Dear Marcie,
You gave me music. Of course, in the figurative sense, we made beautiful music together. But you gave me music from people I had not before appreciated.
Who knew I would learn to like some of these things. Sure, we had our common ground, U2,The Who, English Beat, The Cure. So many others... but you gave me the idea that current did not necessarily mean "sucks." I am so very grateful.
You always stretched the edges a bit. You went from ABBA and Beegees to ZZ Top and the Cars, to Tori Amos and Sara Maclauchlan and back to Led Zeppelin, over to Soft Cell, The Violent Femmes and Concrete Blonde, even some Sex Pistols and threw in a little En Vogue and Mya.
I remember flipping between 101.5 and 91X, 102.1 and occasioanlly 94.9 You indulged my need to listen to classical, and you even had your own favorites in that genre. We had a million songs just for us, all of them based on something or some sweet moment we were living together in.
I Have saved your last MP3 set. I hear so much in them and I had to stop listening for a bit. I will get back to them. You communicated so much in that music, in those songs. I will finish and think about each of them, no matter how much it aches, I promise.
I am most grateful to you for introducing me to the songbirds of our age. There is nothing that lulls me to sleep and calm or just relaxation like a songbird's voice. I have been accused by a friend of being "pretty damn Lilith Fair for how aggro your are."
Yeah, it was Dean. Of course you knew that, right?
Well, there was only one voice i truly could not stay angry in the presence of, and it was yours. It still is, actually. I so love when I can recall it and you are so clear in my heart and my ears. When you visit in dreams, it echoes for weeks.
It is and was a small but potent part of you that I still cherish. Thank you for both the music I listen to now, the broadening of my tastes, and the sweetness of your own music in my soul.
I know you did not like her, my sweet, but one person I never won you over on was Natalie Merchant. However, she does ring a note in me, and sometimes as much with her words as her voice.
This last discovery crushed me at first, but I realize now that much of it would never be. I could never disappoint you by not finishing my work here, but the song is beautiful, and I wish I had the years with you it is written around.
Someone did justice to the song in pictures. I wish I had seen us at that age, but that will never be. We deserved to see those days, I know that.
For now, my love, good night.
Me
Someday I will sing this song myself, and change just one word. When I do, I will share it with all of you in a more illustrative video of Marcie and I.
Showing posts with label Night. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Night. Show all posts
Thursday, October 30, 2008
Friday, October 24, 2008
Venus
Tonight, I looked in vain for Venus. Of course, the star charts would have told me why, but my heart had a ready explanation, too. I miss you, my Venus. I look forward to having you rise on my horizon again, when the heavens deem it the right time.
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.
Sunday, August 10, 2008
Remaking the Bed
Before Marcie passed, I had been suffering in the bed. No in the way you might infer I intend to convey, but in regards to comfort. It was a strange thing to have a disagreement on.
It started two years before she passed, and it was a seriously bad item to discuss.
"The bed is tilted," I said. "I hate my side of it, I feel like I am going to roll off."
She huffed a little and looked over as she hospital-cornered the sheet and shook her head. "We can't buy another bed," she said. "It's not crooked, you're just crazy."
"I swear it's off a little," I said. "There's a serious slope on the bed. I feel like I am going to just roll off and I wake up all night worrying."
"Whatever, Frank," she said. "But for me, this is just your latest crazy obsession with something. If it isn't the television having a hum in it, which I don't hear, then it's the phone being hot or the water being metallic. My response is the same."
I looked at her and shook my head. She was just not interested.
"You're crazy, you're obsessive, and I love you, but please, don't drive me crazy with this, okay?" she asked, holding my hands in hers and pouting a little.
"K, fine," I said. "But why not change sides and you tell me?"
She glared. I had asked her to change sides on the bed and the universe had just gasped in horror.
"That is my side of the bed and I cannot sleep on yours, it doesn't have a window and it's by the door, which I totally hate," she said. "Now stop it."
Of course I mentioned it every couple of weeks when i would slip into bed. It remained that way until the week she took to a new bed in our living room, a hospital bed, whereupon I slept nearby on the couch.
For the last 9 months I have tried to sleep on our bed and have finally found that her side of the bed is flat and comfortable. The mystery of my still-sloping side remained that. Finally, today, the mystery was solved.
Perhaps I had been so fat the mattress flattened under me? No, I flipped it often. Perhaps it was the floor? No, I checked it with a level. Perhaps the underlying box spring was propped?
I have flipped the king-sized mattress a dozen times. This time, when I did, it became stuck on the light fixture. I looked and saw, wedged up on the base of the box-spring half of what was my Marcie's side, the headboard side of my own box spring, its base overlapping by a centimeter.
Only the top was wedged up, hidden against the wall and under the mattress and obscured by the foot, which was not wedged. The box spring eventually settled normally at the foot of the bed, the distance and weight allowing it to look well-seated, preserving the mystery all that time.
I took it all apart and found out the frame was bolted narrower at the head end. I fixed it and popped everything into place.
As I slept in it this week, I remembered asking her in those final weeks, before she was hospitalized and when she was just tired, whether she felt a slope. She had to use my side, as it was closer to the bathroom and easier for me to help her out of bed.
"Frank!" she growled through clenched teeth, fiery and beautiful and sick but stubborn. "There is no stupid slop on the stupid bed, so just drop it and move on! I asked you not to drive me crazy about this and for two years it has been your thing. Now knock it off!"
Thoroughly chastened, I kissed her on the cheek and nodded. I was happy. She had not been so animated in two weeks.
She called me back when I left. "Frank, I love you," she said. "I'm sorry I yelled. It does feel lumpy, but it doesn't feel crooked or anything, okay? I am sorry I called you crazy."
"Okay, sweetie," I said, hugging her."
And that was fine.
She said, "Okay, you can go now, I need to sleep. Good night."
I love that, even as the end approached, she felt it more important to stick to her guns than placate or indulge me overmuch. She had such a strong and stubborn spirit. But she was not remorseless in it. I know she realized I had been putting up with it a long time.
I think she was secretly pleased that I would when she found out, and that's fine, too. I would have put up with even more to lay next to her, this was just a little proof.
It started two years before she passed, and it was a seriously bad item to discuss.
"The bed is tilted," I said. "I hate my side of it, I feel like I am going to roll off."
She huffed a little and looked over as she hospital-cornered the sheet and shook her head. "We can't buy another bed," she said. "It's not crooked, you're just crazy."
"I swear it's off a little," I said. "There's a serious slope on the bed. I feel like I am going to just roll off and I wake up all night worrying."
"Whatever, Frank," she said. "But for me, this is just your latest crazy obsession with something. If it isn't the television having a hum in it, which I don't hear, then it's the phone being hot or the water being metallic. My response is the same."
I looked at her and shook my head. She was just not interested.
"You're crazy, you're obsessive, and I love you, but please, don't drive me crazy with this, okay?" she asked, holding my hands in hers and pouting a little.
"K, fine," I said. "But why not change sides and you tell me?"
She glared. I had asked her to change sides on the bed and the universe had just gasped in horror.
"That is my side of the bed and I cannot sleep on yours, it doesn't have a window and it's by the door, which I totally hate," she said. "Now stop it."
Of course I mentioned it every couple of weeks when i would slip into bed. It remained that way until the week she took to a new bed in our living room, a hospital bed, whereupon I slept nearby on the couch.
For the last 9 months I have tried to sleep on our bed and have finally found that her side of the bed is flat and comfortable. The mystery of my still-sloping side remained that. Finally, today, the mystery was solved.
Perhaps I had been so fat the mattress flattened under me? No, I flipped it often. Perhaps it was the floor? No, I checked it with a level. Perhaps the underlying box spring was propped?
I have flipped the king-sized mattress a dozen times. This time, when I did, it became stuck on the light fixture. I looked and saw, wedged up on the base of the box-spring half of what was my Marcie's side, the headboard side of my own box spring, its base overlapping by a centimeter.
Only the top was wedged up, hidden against the wall and under the mattress and obscured by the foot, which was not wedged. The box spring eventually settled normally at the foot of the bed, the distance and weight allowing it to look well-seated, preserving the mystery all that time.
I took it all apart and found out the frame was bolted narrower at the head end. I fixed it and popped everything into place.
As I slept in it this week, I remembered asking her in those final weeks, before she was hospitalized and when she was just tired, whether she felt a slope. She had to use my side, as it was closer to the bathroom and easier for me to help her out of bed.
"Frank!" she growled through clenched teeth, fiery and beautiful and sick but stubborn. "There is no stupid slop on the stupid bed, so just drop it and move on! I asked you not to drive me crazy about this and for two years it has been your thing. Now knock it off!"
Thoroughly chastened, I kissed her on the cheek and nodded. I was happy. She had not been so animated in two weeks.
She called me back when I left. "Frank, I love you," she said. "I'm sorry I yelled. It does feel lumpy, but it doesn't feel crooked or anything, okay? I am sorry I called you crazy."
"Okay, sweetie," I said, hugging her."
And that was fine.
She said, "Okay, you can go now, I need to sleep. Good night."
I love that, even as the end approached, she felt it more important to stick to her guns than placate or indulge me overmuch. She had such a strong and stubborn spirit. But she was not remorseless in it. I know she realized I had been putting up with it a long time.
I think she was secretly pleased that I would when she found out, and that's fine, too. I would have put up with even more to lay next to her, this was just a little proof.
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.
Monday, March 17, 2008
Marcie and Saint Patrick's Day
Marcie was not much of a fan of St. Patrick’s Day at the pub. Irish and beautiful as she was, she just never quite hewed to that cultural tradition while she was with me. That did not mean she wanted me to eschew celebration on the night of Saint Patrick’s. We just went about it differently than most.
The most Irish we became on Saint Patrick’s was to buy a bottle of Bushmill’s and a six pack of beer, enjoy some corned beef and baked or fried potatoes, skipping cabbage and going with a nice salad instead. She also foisted split-pea soup with bacon on me, usually. Dessert was a delicious bit of cake, usually chocolate with some green dabs of butter cream frosting, a nod to the reason for it all. Following that, we had the usual indulgences, mood permitting, of course.
However, I can honestly say that I have not been out on Saint Patrick’s since the second year we were together. Never once did we go to an Irish bar with my red-headed beauty in tow (or towing me). Tonight, that changes. I am going out and staying out, and trying to have a bit of merriment with it all.
I wonder, if it happens, how long it will take when I do go out tonight for me to get that old feeling of discomfort I used to while in bars or at friends’ houses without her…
Saturday, March 15, 2008
A Sky Fit For a Redhead
One of the best things about Marcie and my neighborhood was the close proximity of lovely viewpoints along the various segments of Mountain View Road. I saw the sky and raced home to catch it reminding me of her with its brilliant color and complex depth.
Click to enlage the shots and get a better look at the gallery...
Sunset kisses are another thing she was very good at giving me. I miss that almost as much as the warm softness of her body bundled up and wrapped in my jacket and my arms as she watched the sun set with me on blustery evenings like this
I recommend a chilly, stormy sky sunset if you can, alone or not.
Click to enlage the shots and get a better look at the gallery...
Sunset kisses are another thing she was very good at giving me. I miss that almost as much as the warm softness of her body bundled up and wrapped in my jacket and my arms as she watched the sun set with me on blustery evenings like this
I recommend a chilly, stormy sky sunset if you can, alone or not.
Thursday, March 13, 2008
A very difficult project
So, I am calling it off and going to bed. I have been trying to digitize a very special tape. You'll know when I get it finished up. Night, folks.
Friday, March 7, 2008
Little things she might have liked (Part 1)
Marcie and I did not do a lot of the things we had planned to. Some of those things were fairly straightforward, such as heading over to the most authentic Irish bar in San Diego and having a pint over Irish music.
I didit for her. I went to The Ould Sod and had a couple of pints, enjoyed some music and snapped some shots. I also tried to take a movie, but the lighting was such crap that it proved pointless.
However, to help you understand how interesting and nice the music was, I did save a snippet, mostly for sound:
There was at least a tad more success with the flash on my camera and some shots of the musicians. Take a look at the instruments and how I used the mirror in the shots:
It was looking to be a decent night when I left. But I really wasn't in the mood for a good night. I just wanted to go see the Tuesday night players for Marcie, and that I did.
I left very much wondering what she would have said about it all, as she had been to Eire before. When we did pop in, she didn't say much, really. I also wondered what it would have felt like to show up at such a pub in Ireland with my hot Irish-American redhead in tow. I imagine I would have been very proud.
I'll never know either, I guess.
I didit for her. I went to The Ould Sod and had a couple of pints, enjoyed some music and snapped some shots. I also tried to take a movie, but the lighting was such crap that it proved pointless.
However, to help you understand how interesting and nice the music was, I did save a snippet, mostly for sound:
There was at least a tad more success with the flash on my camera and some shots of the musicians. Take a look at the instruments and how I used the mirror in the shots:
It was looking to be a decent night when I left. But I really wasn't in the mood for a good night. I just wanted to go see the Tuesday night players for Marcie, and that I did.
I left very much wondering what she would have said about it all, as she had been to Eire before. When we did pop in, she didn't say much, really. I also wondered what it would have felt like to show up at such a pub in Ireland with my hot Irish-American redhead in tow. I imagine I would have been very proud.
I'll never know either, I guess.
Saturday, February 9, 2008
Chasing Marcie
When Marcie and I first met, at a San Diego City College speech class, there were a lot of obstacles to overcome for us to be a couple. I was certainly smitten by her red hair and saucy, flirty way of engaging me, but I was also eying a few other girls. She had other suitors, too.
Internally, I was not interested in pairing off right away as college just began. I had determined that, with a love life built of long relationships and no really short affairs to speak of, college should be a long string of trysts. Yeah, right.
Our first date was to Café Chabalaba, a 1990s "San Diego is the next Seattle" mini-venue of some fame. Owner Cristina let me and my pal Mark Veno run (read: hold) the door for a parade of quality shows.
Marcie and I had some coffee and a long conversation. Effectively, this conversation ended my dream of a parade of little hussies weaving a thread of lusty debauch through my college education.
"I like going out to eat once in a while, but I really like to cook for myself," she said after shooting down an invitation to Mr. A's.
"Oh?" I asked. "I like to cook, too. Maybe I could cook for you sometime and you can tell me how I did."
She rolled her eyes and looked up into the corner of the café, then rolled them back down at me. "You cook, huh? Yeaaah, right."
"What do you mean, 'yeah right'?" I asked. "I cook. I have cooked for myself for years, occasionally for other people, and I am pretty good at it, too."
Marcie looked at me intently and played with the coffee cup in front of her. She did not believe me, and she did not seem too impressed.
"I'll prove it to you," I said. "Let me cook for you, and you'll see."
"What would you cook?" she asked, as if she would catch me in a lie, or unprepared.
No such luck.
"Chicken fettuccine Alfredo, from scratch," I said. "No mix, no sauce, I make it from scratch."
She smiled and looked at the cup again. "But you live in a hotel downtown. Where are you going to cook this meal for me?"
The C Street Inn had no kitchen, but I decided to fib a little and see where she went with this. I could always use another kitchen.
"We have a kitchen at the hotel," I said. "Do you think I eat at La Gran Tapa every night?"
"Well, I don't want to eat at your hotel room," she said. "We are going to have to do this some other way."
"Oh, so you want me to cook for you?" I asked.
She smiled and then narrowed her eyes and watched me closely. That gotcha look again... again mislaid.
"Are you chickening out? Are you lying to me?" she asked, noting I shook my head. "Because if you are, we are not going out again. You can cook for me next week, Tuesday, my day off. You can use my kitchen and you have to clean it up afterward."
"Cool. You got a deal and a meal," I said. "Wine?"
"You're the cook, or so you say, so you choose," she said. "And don't be thinking that you can fake it. My friend's mom taught me to cook and she was from an Italian family. It had better be for real, mister."
I met her later that week outside the Museum of Man for crackers and cheese with Madame Harms, a friend of mine at City and her professor of French.
Marcie and another girl, a German who I learned later Marcie simply called "Eurotrash," had been charged with bringing wine. Marcie had brought three bottles, two reds and a white, and ET brought one, with a screw cap. Port, actually. Bad Port.
We drank and snacked as the sun slid low and Madame Harms came and sat with us. She was cute, in a middle-aged-but-sassy way, and she teased us, a bit drunk.
"You two lovers should go make a mess somewhere pleasant," she said, poking me on the nose.
Marcie let out her unbridled joy. It was the first time I had heard it. It was abrupt and sharp, then wound down melodiously as she laughed and tried to speak through it. I only speak a little French, but I deciphered what she asked.
"Madame Harms êtes vous en état d'ébriété?" she asked.
"Oui, Marcie, oui," Madame Harms slurred cheerfully. "Je vous remercie beaucoup pour le vin."
Marcie squinted and I said, "She said wine and thanks in there."
Madame Harms looked at me oddly. "I did not," she indignantly proclaimed. "I said 'I thank you for the wine,' and... yes, I guess I did. But not like that, silly boy. Not in little pieces like that."
With that she touched Marcie's nose, gave her a hug, then me, and rose unsteadily, our bottle rising with her.
"No more for you," she said. "You should go make your mess now."
I smiled at Marcie, but she rolled her eyes.
"I don't know what you're thinking, mister, but I am going home and studying," she said. "I work early tomorrow"
"May I walk you home?" I asked.
"I only live a few blocks away," she said. "I'll be fine."
"I have to see where you live if I am going to cook for you Tuesday," I said, smiling. "Besides, it doesn't take even one block to get robbed, right? And you have to go through the west side of the park."
West Balboa Park was a nightmare of crackheads and homeless people, gay prostitutes and ornery drunks at night. From dusk until dawn, the crime rate rose dramatically. A few years earlier, a man had been stabbed to death on the bridge, an Old Globe Actor.
"Oh, fine, pushy boy," she said, packing her things. "You can walk me to my building, but you cannot come up."
I got her home and we saw not one threat, which she was careful to point out as we walked. "I live here, she said. "I know where I am, so don't be thinking you're the man or something just because I let you walk me home."
"Oh, I won't," I said. "But I will think I must be because you let me even though you don't need me to."
She turned and looked at me as if to say "Oh really?" she did not comment, but handed me her bags. "You can be the mule, at least, since I don't need a bodyguard."
I carried her bags and she slipped her arm around mine and kissed me on the cheek. It was our first lip contact. I was suddenly high. She stopped me on Kalmia.
"I live here," she said. "Thank you for walking me home, and thank you for coming to the park tonight."
I waited as she took her bags and when she went to walk away, I touched her elbow gently. "Thank you for the kiss," I said quietly, my ears turning red.
She tilted her head down and looked up at me askance as if to say "Oh, come ON."
So I did, and I slipped my arms around her waist and pulled her into me for a kiss. At first, she put her hands against my chest as if to push me away. But they slid up over my shoulder and around my neck. We kissed until one of her neighbors chimed in.
"Yow! You go, Marcie!" a woman I would later learn was Marcie's amphetamine-driven lesbian property manager, and who actually was not much for men touching Marcie. It broke the kiss well enough.
"I'll see you Tuesday in class," she said. "Don't call me Saturday, I have to study for my English final and i have to go to my parents on Sunday."
Tuesday took forever to come and she did not answer the phone Monday. I remember the number, 338-8063. I must have dialed it fifty times, hanging up at the third ring.
I would find out later that Joey, her other suitor, had struck himself out sometime Saturday with a reference to her joining his gym while they ate at Golden Dragon. I did not learn that until months later, though.
When Tuesday did come, I tossed her notes in class the whole time, which I had prepared the night before. Every time our teacher turned away, another landed on her desk. She was mortified, and the whole class saw it.
She could not have known that Ken, our instructor, was in on the whole thing. He and I had a good rapport. I learned he started a theater company in Seattle after that semester. It was a loss for City. Mr. Norton was good to the shy speakers.
"You gonna eeeeeat," I remember one note said. The rest were variations on the theme. "You gonna get yo' grub on," "I feel like chicken tonight," was perhaps the cheesiest.
"Stop it!" she mouthed quietly, biting her lower lip and covering her eyes... but she read each one and smiled, then tucked them in her purse, shaking her head, red-faced.
The last one simply said. "Class is over. I have to go pick up the groceries. See you at 4:00 sharp."
I was gone before she was done reading it.
The meal went perfectly, but she admitted that it was too much for her. Far too rich for the time of day, she said, but delicious.
She did not like the expensive white wine I brought, but I had also picked up some Kendall Jackson Cabernet Sauvignon, which she drank two glasses of. We ended up making out for a couple of hours.
"You can stay tonight, but I have to get to sleep," she said. "And you have to shower. You can sleep on the couch."
I did, wearing her far too small robe and no covers in the September heat. When I woke up the next morning I brushed my teeth with a brush she gave me and slipped on my grubby clothes. She stopped me as I gathered my things and gave me a long kiss.
"I'll see you tomorrow at school," she whispered. "I had a lovely time and I believe you can cook very well. I will cook for you next time."
I enjoyed the feel of her body against me a little more than I could hide, so I held onto her a bit when she went to let me go. She giggled knowingly in my ear.
"Something wrong?" she asked.
I simply answered her with a kiss and slapped her ass, which she giggled at, her teeth against mine, our mouths open. I made my exit with my jacket around my waist, as a practical consideration.
But Marcie had apparently not had to wait until the morning to get her measure of me.
Tomorrow, I will post the recipe for the Alfredo sauce I used. I will continue this story of our early romance as well, but the next post will be somewhat adult in nature. You are warned.
Internally, I was not interested in pairing off right away as college just began. I had determined that, with a love life built of long relationships and no really short affairs to speak of, college should be a long string of trysts. Yeah, right.
Our first date was to Café Chabalaba, a 1990s "San Diego is the next Seattle" mini-venue of some fame. Owner Cristina let me and my pal Mark Veno run (read: hold) the door for a parade of quality shows.
Marcie and I had some coffee and a long conversation. Effectively, this conversation ended my dream of a parade of little hussies weaving a thread of lusty debauch through my college education.
"I like going out to eat once in a while, but I really like to cook for myself," she said after shooting down an invitation to Mr. A's.
"Oh?" I asked. "I like to cook, too. Maybe I could cook for you sometime and you can tell me how I did."
She rolled her eyes and looked up into the corner of the café, then rolled them back down at me. "You cook, huh? Yeaaah, right."
"What do you mean, 'yeah right'?" I asked. "I cook. I have cooked for myself for years, occasionally for other people, and I am pretty good at it, too."
Marcie looked at me intently and played with the coffee cup in front of her. She did not believe me, and she did not seem too impressed.
"I'll prove it to you," I said. "Let me cook for you, and you'll see."
"What would you cook?" she asked, as if she would catch me in a lie, or unprepared.
No such luck.
"Chicken fettuccine Alfredo, from scratch," I said. "No mix, no sauce, I make it from scratch."
She smiled and looked at the cup again. "But you live in a hotel downtown. Where are you going to cook this meal for me?"
The C Street Inn had no kitchen, but I decided to fib a little and see where she went with this. I could always use another kitchen.
"We have a kitchen at the hotel," I said. "Do you think I eat at La Gran Tapa every night?"
"Well, I don't want to eat at your hotel room," she said. "We are going to have to do this some other way."
"Oh, so you want me to cook for you?" I asked.
She smiled and then narrowed her eyes and watched me closely. That gotcha look again... again mislaid.
"Are you chickening out? Are you lying to me?" she asked, noting I shook my head. "Because if you are, we are not going out again. You can cook for me next week, Tuesday, my day off. You can use my kitchen and you have to clean it up afterward."
"Cool. You got a deal and a meal," I said. "Wine?"
"You're the cook, or so you say, so you choose," she said. "And don't be thinking that you can fake it. My friend's mom taught me to cook and she was from an Italian family. It had better be for real, mister."
I met her later that week outside the Museum of Man for crackers and cheese with Madame Harms, a friend of mine at City and her professor of French.
Marcie and another girl, a German who I learned later Marcie simply called "Eurotrash," had been charged with bringing wine. Marcie had brought three bottles, two reds and a white, and ET brought one, with a screw cap. Port, actually. Bad Port.
We drank and snacked as the sun slid low and Madame Harms came and sat with us. She was cute, in a middle-aged-but-sassy way, and she teased us, a bit drunk.
"You two lovers should go make a mess somewhere pleasant," she said, poking me on the nose.
Marcie let out her unbridled joy. It was the first time I had heard it. It was abrupt and sharp, then wound down melodiously as she laughed and tried to speak through it. I only speak a little French, but I deciphered what she asked.
"Madame Harms êtes vous en état d'ébriété?" she asked.
"Oui, Marcie, oui," Madame Harms slurred cheerfully. "Je vous remercie beaucoup pour le vin."
Marcie squinted and I said, "She said wine and thanks in there."
Madame Harms looked at me oddly. "I did not," she indignantly proclaimed. "I said 'I thank you for the wine,' and... yes, I guess I did. But not like that, silly boy. Not in little pieces like that."
With that she touched Marcie's nose, gave her a hug, then me, and rose unsteadily, our bottle rising with her.
"No more for you," she said. "You should go make your mess now."
I smiled at Marcie, but she rolled her eyes.
"I don't know what you're thinking, mister, but I am going home and studying," she said. "I work early tomorrow"
"May I walk you home?" I asked.
"I only live a few blocks away," she said. "I'll be fine."
"I have to see where you live if I am going to cook for you Tuesday," I said, smiling. "Besides, it doesn't take even one block to get robbed, right? And you have to go through the west side of the park."
West Balboa Park was a nightmare of crackheads and homeless people, gay prostitutes and ornery drunks at night. From dusk until dawn, the crime rate rose dramatically. A few years earlier, a man had been stabbed to death on the bridge, an Old Globe Actor.
"Oh, fine, pushy boy," she said, packing her things. "You can walk me to my building, but you cannot come up."
I got her home and we saw not one threat, which she was careful to point out as we walked. "I live here, she said. "I know where I am, so don't be thinking you're the man or something just because I let you walk me home."
"Oh, I won't," I said. "But I will think I must be because you let me even though you don't need me to."
She turned and looked at me as if to say "Oh really?" she did not comment, but handed me her bags. "You can be the mule, at least, since I don't need a bodyguard."
I carried her bags and she slipped her arm around mine and kissed me on the cheek. It was our first lip contact. I was suddenly high. She stopped me on Kalmia.
"I live here," she said. "Thank you for walking me home, and thank you for coming to the park tonight."
I waited as she took her bags and when she went to walk away, I touched her elbow gently. "Thank you for the kiss," I said quietly, my ears turning red.
She tilted her head down and looked up at me askance as if to say "Oh, come ON."
So I did, and I slipped my arms around her waist and pulled her into me for a kiss. At first, she put her hands against my chest as if to push me away. But they slid up over my shoulder and around my neck. We kissed until one of her neighbors chimed in.
"Yow! You go, Marcie!" a woman I would later learn was Marcie's amphetamine-driven lesbian property manager, and who actually was not much for men touching Marcie. It broke the kiss well enough.
"I'll see you Tuesday in class," she said. "Don't call me Saturday, I have to study for my English final and i have to go to my parents on Sunday."
Tuesday took forever to come and she did not answer the phone Monday. I remember the number, 338-8063. I must have dialed it fifty times, hanging up at the third ring.
I would find out later that Joey, her other suitor, had struck himself out sometime Saturday with a reference to her joining his gym while they ate at Golden Dragon. I did not learn that until months later, though.
When Tuesday did come, I tossed her notes in class the whole time, which I had prepared the night before. Every time our teacher turned away, another landed on her desk. She was mortified, and the whole class saw it.
She could not have known that Ken, our instructor, was in on the whole thing. He and I had a good rapport. I learned he started a theater company in Seattle after that semester. It was a loss for City. Mr. Norton was good to the shy speakers.
"You gonna eeeeeat," I remember one note said. The rest were variations on the theme. "You gonna get yo' grub on," "I feel like chicken tonight," was perhaps the cheesiest.
"Stop it!" she mouthed quietly, biting her lower lip and covering her eyes... but she read each one and smiled, then tucked them in her purse, shaking her head, red-faced.
The last one simply said. "Class is over. I have to go pick up the groceries. See you at 4:00 sharp."
I was gone before she was done reading it.
The meal went perfectly, but she admitted that it was too much for her. Far too rich for the time of day, she said, but delicious.
She did not like the expensive white wine I brought, but I had also picked up some Kendall Jackson Cabernet Sauvignon, which she drank two glasses of. We ended up making out for a couple of hours.
"You can stay tonight, but I have to get to sleep," she said. "And you have to shower. You can sleep on the couch."
I did, wearing her far too small robe and no covers in the September heat. When I woke up the next morning I brushed my teeth with a brush she gave me and slipped on my grubby clothes. She stopped me as I gathered my things and gave me a long kiss.
"I'll see you tomorrow at school," she whispered. "I had a lovely time and I believe you can cook very well. I will cook for you next time."
I enjoyed the feel of her body against me a little more than I could hide, so I held onto her a bit when she went to let me go. She giggled knowingly in my ear.
"Something wrong?" she asked.
I simply answered her with a kiss and slapped her ass, which she giggled at, her teeth against mine, our mouths open. I made my exit with my jacket around my waist, as a practical consideration.
But Marcie had apparently not had to wait until the morning to get her measure of me.
Tomorrow, I will post the recipe for the Alfredo sauce I used. I will continue this story of our early romance as well, but the next post will be somewhat adult in nature. You are warned.
Monday, January 14, 2008
Second Thoughts
I had fully intended to stop making the food I did for Marcie after one last meal of them last night. Now I will just wait and see, and share them with people I care about. It was difficult to make these very intimate foods, but sharing them with Christi and Jane was well worth the emotional strain of reliving those Moments of Marcie in the kitchen.
Marcie was there in spirit the entire night, but quietly and with what I felt was a gentle intimacy and a steadying hand as we pored through albums and items and personal things. Thank you, honey, either for being there or for being so strong an influence on us that it felt like you were.
Christi and Jane both noted that she always had a very happy and joyous aspect. I agree, and last night it seemed to permeate the proceedings, if not because of her then in tribute to her. So I have been convinced and uplifted again to not bury but to celebrate our girl, and spread her influence.
To that end, my good readers, I will compose my secret recipes and sauce directions, my vegetable-carving and decorating techniques, and my cooking approach for the various courses.
I will give them each a name and I will offer a unified document and self-publish it for sale as well, perhaps on Amazon or eBay. But those of you who read it before I obscure the post will, of course, have no need to buy them, and I am sure that certain people will be able to convince me to just send them... we'll see.
Thank you to Christi and Jane, whose charming company and joy last night filled my house with warmth as we sifted through memories and trinkets that, otherwise, I simply cannot face. Much Love, Friends.
My break at work is almost over, so I will post more later (probably very much later).
F.
Marcie was there in spirit the entire night, but quietly and with what I felt was a gentle intimacy and a steadying hand as we pored through albums and items and personal things. Thank you, honey, either for being there or for being so strong an influence on us that it felt like you were.
Christi and Jane both noted that she always had a very happy and joyous aspect. I agree, and last night it seemed to permeate the proceedings, if not because of her then in tribute to her. So I have been convinced and uplifted again to not bury but to celebrate our girl, and spread her influence.
To that end, my good readers, I will compose my secret recipes and sauce directions, my vegetable-carving and decorating techniques, and my cooking approach for the various courses.
I will give them each a name and I will offer a unified document and self-publish it for sale as well, perhaps on Amazon or eBay. But those of you who read it before I obscure the post will, of course, have no need to buy them, and I am sure that certain people will be able to convince me to just send them... we'll see.
Thank you to Christi and Jane, whose charming company and joy last night filled my house with warmth as we sifted through memories and trinkets that, otherwise, I simply cannot face. Much Love, Friends.
My break at work is almost over, so I will post more later (probably very much later).
F.
Wednesday, January 9, 2008
I don't like monster/lifted trucks
Last Night, I was run off the road by a pimpled freak in a lifted truck.I was... annoyed. I also chased the truck. However, other bad behavior, someone noted, is wiser left unshared. Therefore, I have edited it out for now.
Suffice to say that when it was all over, I ran on, back north of Adams, back to my route, faster, my anger relieved and the beast caged again, even if my inner savage had reminded me he was there and ready to back me up.
To make sure I channel it properly, I decided to expend my rage in a poem. Here:
Slips
Against you,
who deny that the sky
and the land,
and the sea could be free
to all man,
all reserved undeserved
I now stand
So that I can defy.
Upon you,
who demand that my hand
and my heart,
be enslaved and not crave,
for the start,
of the way you delay
I impart,
That I yearn to upturn.
With you,
who exact and extract
from us all
who propose and impose
without call
and therethrough take undue,
I will brawl,
and preempt in contempt.
You,
who belie you rely
on a ruse
who intend to depend
on abuse
and fall back to attack
on excuse.
won't assuage my red rage.
For I
am not cowed nor endowed
with your fear
disavowed and unbowed
I am clear,
houl aloud and am proud
and I sneer,
no regrets at your threats.
For I
understand that your hand
now grows weak,
you are ill and your will
becomes meek
And the laws are your jaws
and they creak.
Know I, who will stand and defy,
who is clear and will sneer at your fear,
call your ruse, your excuse to abuse,
and will brawl until all then must fall,
am still in civility's grip.
But it slips.
Marcie used to love my madman poetry, anyways. Hope you liked it. Night/Morning, whatever. Rawr.
F.
Suffice to say that when it was all over, I ran on, back north of Adams, back to my route, faster, my anger relieved and the beast caged again, even if my inner savage had reminded me he was there and ready to back me up.
To make sure I channel it properly, I decided to expend my rage in a poem. Here:
Slips
Against you,
who deny that the sky
and the land,
and the sea could be free
to all man,
all reserved undeserved
I now stand
So that I can defy.
Upon you,
who demand that my hand
and my heart,
be enslaved and not crave,
for the start,
of the way you delay
I impart,
That I yearn to upturn.
With you,
who exact and extract
from us all
who propose and impose
without call
and therethrough take undue,
I will brawl,
and preempt in contempt.
You,
who belie you rely
on a ruse
who intend to depend
on abuse
and fall back to attack
on excuse.
won't assuage my red rage.
For I
am not cowed nor endowed
with your fear
disavowed and unbowed
I am clear,
houl aloud and am proud
and I sneer,
no regrets at your threats.
For I
understand that your hand
now grows weak,
you are ill and your will
becomes meek
And the laws are your jaws
and they creak.
Know I, who will stand and defy,
who is clear and will sneer at your fear,
call your ruse, your excuse to abuse,
and will brawl until all then must fall,
am still in civility's grip.
But it slips.
Marcie used to love my madman poetry, anyways. Hope you liked it. Night/Morning, whatever. Rawr.
F.
Tuesday, January 8, 2008
The dream of Thoughtfulness
There was nothing at first but the muffled padding of my feet and a vague sense of expectation. Then there were lines as I walked, then I noticed it felt like marble under me. The vast chamber was walled with rust-tinged, coruscating glass. Deep, heavy bands of gold flowed well under the surface.
I looked down and there was no floor I could see, just an endless depth below me where the walls may have met or just seemed to... but I was calm. I looked up and, though I felt they had to be impossibly far away, there were clouds, rushing, like wisps of white smoke, dipping down between the divergent, refulgent slopes.
Then the light changed, became more brilliant... the gilded bands and wisps in the walls writhed and grew, and somehow, just as it was so luminescent that I couldn't look at it anymore, it melted and I was on a ledge of sorts, the glass now under my feet, soft but stable.
I smelled her first, the soft touch of Chanel No. 5 slipping over my nostrils. I turned and looked right into her eyes, her mouth was open and she smiled that smile, the one from her picture that I love so much, and she was young, younger than me by far suddenly.
Her lips did not move, but I heard her voice as I did so many times when thought was all she gave. It was more natural here, as it had never been when I responded to her in ways that seemed out of the blue, unbidden.
"You're on time, as usual. So let me show you what I found, and you can tell me if you like it. I hope you do," she lilted, singsong slipping into and out of a more chatty tone and back.
I walked behind her, noting her near-transparent gown and the soft lines of her lightly freckled flesh beneath. She led into a room of things I instantly recognized but could not name. She handed me a small but heavy, crystalline ball.
"Look inside," she said.
I did, and a flood of us washed over me as the ball pulled me in somehow. Marcie and I at our first Christmas, poor but besotted. Me opening a gift, a sorely-needed wallet, her opening mine, a set of scents from a bath store I had seen her smell and coo at.
It grew faster. Birthdays, more scents, perfumes, jewelry and clothes, sending her flowers, getting candy for her, delivering flowers at work... all flashed by. Then more gifts to me, years of her careful selections and agonizing gambles all rolled across my hands and heart, beads of warm glass against my skin as I broke out of the little globe and suddenly it was back in my hands.
"The reason it is the thought that counts is that holidays and birthdays and anniversaries come and go, but people stay with us for as long as we think of them. You always thought of me, I will always think of you. "
She smiled, and a little tingle played over my lips as she pulled my neck and my hands took her waist. Then the glossy, translucent bands of gold in their flowing, burnished encasements closed on me and I awoke to the cold of the early morning, 1:15 only an hour of sleep under my belt.
I closed my eyes, shedding no tears, but the lingering tingle on my lips faded gratefully slowly. Whether it was born from cold or warmth, I did not have time decide as I slipped thankfully back into another dream.
Which I will share another night.
F.
I looked down and there was no floor I could see, just an endless depth below me where the walls may have met or just seemed to... but I was calm. I looked up and, though I felt they had to be impossibly far away, there were clouds, rushing, like wisps of white smoke, dipping down between the divergent, refulgent slopes.
Then the light changed, became more brilliant... the gilded bands and wisps in the walls writhed and grew, and somehow, just as it was so luminescent that I couldn't look at it anymore, it melted and I was on a ledge of sorts, the glass now under my feet, soft but stable.
I smelled her first, the soft touch of Chanel No. 5 slipping over my nostrils. I turned and looked right into her eyes, her mouth was open and she smiled that smile, the one from her picture that I love so much, and she was young, younger than me by far suddenly.
Her lips did not move, but I heard her voice as I did so many times when thought was all she gave. It was more natural here, as it had never been when I responded to her in ways that seemed out of the blue, unbidden.
"You're on time, as usual. So let me show you what I found, and you can tell me if you like it. I hope you do," she lilted, singsong slipping into and out of a more chatty tone and back.
I walked behind her, noting her near-transparent gown and the soft lines of her lightly freckled flesh beneath. She led into a room of things I instantly recognized but could not name. She handed me a small but heavy, crystalline ball.
"Look inside," she said.
I did, and a flood of us washed over me as the ball pulled me in somehow. Marcie and I at our first Christmas, poor but besotted. Me opening a gift, a sorely-needed wallet, her opening mine, a set of scents from a bath store I had seen her smell and coo at.
It grew faster. Birthdays, more scents, perfumes, jewelry and clothes, sending her flowers, getting candy for her, delivering flowers at work... all flashed by. Then more gifts to me, years of her careful selections and agonizing gambles all rolled across my hands and heart, beads of warm glass against my skin as I broke out of the little globe and suddenly it was back in my hands.
"The reason it is the thought that counts is that holidays and birthdays and anniversaries come and go, but people stay with us for as long as we think of them. You always thought of me, I will always think of you. "
She smiled, and a little tingle played over my lips as she pulled my neck and my hands took her waist. Then the glossy, translucent bands of gold in their flowing, burnished encasements closed on me and I awoke to the cold of the early morning, 1:15 only an hour of sleep under my belt.
I closed my eyes, shedding no tears, but the lingering tingle on my lips faded gratefully slowly. Whether it was born from cold or warmth, I did not have time decide as I slipped thankfully back into another dream.
Which I will share another night.
F.
Monday, December 10, 2007
Movies With Marcie
One of the activities Marcie and I made it a rule to do together was see previews. The San Diego Film Commission often sent Marcie tickets to movies (via email) which were in pre-release screening. Sometimes feedback was needed; sometimes it was just an audience reaction observation opportunity for the studios.
When Marcie passed, I lost that source of free tickets with her email account. However, my coworker Elizabeth sends out copies of the same tickets to me, which is nice. So far, I have not been able to see any of them, but tonight I will try to make it to see “Starting Out In The Evening.”
It appears to be one that Marcie would have enjoyed tonight's selection. From the press release and ticket blast:
All that remains for Leonard Schiller (Frank Langella) is his work. His one enduring goal in life is to finish the novel he has been laboring on for almost a decade. With his four earlier books out of print, he has learned to starve himself of the desire for the success he was once so close to, though beneath this practice lives a pull for his work to be rediscovered.
Leonard’s main contact with the outside world is his daughter Ariel (Lili Taylor), a dancer-turned-Pilates instructor, with whom he has settled into an amiable relationship, though he must hide his disappointment that at thirty-nine she is at loose ends, still looking for love and a father for a longed-for child.
We’ll see if, sans guarantee, I am able to pull a seat. It’s at the Horton Plaza 14, for which I am grateful, since there is little parking for some of the others downtown. Marcie and I also had some mischievous moments in that theater… usually because we found ourselves more interesting in the dark than the drivel we often found there. At any rate, without that distraction, I shall endeavor to provide some useful feedback, as she did, later on.
At the least, the synopsis makes the movie sound like a relevant cautionary tale for me… we’ll see.
F.
Thursday, November 8, 2007
A Long, Empty Night
It's funny how the things we do to get by sometimes end up bringing us right back around to where we belong, whether we want that or not. Last night, I decided to attend the San Diego Press Club Awards, with the hope that a little camaraderie and noise would be good for me.
It worked for all of 10 minutes. I did talk to a lot of old friends and kept good face, but I had a hard time of it anyways. The first thing was my awards, which you can look up here. I realized, as I put on the little name tag with the place ribbons, that I would be proud of these as I showed them to Marcie, but that was not going to happen in this life.
I did enjoy the food, and I wandered around, reconnecting with old sources and colleagues. I started to leave but ended up speaking to Chula Vista Mayor Cheryl Cox for a bit, which was actually less difficult than sitting in the crowd inside. Thanks for the conversation, Cheryl.
As if to reinforce the idea that the awards had lost one of their most important contexts for me, a song sung in an alternately, artfully soaring and soulfully fading siren's voice played over the radio as I hit Pershing Drive. I should have changed the channel, but, being the glutton for punishment that I am, I pulled over instead and heard it out.
The Story
Brandi Carlile
All of these lines across my face
Tell you the story of who I am
So many stories of where I've been
And how I got to where I am
But these stories don't mean anything
When you've got no one to tell them to
It's true...I was made for you
I climbed across the mountain tops
Swam all across the ocean blue
I crossed all the lines and I broke all the rules
And baby I broke them all for you
Oh because even when I was flat broke
You made me feel like a million bucks
You do and I was made for you
You see the smile that's on my mouth
It's hiding the words that don't come out
And all of my friends who think that I'm blessed
They don't know my head is a mess
No, they don't know who I really am
And they don't know what I've been through like you do
And I was made for you...
All of these lines across my face
Tell you the story of who I am
So many stories of where I've been
And how I got to where I am
Oh but these stories don't mean anything
When you've got no one to tell them to
It's true...I was made for you
Oh yeah and its true, that I was made for you
I'll probably buy the album. She sounds like someone Marcie would like hearing, despite her folk roots (which Marcie was very choosy in accepting from people). Call it a recommendation.
F.
It worked for all of 10 minutes. I did talk to a lot of old friends and kept good face, but I had a hard time of it anyways. The first thing was my awards, which you can look up here. I realized, as I put on the little name tag with the place ribbons, that I would be proud of these as I showed them to Marcie, but that was not going to happen in this life.
I did enjoy the food, and I wandered around, reconnecting with old sources and colleagues. I started to leave but ended up speaking to Chula Vista Mayor Cheryl Cox for a bit, which was actually less difficult than sitting in the crowd inside. Thanks for the conversation, Cheryl.
As if to reinforce the idea that the awards had lost one of their most important contexts for me, a song sung in an alternately, artfully soaring and soulfully fading siren's voice played over the radio as I hit Pershing Drive. I should have changed the channel, but, being the glutton for punishment that I am, I pulled over instead and heard it out.
The Story
Brandi Carlile
All of these lines across my face
Tell you the story of who I am
So many stories of where I've been
And how I got to where I am
But these stories don't mean anything
When you've got no one to tell them to
It's true...I was made for you
I climbed across the mountain tops
Swam all across the ocean blue
I crossed all the lines and I broke all the rules
And baby I broke them all for you
Oh because even when I was flat broke
You made me feel like a million bucks
You do and I was made for you
You see the smile that's on my mouth
It's hiding the words that don't come out
And all of my friends who think that I'm blessed
They don't know my head is a mess
No, they don't know who I really am
And they don't know what I've been through like you do
And I was made for you...
All of these lines across my face
Tell you the story of who I am
So many stories of where I've been
And how I got to where I am
Oh but these stories don't mean anything
When you've got no one to tell them to
It's true...I was made for you
Oh yeah and its true, that I was made for you
I'll probably buy the album. She sounds like someone Marcie would like hearing, despite her folk roots (which Marcie was very choosy in accepting from people). Call it a recommendation.
F.
Sunday, November 4, 2007
And Now I Wait
So the ceremony was wonderful, if tearful for me. Everyone was very understanding and let me stumble, choked up, over my thoughts and feelings. I closed it with a poem I wrote Marcie. I hope you all enjoy it. Personal or not, it is to be shared.
And Now I Wait
Sweet Marcie, know you why
Death came that night to choose you?
You were too young to die,
It was too soon to lose you.
Was there too much for us,
So heaven chose to take you?
A life so splendorous,
Did jealous fate forsake you?
So many things to do,
Such dreams we did endeavor.
And mine so built on you,
As love and wife forever.
Our pain of months and years
Overshadowed late that night.
When worst of all my fears,
You slipped beyond my sight.
It matters little dear,
I’m left without you, mourning.
To wander loveless here,
From shared voyage to sojourning.
I’ll never know your touch,
Never hear your voice again.
But what I’ll miss so much,
Is the warmth of you within.
Death was so hard on you,
You fought with all your mettle.
Then, sapped and harrowed through,
I watched your body settle.
You still live in my dreams,
I’ve seen you in your splendor.
Then I wake again, it seems,
And bitterly surrender.
A glaring sun’s new day
Will call for me, I reckon.
'Til then, I hope and pray
At night to hear you beckon.
There was more. If I decide to share those, I will mark them "Poetry:" in the title. Have a good night, folks. I am going over to take care of Marcie's mom.
F.
And Now I Wait
Sweet Marcie, know you why
Death came that night to choose you?
You were too young to die,
It was too soon to lose you.
Was there too much for us,
So heaven chose to take you?
A life so splendorous,
Did jealous fate forsake you?
So many things to do,
Such dreams we did endeavor.
And mine so built on you,
As love and wife forever.
Our pain of months and years
Overshadowed late that night.
When worst of all my fears,
You slipped beyond my sight.
It matters little dear,
I’m left without you, mourning.
To wander loveless here,
From shared voyage to sojourning.
I’ll never know your touch,
Never hear your voice again.
But what I’ll miss so much,
Is the warmth of you within.
Death was so hard on you,
You fought with all your mettle.
Then, sapped and harrowed through,
I watched your body settle.
You still live in my dreams,
I’ve seen you in your splendor.
Then I wake again, it seems,
And bitterly surrender.
A glaring sun’s new day
Will call for me, I reckon.
'Til then, I hope and pray
At night to hear you beckon.
There was more. If I decide to share those, I will mark them "Poetry:" in the title. Have a good night, folks. I am going over to take care of Marcie's mom.
F.
Monday, October 29, 2007
Marcie Has Gone
My baby is gone. Our world is that much darker. It happened at about midnight. She was in great pain, panting and struggling, so I called the hospice nurse, who upped her medication. When I checked on her, she had slipped the bonds of her flesh. I am thoroughly and utterly crushed.
Sunday, October 28, 2007
The Fever
I have been fighting Marcie's fever the whole day. It spiked after I moved her this morning. I got some water down her and tried to get her antibiotics in. I have switched from liquids to apple sauce and yogurt as bases to mix her medicines in, as she cannot swallow well and may soon lose that ability wholly.
Unless she turns a corner, this could be it. She did not have her usual evening wide awake time today, but has been struggling and her breathing is rapid. She also has some discomfort, so I will be trying to give her medication again, which she has been refusing.
Unless she turns a corner, this could be it. She did not have her usual evening wide awake time today, but has been struggling and her breathing is rapid. She also has some discomfort, so I will be trying to give her medication again, which she has been refusing.
Saturday, October 27, 2007
Six Hours Later
It took six hours to get the oxygen concentrator. The medications came shortly after that. On one hand, the gurgling is gone. On the other, there is now a tube on Marcie's nose. It isn't breathing for her, but it's there.
No food for Marcie tonight, but she did have some orange juice with the new antibiotic, which was prescribed to fight off her new fever. It was prescribed as a 10-day course, but arrived with only 7 pills. I will try a late meal.
No food for Marcie tonight, but she did have some orange juice with the new antibiotic, which was prescribed to fight off her new fever. It was prescribed as a 10-day course, but arrived with only 7 pills. I will try a late meal.
A Little Dinner
Actually, a tiny one. But it was a dinner! When Jane left, she advised me she had brought a couple of meat (veggie) loaf (frozen) dinners (organic). Marcie was hungry, so the mashed potatoes and peas and corn all lumped together in the brown veggie gravy was the ticket.
She couldn't eat much, but she ate what she did with alacrity. We shared. It was delicious. I took advantage of the whole situation and gave Marcie chicken noodle soup broth instead of water to wash things down with. We'll see if she gets another bounce out of all that effort.
Barbara reports that she got Marcie to take some chicken noodle soup broth earlier as well. I am just glad she can chatter with me a little and enjoy some food.
She couldn't eat much, but she ate what she did with alacrity. We shared. It was delicious. I took advantage of the whole situation and gave Marcie chicken noodle soup broth instead of water to wash things down with. We'll see if she gets another bounce out of all that effort.
Barbara reports that she got Marcie to take some chicken noodle soup broth earlier as well. I am just glad she can chatter with me a little and enjoy some food.