ego survival beyond death. But a path to acceptance of life after death does not a proof make.
Regardless, the merest of coincidences can do so much for me as I face Marcie's absence. She seemed to have wanted me to run into her in my daily life long after she was gone. Her presence, as was the case before her death, is one of assistance and a deep understanding of me.
I have found another note. This note clarified a part of our lives and a function I have to assume that Marcie previously handled for us. I will share it tomorrow, when I have had time to fully formulate a context that relays the depth the simple missive otherwise hides from the reader.
Have a good Sunday, folks. F.
Sunday, March 2, 2008
A visit! And some plans
Marcie's friend Chrissy Patterson will be visiting sometime this week, so I guess I'll have to clean the house. Bleah. But the visit will be good. Chrissy and I actually got to hang out (along with her hubby Tom) a few times, unlike some of Marcie's pals.
I hope to get pictures of Marcie's cat pal Cavinia so I can finish off the story of their little love affair. We'll see if she feels like entertaining photographers, and I will try to film, as well.
I'll catch up later tonight. Have a good Sunday, folks
F.
I hope to get pictures of Marcie's cat pal Cavinia so I can finish off the story of their little love affair. We'll see if she feels like entertaining photographers, and I will try to film, as well.
I'll catch up later tonight. Have a good Sunday, folks
F.
Thursday, February 7, 2008
The secret signal
Marcie and I were, to the day that she suddenly was knocked down and unable to walk, hopeful of her recovery. Certainly, her condition was not good, her setbacks disheartening and her episodes frightening.
But her brain metastases had been shrinking, the cancer had disappeared from other parts of her body, and there was a glimmer of hope. There was also more than a touch of desperate, stubborn and fierce determination from us both. We were alike that way.
But it did not mean we avoided preparing. We did what we could in case she did die, and we let other things that were too hard simply go.
But one night, up in Julian, when Marcie's tired legs had given out in a restaurant and she had been tucked in at the little bed and breakfast we had taken a break at, we talked of what would come after.
It was so difficult a weekend that I journaled it in my reporter's notebook, especially her touching words.
"I don't know what comes after you die," she said. "Maybe nothing, maybe Hell or Heaven, or maybe something more pagan. Maybe we're reincarnated."
She squeezed my hand and I listened, the dark making my tears invisible but my gulps and breathing telling on me.
"I hope there is something after," she said.
I did not know what to say. I have no answers. Faith and belief are not knowledge and I hold more in doubt than I do either of those. But I did think of something to say.
"So if I die first," I said. "I'll send a sign so that you know there is something and I am there."
She squeezed my hand and this time her own breathing gave her away. It was ridiculous, but she understood I wanted her to live, outlive me, or simply not to die without me. I had said it before, long before she was sick
We clung together and let the sadness pass through us. She finally spoke after she cleared her nose, and she tweaked the conversation.
"How should we signal each other?" she asked, squeezing my hand again and sliding herself back into me in a close spoon.
I gulped but maintained and I said, trying to break the tension, "Maybe email?"
She laughed her tired, chemo-strained laugh and rasped "No, honey, seriously. What will our signal be?"
I considered it for a long time. I am a romantic, and she was to a degree as romantic as I was. But both of us were skeptics of most things supernatural and intangible.
Except for ghosts.
Both of us firmly believed in hauntings after a strange sequence of events at our apartment in downtown San Diego. At first, the shower curtain whipped open in front of Marcie while I was showering, both my hands in my hair, covered in shampoo.
I had thought to admonish her, but she was in the hallway looking bewildered. I put on my dirty clothes and we stayed outside for a few minutes until we decided we were being impractical. I must have brushed it open with an elbow.
The next day, during an argument in the kitchen, the stove fell open and we both watched the cookie tray rattle out. We reasoned that away as well. And we reasoned away a remote sliding across the table and onto the floor, and the closet doors opening and cabinets closing.
We admitted once we moved to Humboldt that the place had been haunted.
"No whipping open the curtain to the shower, okay?" I said.
She "hmm'd" and sighed. "I will move something and you will know it is me moving it."
"Really?" I asked. "How about trying to talk to each other? Can we do that?"
"Yes, honey," she said. "I talk to my friend from New York who committed suicide once in a while in my dreams, but that's not easy to tell if it's real or not."
I pondered this, and my dream about my old cat Garfield Siamese, who had popped in to say hi a few times in my own dreams, my dead relatives and their appearances. They all seemed so real. But it was hard to tell.
"Well," I said, tugging on her hip a little. "I won't care if I know it's real or not, you'll be required to resume wifely duties if you visit my twisted dreams."
She laughed at first, but I had miscalculated and the unintended reminder of her state and inability to engage me in our heretofore most bonding act made her cry. I soothed her.
"I will send you my poems in email," I said. "And you won't be able to tell, because if I know I am dying, I will set them up to come on certain days."
"You'll never have to do that for me, honey," she said. "I wish I knew how to do that for you."
We went quiet and I stroked her. She slept the sleep of the exhausted long before I could close my eyes in the dark of our mountain retreat. When we woke, she brought the subject up once more.
"When I die, I will haunt you until you know there is something to look forward to," she said. "If I don't, then I will see you in your dreams and I know that will never be the same, but it's something."
I hugged her and I loaded her into the car. We took the long way home. As we wound our way through the hills, I considered a sharp turn or two gloomily. I pulled over after I took one of several far too quickly.
She had not commented as I had sped through them, but when I pulled over, she did.
"Honey," she said, taking my hand and sobbing. "I know you want to be with me. But you have to live how you are supposed to or it might not happen."
I held her hand and closed my eyes, squeezing the tears from them for a second. "I wasn't trying to kill us, I was just thinking 'what if,' and I guess I wasn't paying much attention."
She shook her head and she mouthed, "I love you" silently. "Be careful," she croaked.
When we got home and I helped her into the house, she laid down and watched me from the couch as I carried in our things. She patted the seat next to her when I closed the door. I sat.
"You are my brave man, and I already know you love me and will be just devastated without me," she said. "But you have to live even if I don't, because you are closer to me than anyone and I want you to be happy again someday."
I could not hold back my tears. I did not want to consider life without her, even if I had accepted she could die, the aftermath was such an enormity that I wondered (and still do) whether I could carry it at all.
"You are a rare man with a pure soul," she said, breaking my heart with each word. "You can't hide anything, you just say what you have to and share what you have in your heart. It's a precious thing, really."
"You took so long to open up, and I can't have you just shut down again over this, because I would feel terrible," she said. "You can't just clam up and hide yourself, because I want someone else to experience you, just how you are now, because I think I helped you get this way again."
We spent the afternoon on the couch, snoozing under a blanket and waking for little snacks, until I helped her into the shower and then to the bed.
And so, last night, as I dreamed, I went to a computer and logged into my email account. I watched the messages load and clicked on one that read "I love you, honey."
I sobbed in my sleep as I read a beautiful poem I cannot recreate, not typed but written on my screen in her hand, and I pondered how she had figured out sending timed emails, or who she had scan and email them, because I forgot I was asleep.
And when I awoke in the middle of the early morning and walked into the bathroom, my foot caught a mesh bag that I had put off to the side, far out of my path, but somehow in it now.
I stopped and put it back, and wondered how it had stood up in its own, but reasoned Seamus was to blame. But I did stop as I returned and felt a chill down my spine, and I asked, gently "Baby?"
And though I received no answer, I am still haunted beyond my skepticism, and this is signal enough.
But her brain metastases had been shrinking, the cancer had disappeared from other parts of her body, and there was a glimmer of hope. There was also more than a touch of desperate, stubborn and fierce determination from us both. We were alike that way.
But it did not mean we avoided preparing. We did what we could in case she did die, and we let other things that were too hard simply go.
But one night, up in Julian, when Marcie's tired legs had given out in a restaurant and she had been tucked in at the little bed and breakfast we had taken a break at, we talked of what would come after.
It was so difficult a weekend that I journaled it in my reporter's notebook, especially her touching words.
"I don't know what comes after you die," she said. "Maybe nothing, maybe Hell or Heaven, or maybe something more pagan. Maybe we're reincarnated."
She squeezed my hand and I listened, the dark making my tears invisible but my gulps and breathing telling on me.
"I hope there is something after," she said.
I did not know what to say. I have no answers. Faith and belief are not knowledge and I hold more in doubt than I do either of those. But I did think of something to say.
"So if I die first," I said. "I'll send a sign so that you know there is something and I am there."
She squeezed my hand and this time her own breathing gave her away. It was ridiculous, but she understood I wanted her to live, outlive me, or simply not to die without me. I had said it before, long before she was sick
We clung together and let the sadness pass through us. She finally spoke after she cleared her nose, and she tweaked the conversation.
"How should we signal each other?" she asked, squeezing my hand again and sliding herself back into me in a close spoon.
I gulped but maintained and I said, trying to break the tension, "Maybe email?"
She laughed her tired, chemo-strained laugh and rasped "No, honey, seriously. What will our signal be?"
I considered it for a long time. I am a romantic, and she was to a degree as romantic as I was. But both of us were skeptics of most things supernatural and intangible.
Except for ghosts.
Both of us firmly believed in hauntings after a strange sequence of events at our apartment in downtown San Diego. At first, the shower curtain whipped open in front of Marcie while I was showering, both my hands in my hair, covered in shampoo.
I had thought to admonish her, but she was in the hallway looking bewildered. I put on my dirty clothes and we stayed outside for a few minutes until we decided we were being impractical. I must have brushed it open with an elbow.
The next day, during an argument in the kitchen, the stove fell open and we both watched the cookie tray rattle out. We reasoned that away as well. And we reasoned away a remote sliding across the table and onto the floor, and the closet doors opening and cabinets closing.
We admitted once we moved to Humboldt that the place had been haunted.
"No whipping open the curtain to the shower, okay?" I said.
She "hmm'd" and sighed. "I will move something and you will know it is me moving it."
"Really?" I asked. "How about trying to talk to each other? Can we do that?"
"Yes, honey," she said. "I talk to my friend from New York who committed suicide once in a while in my dreams, but that's not easy to tell if it's real or not."
I pondered this, and my dream about my old cat Garfield Siamese, who had popped in to say hi a few times in my own dreams, my dead relatives and their appearances. They all seemed so real. But it was hard to tell.
"Well," I said, tugging on her hip a little. "I won't care if I know it's real or not, you'll be required to resume wifely duties if you visit my twisted dreams."
She laughed at first, but I had miscalculated and the unintended reminder of her state and inability to engage me in our heretofore most bonding act made her cry. I soothed her.
"I will send you my poems in email," I said. "And you won't be able to tell, because if I know I am dying, I will set them up to come on certain days."
"You'll never have to do that for me, honey," she said. "I wish I knew how to do that for you."
We went quiet and I stroked her. She slept the sleep of the exhausted long before I could close my eyes in the dark of our mountain retreat. When we woke, she brought the subject up once more.
"When I die, I will haunt you until you know there is something to look forward to," she said. "If I don't, then I will see you in your dreams and I know that will never be the same, but it's something."
I hugged her and I loaded her into the car. We took the long way home. As we wound our way through the hills, I considered a sharp turn or two gloomily. I pulled over after I took one of several far too quickly.
She had not commented as I had sped through them, but when I pulled over, she did.
"Honey," she said, taking my hand and sobbing. "I know you want to be with me. But you have to live how you are supposed to or it might not happen."
I held her hand and closed my eyes, squeezing the tears from them for a second. "I wasn't trying to kill us, I was just thinking 'what if,' and I guess I wasn't paying much attention."
She shook her head and she mouthed, "I love you" silently. "Be careful," she croaked.
When we got home and I helped her into the house, she laid down and watched me from the couch as I carried in our things. She patted the seat next to her when I closed the door. I sat.
"You are my brave man, and I already know you love me and will be just devastated without me," she said. "But you have to live even if I don't, because you are closer to me than anyone and I want you to be happy again someday."
I could not hold back my tears. I did not want to consider life without her, even if I had accepted she could die, the aftermath was such an enormity that I wondered (and still do) whether I could carry it at all.
"You are a rare man with a pure soul," she said, breaking my heart with each word. "You can't hide anything, you just say what you have to and share what you have in your heart. It's a precious thing, really."
"You took so long to open up, and I can't have you just shut down again over this, because I would feel terrible," she said. "You can't just clam up and hide yourself, because I want someone else to experience you, just how you are now, because I think I helped you get this way again."
We spent the afternoon on the couch, snoozing under a blanket and waking for little snacks, until I helped her into the shower and then to the bed.
And so, last night, as I dreamed, I went to a computer and logged into my email account. I watched the messages load and clicked on one that read "I love you, honey."
I sobbed in my sleep as I read a beautiful poem I cannot recreate, not typed but written on my screen in her hand, and I pondered how she had figured out sending timed emails, or who she had scan and email them, because I forgot I was asleep.
And when I awoke in the middle of the early morning and walked into the bathroom, my foot caught a mesh bag that I had put off to the side, far out of my path, but somehow in it now.
I stopped and put it back, and wondered how it had stood up in its own, but reasoned Seamus was to blame. But I did stop as I returned and felt a chill down my spine, and I asked, gently "Baby?"
And though I received no answer, I am still haunted beyond my skepticism, and this is signal enough.
Monday, January 28, 2008
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.
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.
Monday, January 21, 2008
Nutty Rice and Mixed Stir-Fry... plus...
This is the most important recipe of all of them. I invented it for our first anniversary. Marcie instructed me to come up with something a little different and tasty that would not remind her of teriyaki or sweet and sour. The following is what I came up with as a base starch.
Originally intended to be a reddish sauce that would color the food the same way, the dish evolved when the rice came out brownish instead. I had called it "redhead rice" but Marcie changed it to "nutty rice," reflecting its flavor and smell, as well as her opinion of the ingredients as I worked on the whole thing.
*Nutty Rice*
1 cup cashews, unsalted:
1/2 cup broken
1/4 cup whole
1/4 cup crushed
1 tbsp crushed sesame seeds
1/4 to 1/2 clove garlic, crushed
1 tsp crushed ginger
1/2 tsp fresh ground pepper
2 tsp La Yu Fire Oil
1 tbsp red bell pepper olive oil
1-2 tsp sesame oil
2-3 tbsp soy sauce
1 ton of heartfelt devotion
4-6 cups of steamed rice (2 cups uncooked)
Mix all the ingredients, save for the rice. Dump them into a heated pan or wok and immediately fold into the steamed rice which should be added just as the oils and soy sauce begin to boil. Can be eaten alone or used as a base for stir fried food.
*Sticky Mixed Stir-Fry*
1 steak, cut into shirt strips
1-2 chicken breasts, cut into short strips
The night before you are to serve, mix 1 tbsp Hunan red chile paste with 2 tbsp honey and 4 tbsp of black bean garlic sauce. Marinade the meats and make a small additional amount for cooking with.
1 diamond-cut red bell pepper
1 onion very thinly sliced
8 oz mushrooms, to suit tastes
2 cups Chinese/snow peas
1 cup Bean sprouts
1 cup cashews
2 tsbp peanut oil
A little bit of deviltry (2 pinches and a kiss)
Heat the peanut oil and add the meat first, with the cashews. After the meat has been stir-fried a bit, add the onions, the bell peppers, the mushrooms and any other vegetables, the heaviest first and the fastest-cooking last. Add any additional sauce reserved before the marinade. Cook until the onions become dark and caramelized, then remove. Serve over rice (as above) or noodles.
The caramelized onions will help make the rice and other items stick for novice chopstick users because they are sticky and circular to boot.
Tomorrow, I will post Marcie's modified cookie recipe. Everyone wants to know what is different about it, since it is a basic tollhouse recipe... There are some differences, which I will share. I may not post the last dream right away. Eventually, though. I have a lot more to post after they are done. More moments, more memories...
F.
Originally intended to be a reddish sauce that would color the food the same way, the dish evolved when the rice came out brownish instead. I had called it "redhead rice" but Marcie changed it to "nutty rice," reflecting its flavor and smell, as well as her opinion of the ingredients as I worked on the whole thing.
*Nutty Rice*
1 cup cashews, unsalted:
1/2 cup broken
1/4 cup whole
1/4 cup crushed
1 tbsp crushed sesame seeds
1/4 to 1/2 clove garlic, crushed
1 tsp crushed ginger
1/2 tsp fresh ground pepper
2 tsp La Yu Fire Oil
1 tbsp red bell pepper olive oil
1-2 tsp sesame oil
2-3 tbsp soy sauce
1 ton of heartfelt devotion
4-6 cups of steamed rice (2 cups uncooked)
Mix all the ingredients, save for the rice. Dump them into a heated pan or wok and immediately fold into the steamed rice which should be added just as the oils and soy sauce begin to boil. Can be eaten alone or used as a base for stir fried food.
*Sticky Mixed Stir-Fry*
1 steak, cut into shirt strips
1-2 chicken breasts, cut into short strips
The night before you are to serve, mix 1 tbsp Hunan red chile paste with 2 tbsp honey and 4 tbsp of black bean garlic sauce. Marinade the meats and make a small additional amount for cooking with.
1 diamond-cut red bell pepper
1 onion very thinly sliced
8 oz mushrooms, to suit tastes
2 cups Chinese/snow peas
1 cup Bean sprouts
1 cup cashews
2 tsbp peanut oil
A little bit of deviltry (2 pinches and a kiss)
Heat the peanut oil and add the meat first, with the cashews. After the meat has been stir-fried a bit, add the onions, the bell peppers, the mushrooms and any other vegetables, the heaviest first and the fastest-cooking last. Add any additional sauce reserved before the marinade. Cook until the onions become dark and caramelized, then remove. Serve over rice (as above) or noodles.
The caramelized onions will help make the rice and other items stick for novice chopstick users because they are sticky and circular to boot.
Tomorrow, I will post Marcie's modified cookie recipe. Everyone wants to know what is different about it, since it is a basic tollhouse recipe... There are some differences, which I will share. I may not post the last dream right away. Eventually, though. I have a lot more to post after they are done. More moments, more memories...
F.
Sunday, January 20, 2008
Marcie's Passions
I drifted to sleep with the sound of sparrows in the bushes outside. They lingered loudly and somehow the awkward, angry cheeps and peeps, flutters and tussling sounds outside became more distant. Sleep came again, though I had thought it would be impossible to enjoy after so many interruptions.
The soft furry feeling under my feet was wonderful and soothing. I walked down a hall full of books. Again, endless corridors of objects branched away in the distance, and I smiled at the open sky above, the birds flying by against a blue deeper than I have seen in decades.
I ran right into Marcie and held her, kissing and nuzzling her as a stream trickled from my sore, burning eyes. She kissed back furtively but soon pushed me back just a bit and took my hand.
She did not so much lead me as pull me behind her. She flew down the aisles of titles I both knew and did not, books then movies, some of which seemed to have titles written in some alien script.
I lofted like a kite behind her, just above as she ran, the books and the ground a blur, and a bright sun, embedded in the ground, loomed large before us. And then she ran inside and I fell, long and gently. She fell with me and grabbed my hands.
She pulled me into her arms and I felt her clutch me tightly, holding my head to hers, my mouth to hers, kissing mew deeply and then tucking my head in her neck as i had done to her so many times before.
I felt us land in silk and cushion and sensation that rose and fell around and on me, her hands and her body indistinguishable from the sea of soft warmth. I was drunk with lust, and we emerged in a kiss as a room slowly formed from retreating folds of red and white satin.
She laid me back and I felt warmth on my ears and cheeks as I dreamed a blush. Marcie's laugh was inaudible and deafening in me at the same time. She reached over to a nightstand and drank some water, then read a poem from Yeats.
The Sorrow of Love
by William Butler Yeats
The quarrel of the sparrow in the eaves,
The full round moon and the star-laden sky,
And the loud song of the ever-singing leaves,
Had hid away earth's old and weary cry.
And then you came with those red mournful lips,
And with you came the whole of the world's tears,
And all the sorrows of her labouring ships,
And all the burden of her myriad years.
And now the sparrows warring in the eaves,
The curd-pale moon, the white stars in the sky,
And the loud chaunting of the unquiet leaves,
Are shaken with earth's old and weary cry.
I touched her thigh, knowing it a ghostly one again, and I let my hand slide down her leg as she watched me, rueful smile on my face. It was the most direct correlation between the world and my dreams yet.
"It doesn't mean it's all in your mind, honey," she said. "Everything, everything is shaped and everything is flavored by what we have passion for."
I was sad, wordless as she kept speaking, but still listening. I wished more than ever that I did not know when I had dreamted but only knew the dreams themselves. This was a dream I had wanted to be more than that by being less. I wanted to not be lucid and to wake in full memory, untainted by doubt and aglow.
She took my hand. "Oh, honey," she said. "You just need to accept that you are who you are. I loved to travel, I loved my books, and I loved my movies. But I would have given any of them for you."
And before I could answer, she whispered, breaking my heart with her strained little voice, which echoes in me now as I type, "I know you wouldn't make me choose, but I would have if you asked."
As she put the big book aside and I remembered the poem, remembered reading it to her and remembered its name, she obliterated it, and my dream, with a kiss too demanding for refusal, too long for doubt. But I remembered Yeats.
I did not wake, but was wakeful, and I can only vaguely remember what transpired beyond that kiss. But as unaccustomed to everything afterward as I was, and to the aspect of her she had shown so rarely, I never awoke more fully consumed but content.
The soft furry feeling under my feet was wonderful and soothing. I walked down a hall full of books. Again, endless corridors of objects branched away in the distance, and I smiled at the open sky above, the birds flying by against a blue deeper than I have seen in decades.
I ran right into Marcie and held her, kissing and nuzzling her as a stream trickled from my sore, burning eyes. She kissed back furtively but soon pushed me back just a bit and took my hand.
She did not so much lead me as pull me behind her. She flew down the aisles of titles I both knew and did not, books then movies, some of which seemed to have titles written in some alien script.
I lofted like a kite behind her, just above as she ran, the books and the ground a blur, and a bright sun, embedded in the ground, loomed large before us. And then she ran inside and I fell, long and gently. She fell with me and grabbed my hands.
She pulled me into her arms and I felt her clutch me tightly, holding my head to hers, my mouth to hers, kissing mew deeply and then tucking my head in her neck as i had done to her so many times before.
I felt us land in silk and cushion and sensation that rose and fell around and on me, her hands and her body indistinguishable from the sea of soft warmth. I was drunk with lust, and we emerged in a kiss as a room slowly formed from retreating folds of red and white satin.
She laid me back and I felt warmth on my ears and cheeks as I dreamed a blush. Marcie's laugh was inaudible and deafening in me at the same time. She reached over to a nightstand and drank some water, then read a poem from Yeats.
The Sorrow of Love
by William Butler Yeats
The quarrel of the sparrow in the eaves,
The full round moon and the star-laden sky,
And the loud song of the ever-singing leaves,
Had hid away earth's old and weary cry.
And then you came with those red mournful lips,
And with you came the whole of the world's tears,
And all the sorrows of her labouring ships,
And all the burden of her myriad years.
And now the sparrows warring in the eaves,
The curd-pale moon, the white stars in the sky,
And the loud chaunting of the unquiet leaves,
Are shaken with earth's old and weary cry.
I touched her thigh, knowing it a ghostly one again, and I let my hand slide down her leg as she watched me, rueful smile on my face. It was the most direct correlation between the world and my dreams yet.
"It doesn't mean it's all in your mind, honey," she said. "Everything, everything is shaped and everything is flavored by what we have passion for."
I was sad, wordless as she kept speaking, but still listening. I wished more than ever that I did not know when I had dreamted but only knew the dreams themselves. This was a dream I had wanted to be more than that by being less. I wanted to not be lucid and to wake in full memory, untainted by doubt and aglow.
She took my hand. "Oh, honey," she said. "You just need to accept that you are who you are. I loved to travel, I loved my books, and I loved my movies. But I would have given any of them for you."
And before I could answer, she whispered, breaking my heart with her strained little voice, which echoes in me now as I type, "I know you wouldn't make me choose, but I would have if you asked."
As she put the big book aside and I remembered the poem, remembered reading it to her and remembered its name, she obliterated it, and my dream, with a kiss too demanding for refusal, too long for doubt. But I remembered Yeats.
I did not wake, but was wakeful, and I can only vaguely remember what transpired beyond that kiss. But as unaccustomed to everything afterward as I was, and to the aspect of her she had shown so rarely, I never awoke more fully consumed but content.
Saturday, January 19, 2008
Marcie's Enterprise
I was almost loathe to sleep after my dream of love. Too much and too many tears for one night had come. I thought of Marcie's relics. Lists of tasks, containers of spices, a gigantic file folder chock full of cancer notes, handout materials and medical information she had decided were useful.
It was her clipped articles, some about the surviving family of victims, which I had found hard to look out, cropped and printed or torn from every source. And they sat in my mind as the pre-dawn cold tickled my exposed fingertips again.
I sighed and Seamus chose that moment to plop against me, driving his furry back into my nose. I manipulated him, pulling him purring halfway under the blanket, almost more mitten that kitten as I drifted off and he burrow into the blankets against my chest.
"Oh, honey, that is so cute," she said, rubbing my hands through Seamus's fur as he purred. "He's like a little pair of gloves. Aren't you, pooter pie?"
As she pet him, the odd, smaller Seamus with fur so loose it hanged over my hands and wrapped my fingers in his warmth began to meow softly, still purring. I remembered all of her little names for him.
Pooter pie. Cutie patootie. Honey bunny. Bunny bear. Baby bear. Lovey bear. Lambikins. Little lamb. Lovey dovey. Sweety bear. Lovesponge. Lover. Furling. Sweetling was one I made up to describe him as a little kitten, constantly trying to nurse off of Marcie and purring even as he failed. She kept it.
I heard typing as I reflected. It stopped as i looked up for her.
"Honey? Honey, I have your patent ready," her voice called out. "Go mail it before someone else does."
I started to run to the post office and she stopped me, stuffing a bundle of letters into my hand and my laptop bag, checking a list on the wall that I now noticed was covered in them.
The Seamus-glove cat slid off my hands and landed on all fours, wandering off as I read the lists of mostly crossed-off items. Take chemo... Make grocery list for Frank... Make list of bills... Call for Kathy tickets... Marcie crossed a few things off the list and turned back to me.
"Honey, I know you like your free time, but maybe you should try to make some money while you have so much of it," she said. "Little stuff, too. Don't hide behind the grand schemes. Make a list of little things and do them."
She kissed me, she whispered she was proud. I realized that I was talking to my dead wife in a dream, or simply hearing her, but that she was always full of things to do and always doing them in life, many of them for me or us.
I tried to say something but my mouth would not respond, though I was unconcerned. She took the initiative and put her hand over my mouth, shushing, then leaned back into me.
"You need to just get out and get moving, or I will never see Morocco with you," she said. "And I have some ideas for you, so just come back when you're done with these."
I started to speak again and croaked out an "I love you" before I lost the dream I was now cognizant I was in. She did not fade from view, as I feared she would. She smiled.
"I know you know again," she said. "I know, too. You can't hide anything and you don't have to, especially what you feel, honey."
Her tone was teasingly accusatory, but gentle and sweet, as she always was when she was happy. She looked down and took my hand as Seamus meowed loudly.
"It's not as loopy up here," she said, motioning behind herself as she did at a now-endless tunnel lined in notes and lists. "But I have a lot of things to do here, and a few things are for you, so you have to go."
Her kiss felt like a puff of fur against my nose and lips. I awoke, of course, to Seamus repositioning himself against my head again. He meowed low as he realized I had awoken.
I gently nudged him until he hopped down off the couch and listened to the morning wake a bit more and birds argue over their spaces in the tassel flower plant outside.
It was her clipped articles, some about the surviving family of victims, which I had found hard to look out, cropped and printed or torn from every source. And they sat in my mind as the pre-dawn cold tickled my exposed fingertips again.
I sighed and Seamus chose that moment to plop against me, driving his furry back into my nose. I manipulated him, pulling him purring halfway under the blanket, almost more mitten that kitten as I drifted off and he burrow into the blankets against my chest.
"Oh, honey, that is so cute," she said, rubbing my hands through Seamus's fur as he purred. "He's like a little pair of gloves. Aren't you, pooter pie?"
As she pet him, the odd, smaller Seamus with fur so loose it hanged over my hands and wrapped my fingers in his warmth began to meow softly, still purring. I remembered all of her little names for him.
Pooter pie. Cutie patootie. Honey bunny. Bunny bear. Baby bear. Lovey bear. Lambikins. Little lamb. Lovey dovey. Sweety bear. Lovesponge. Lover. Furling. Sweetling was one I made up to describe him as a little kitten, constantly trying to nurse off of Marcie and purring even as he failed. She kept it.
I heard typing as I reflected. It stopped as i looked up for her.
"Honey? Honey, I have your patent ready," her voice called out. "Go mail it before someone else does."
I started to run to the post office and she stopped me, stuffing a bundle of letters into my hand and my laptop bag, checking a list on the wall that I now noticed was covered in them.
The Seamus-glove cat slid off my hands and landed on all fours, wandering off as I read the lists of mostly crossed-off items. Take chemo... Make grocery list for Frank... Make list of bills... Call for Kathy tickets... Marcie crossed a few things off the list and turned back to me.
"Honey, I know you like your free time, but maybe you should try to make some money while you have so much of it," she said. "Little stuff, too. Don't hide behind the grand schemes. Make a list of little things and do them."
She kissed me, she whispered she was proud. I realized that I was talking to my dead wife in a dream, or simply hearing her, but that she was always full of things to do and always doing them in life, many of them for me or us.
I tried to say something but my mouth would not respond, though I was unconcerned. She took the initiative and put her hand over my mouth, shushing, then leaned back into me.
"You need to just get out and get moving, or I will never see Morocco with you," she said. "And I have some ideas for you, so just come back when you're done with these."
I started to speak again and croaked out an "I love you" before I lost the dream I was now cognizant I was in. She did not fade from view, as I feared she would. She smiled.
"I know you know again," she said. "I know, too. You can't hide anything and you don't have to, especially what you feel, honey."
Her tone was teasingly accusatory, but gentle and sweet, as she always was when she was happy. She looked down and took my hand as Seamus meowed loudly.
"It's not as loopy up here," she said, motioning behind herself as she did at a now-endless tunnel lined in notes and lists. "But I have a lot of things to do here, and a few things are for you, so you have to go."
Her kiss felt like a puff of fur against my nose and lips. I awoke, of course, to Seamus repositioning himself against my head again. He meowed low as he realized I had awoken.
I gently nudged him until he hopped down off the couch and listened to the morning wake a bit more and birds argue over their spaces in the tassel flower plant outside.
Wednesday, January 16, 2008
Miso Francisco
A few folks in my life know that, prior to being a saucier, I was a soup specialist. I would concoct soups and stews of every stripe for myself and Marcie. One that I had always planned but never done for her was a Miso. But not just any Miso.
I have eaten Miso in Japan and I have eaten it at Japanese, US-based restaurants. I like both, but the Kyoto sweet red Miso is always a cut above. With that in mind, let us explore Miso Francisco, my own twist on the soup, originally for Marcie and shared with Christi and Jane first.
I have eaten Miso in Japan and I have eaten it at Japanese, US-based restaurants. I like both, but the Kyoto sweet red Miso is always a cut above. With that in mind, let us explore Miso Francisco, my own twist on the soup, originally for Marcie and shared with Christi and Jane first.
-Miso Francisco-
One teaspoon of red miso per half cup of water, adjusted to taste
Kale, shredded in strips
Soy curd/Tofu, to taste (firm/extra firm only)
Kosher salt (1 tsp per 2 cups miso)
Scallions (green onions)
Panko or crispy bread crumbs (fresh)
Patience, measured but watchful
Kale, shredded in strips
Soy curd/Tofu, to taste (firm/extra firm only)
Kosher salt (1 tsp per 2 cups miso)
Scallions (green onions)
Panko or crispy bread crumbs (fresh)
Patience, measured but watchful
Start by making your base. After heating the water to just under boiling, let the dissolved miso simmer in the pot for a bit, but keep it below boiling. After about 10 minutes, add the Kale and Soy Curd, raising the temperature a bituntil it simmers gently again. Taste, adding salt to your liking or more miso mix if it tastes too light. Add a little bit of panko or some bread crumbs, and reserve some of your chopped scallions. Put in the rest.
After a few minutes, cut the heat to nothing and cover the pot. Miso can be left under the lid and will stay warm for some time that way. You can also cook it a bit more if you like before serving, and it should always be served by the cook, not the guests.
After a few minutes, cut the heat to nothing and cover the pot. Miso can be left under the lid and will stay warm for some time that way. You can also cook it a bit more if you like before serving, and it should always be served by the cook, not the guests.