In Defense of Romanticism - Francis the Fool Speaks

So, here it goes. Some people need to back off, some need a little backup.

I talk about, write about, live about and, for a little while longer, at least, breathe about my (our) beautiful Marcie and the love we had and may still, if part of me is to be believed, retain. I know it is not a surprise to some who have known me for a long time that I tend to some outmoded sentiments on love in this modern age. I have tried to place my finger on the issue of why, and I have decided to not, but to face facts.

My "heart's" workings are, simply, anachronistic. More on that later, but suffice to say that, in terms of how I love and how I show it, I am old fashioned. My emotional intelligence may be flawed in that I choose to enjoy and celebrate romance, to reflect on love as and enduring and healing, sustainable force. But I am content to be such a fool if the measure of emotional intelligence is distance from passion and immunity from being consumed. Those who take some comfort in my assertion of potential foolishness should read on.

"What of it?" some of you might ask. "So what?"

Well, my soft-heartedness has, upon occasion, been mistaken for soft-headedness. Let me disabuse those of you harboring that notion throughout this post. For now, I have a few shots to fire off less directly, a poem or two to call on, and a challenge for the readers who are sitting in sympathy, guarded or not, with my point.

I have observed the state of most who claim to have loved and I can, in cooler moments, see the logic of the assertion that love fades. I have also heard the cynical and clinical evaluations and insecure, snotty, pseudo-intellectual appraisals of romance by those whose fields of endeavor, or perhaps breadth of romantic experience, makes it crucial that they deny and decry anything they have been unable to have or maintain themselves.

It is an enjoyable pity that the host's intellect rarely sustains the capacity for such a rigorous-sounding, hard-nosed thesis... but I digress. Suffice it to say such proponents dismay me, but often it is to my comfort, as they are often of little enough impression otherwise.

Some need romantic love to fail for strictly economic reasons. Anything to sell a viagra, a paxil, or an ill-considered marriage license and, later, divorce services, one supposes. Perhaps their support of the idea that we are unable to form passionate bonds over time is a way to dissolve or weaken those we could.

We are bombarded by the seduction of failure and an inflated likelihood of insecurity or inadequacy by our media machine. This is excusable among my pedestrian and lackluster detractors. They are subjects to, not rulers of, their manipulators. Their filters come right off the shelf and over their eyes and hearts.

But I am saddened at times and in other cases. I am most disappointed when I hear from those who, one-time romantics, found themselves betrayed, subjected in some damaging, lasting way to the ugly side of faded love or dimmed fascination.

If I am sufficiently impressed by some one's quality, I dig and find this almost every time I hear these ideas of romantic love's ephemeral state from otherwise warm-hearted people. But sometimes they are an excuse for poor behavior in love and lust, regardless the cause cited.

When I recognize a truly fallen heart, I am devastated. It is an even more acute sense of that sadness to know someone given to romantic sentiment has been stripped bare and chooses to remain there, or to seek the transient luminance and utilitarian company of unsuitable but available mates. There are plenty, regardless one's circumstances, I have noticed of late.

From now on, I think that instead of continuously rebuffing or tolerating, red-eared, assaults on my perceptions, experiences and the relaying of them, I will dispense with the absolutism for the focused. I simply proffer that, much as Gould's rejection of the dichotomy between science and faith, I perceive matters of the "heart" to be "Nonoverlapping Magisteria" with those of the more concrete, scientific mind.

That goes for a more "realistic, straightforward, utilitarian" outlook, too. Lump that in with the clinical and the cynical. You who hide the hurt under a layer of rational justifications and vile blandishments? Pretend to patronize the romantic and smile in some falsely wise way, if it helps. But read on.

I believe, in fact, that the rational and emotional are separate for a number of reasons. But neither can truly overshadow the other in any case I would entertain.

How many times have our evils been tempered, in wrath or dogma, by mercy? Suffice to say not nearly enough by the looks of the world, but sufficiently to have anecdotes of such a sentiment overruling a better selfish course. Thank goodness the emotional mind helps us hide people in our attics when we could simply spare ourselves and perhaps be rewarded for turning them over to authorities.

There are other acts, more attributed to love by even those who decry romance. How many mothers or fathers give their lives to save a child's? Or disacknowledge their own peril to save a stranger's? Altruism is often vilified as a soft-headed nonentity. The savior of a drowning man is working on his own desire to be rescued, the child is saved to continue the genetic legacy of the parent...

Cynics and hard hearted, maladaptive and potentially abusive people dream of ways to depose romantic love just as they do altruism. But this is no cutting-edge notion, the disutility of that sentiment of love. It's at least a couple of decades old. And old Hecht, so angry and vile in his attack on love, went back over a century to mock at least one confederate of mine, poet Matthew Arnold, and his work:

Dover Beach

The sea is calm to-night.
The tide is full, the moon lies fair
Upon the straits; on the French coast the light
Gleams and is gone; the cliffs of England stand;
Glimmering and vast, out in the tranquil bay.
Come to the window, sweet is the night-air!
Only, from the long line of spray
Where the sea meets the moon-blanched land,
Listen! you hear the grating roar
Of pebbles which the waves draw back, and fling,
At their return, up the high strand,
Begin, and cease, and then again begin,
With tremulous cadence slow, and bring
The eternal note of sadness in.

Sophocles long ago
Heard it on the Aegean, and it brought
Into his mind the turbid ebb and flow
Of human misery; we
Find also in the sound a thought,
Hearing it by this distant northern sea.

The Sea of Faith
Was once, too, at the full, and round earth's shore
Lay like the folds of a bright girdle furled.
But now I only hear
Its melancholy, long, withdrawing roar,
Retreating, to the breath
Of the night-wind, down the vast edges drear
And naked shingles of the world.


Ah, love, let us be true
To one another! for the world, which seems
To lie before us like a land of dreams,
So various, so beautiful, so new,
Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light,
Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain;
And we are here as on a darkling plain
Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight,
Where ignorant armies clash by night.

This was a call to a woman, but in metaphor to all of us, to love romantically in place of faith in gods and certainty, to find certainty in the sentiments we experience as they happen. But in getting there, he deposes religion, the power of the individual to shift the tides and not be washed in them against black shores of a random and chaotic world, and acknowledges drudgery as the existence of most (my own interpretation).

But even this call, to simply enjoy and be caught up in a more romantic place, to shelter and wrap each other in our love for one another, especially romantically, was not to be unmet by cynics and would-be advancers of the theme of futility. Sneering and sad, Hecht arrives with his retort to a long-dead better, incognizant and arrogant, broken and small, but splashy.

The Dover Bitch

So there stood Matthew Arnold and this girl
With the cliffs of England crumbling away behind them,
And he said to her, 'Try to be true to me,
And I'll do the same for you, for things are bad
All over, etc., etc.'
Well now, I knew this girl. It's true she had read
Sophocles in a fairly good translation
And caught that bitter allusion to the sea,
But all the time he was talking she had in mind
The notion of what his whiskers would feel like
On the back of her neck. She told me later on
That after a while she got to looking out
At the lights across the channel, and really felt sad,
Thinking of all the wine and enormous beds
And blandishments in French and the perfumes.
And then she got really angry. To have been brought
All the way down from London, and then be addressed
As a sort of mournful cosmic last resort
Is really tough on a girl, and she was pretty.
Anyway, she watched him pace the room
And finger his watch-chain and seem to sweat a bit,
And then she said one or two unprintable things.
But you mustn't judge her by that. What I mean to say is,
She's really all right. I still see her once in a while
And she always treats me right. We have a drink
And I give her a good time, and perhaps it's a year
Before I see her again, but there she is,
Running to fat, but dependable as they come.
And sometimes I bring her a bottle of Nuit d' Amour.

So here is the undoing of romance, the assertion of the truly vain and vapid in supremacy over the substantial emotion? Yes. Here is the debasement of sentiment and the analog to so much of the anti-romantic vogue of 40 years. Pathetic and pedantic, but celebrated as genius by a generation of people we all know as traitors to every value they once claimed ruled their ways. Hecht wrote this in 1967 to great celebration, I am sure. In response to a poem from the 1850s. Bravo.

I see the extension of the theme of the removal of certainty and the casting down of the quaint. But here, Hecht fails. I have known that great comfort and that certainty in more than one relationship, and I have known women who also held it dear and knew it from me. I have known others who knew it, too. It can fade, but it can be maintained as easily.

Aside from my assertion, that Hecht's passage was against romantic love and degrading to women and to men, that it plied mocking allusions to thematic sexual liberation and limited depth of emotion, and beyond the idea that he seemed to ignore that Arnold visited Dover Beach with his wife, not a random London lover, is that Hecht missed the point.

I pity Hecht. He was too weak, or too consumed by his life of apparent pain and his honorable but amazingly painful experiences during the liberation of Buchenwald, to protect his emotional mind from shriveling and his sarcasm from overtaking him. When the emotional mind is not strengthened, however, it is easy to subscribe to a notion that romanticism is weak itself.

We could be called in Dover Beach to not cling to our positions and risk harming each other when we are actually of like hearts. Arnold's last line, it is often said, alludes to Thucydides' account of the Battle of Epipolae (413 B.C.), a walled fortress near the city of Syracuse on Sicily. The combatants, Athenians and Syracusans, savaged each other in pitch black, unable to clearly distinguish friend from foe.

So I will cease here. Some of you who have been railed against, I do love. But I will also issue a challenge. See if there is any romantic thought, if you are so skeptical of it all, that you can hold to and nurture into something beautiful. And if you can plant that seed in yourself, or remember that notion or feeling at all, then you should try to find it everywhere that matters.

If you cannot, then I concede that, for you, it is better to have loved and lost than to not have loved at all, and a pity you will possibly never know it again. If you have never known it, then I am very much interested in how you came to be loved at all, even for a moment.

And if you have cheered me on, or been wrenched into a heartrending review of your own ideas by me, then I am honored and ask that you simply surrender a little to sentiment or romance. It does not require that you are altruistic, you do not have to be an anachronistic thinker, and you are certainly not a fool in my eyes. But then, I am an admitted fool and accused of sappiness, though I am happier in it than to be ruled by my traumas. My opinion may not count for much.

But then, if you who doubt are so smart and rational, and it is so easy to glide over the dissolution of love when you believe that it is inevitable that the comfort of romantic fire would wink out, then you had little need to have read all of this, and I am sorry for wasting your time.

Much love either way, anachronistic sentiments and all.

F.

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.

-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

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.

The Dream of Love

The most difficult dream I had was what I have determined was a vision of love. But there was no ravishing greeting, no long rest in each others' company in a faraway place. The dream of love started in a long bedroom hallway.

There were pictures from the floor to a tapered ceiling a few feet over my own, the scant lines of white between them the only evidence of walls and ceilings beneath. I stopped at one and stared into the eyes of my great grandmother, Grandmommie Girvin, in an old metal pressed frame.

It was my first funeral and I remembered it vividly. The somber words, the massive turnout of the bereaved. My aunts and uncles, not just from my mother's side, but from my father's gigantic family, too.

But I moved on and came across the picture of my cat Garfield (named by my littlest sister), who I remembered jumping up into my arms when I got home, his well-groomed long hair a soft coat of Siamese-pattern points. had the face of a domestic cat, gruff and brawny, and he was like a blanket on cold winter's nights.

I moved on to a picture of my mother, from a year I did not remember well at all. But I remembered peach trees and orange trees, and I remember disappointing her by bringing home a traded-for car she thought i stole from Fed Mart. Her disappointment, mislaid as it was, was my first, six-year-old, heartbreak.

I was suddenly moving again and looking at old pals, former lovers and relatives I knew were all doing just fine, and whose pictures were flat. They hadn't uploaded yet, I thought.

And then I saw a picture of my friend Neil Roberts, from San Diego Naval Company 145. He had been my Recruit Leading Petty Officer, or RLPO or "Ral-Po," in boot camp, and a close ally in the boot camp politics, as I was the Athletic Petty Officer. These constituted important "command staff" boot camp positions that were somewhat political. He was killed in Afghanistan in heavy combat.

Pixie, my first cat, bumped his head under my palm and I told him how glad I was to see him, or her, or whatever, as I was only a small child when Pixie was alive and did know what gender, then, was all about. But greet Pixie I did.

When Grandma Pruett sauntered by and poked me, motioning with her typical Grandma grin, full of her former mischief and happy energy, I got the message, "Move on, keep going... there's something special ahead." But no words, just that smile.

And then finally I opened the door and the room beyond was nothing but pictures of Marcie and I, Marcie and Seamus, Seamus and I and all of us, pictures impossible because no one could have taken them, but see them and know them I did, each for it memorial.

Then I turned and looked on a full-length portrait of her in her blue dress. Her right hand was out in it, as if to dance, to be led. I reached to touch the glass and found myself dancing with her and smelling her again, feeling her under my hands as we spun in the soft light of the picture frame.

"You always stop and talk to everyone," she said. "But I am not worried about it anymore. You take your time, baby."

We danced and we spoke for what seemed hours, never once mentioning her death. Finally, I kissed her as the music died out and our steps clacked on the floor beneath us. She smiled and we retired to bed, wide awake.

I awoke far too soon and the sound of the paper carrier walking away from the neighbor's steps made me feel very sad.

Snappy Comeback Ginger Greens

This recipe takes preparation and a couple of days to really come out right, due to the need to have the flavors mesh before you serve them. Snappy Comeback Ginger Greens are basically a salad, but there is a certain way you handle this salad, and tossing is not part of it.

It was one of Marcie's favorites and its smell makes me gulp sometimes.

As an aside, try to use old salad dressing containers for sauces and dressings like this. This can stain scratched plastic or melt cheap containers, so GLASS ONLY! I actually saved mine in an old dressing container from a grocery store.

Snappy Comeback Dressing Ingredients:

• 2 tbsp high-grade extra virgin olive oil (McEvoy's for example)
• 2 tbsp rice wine vinegar
• 1 tbsp balsamic vinegar
• 3 tsp ground ginger, including any liquid from the root
• 2 tbsp soy sauce
• 1 tbsp honey
• 1/4 tsp roasted, ground sesame seeds (tahini)
• two days of anticipation and giddiness
• one small clove garlic, pan-roasted, ground

For my friends Christi and Jane, I did something a little different. I soaked a little piece of ginger in garlic-infused (cheap) olive oil instead of adding garlic, then gound that into the ginger I used for the dressing, lessening the smell so they could work with the public, but keeping a hint of the flavor for them to enjoy.

As an aside, try to use old salad dressing containers for things like this. GLASS ONLY! I actually saved mine in an old ginger dressing container from a grocery store.

After grinding and mixing all the ingredients except the honey, take some solids out and drop them into a pan on medium-high heat. Drizzle the honey over them, let them simmer to a slightly darker brown, then panic and grab the pan, scraping it into the glass container.

Shake the container once closed, then let it cool uncapped if it is warm to the touch... for a minute or so. Inhale the smell and think of the people who will enjoy it. Put it away in the refrigerator and enjoy with at least two friends, or just one romantic interest or significant other.

When serving, pour the dressing into a small bowl and dip the greens into it, then brush the remaining greens in your salad service until a thin sheen of bright oil is on the leaves.

Inhale the integrated scents as you await your loved ones, and tell them nothing of how you made it, except that you did. For them.

F.

The Marcie Memorial Menu

So, I promised to post my recipes and my techniques. I have decided the recipes will do for now. If you want the rest, I will get to them in time. For now, enjoy the menu, the recipes and know that love went into them. There are special ingredients, you have to have them for the recipes to come out right...

The Menu for my night with Christina and Jane was:

1. Spring Rolls of Soothing Savor*
2. Snappy Comeback Ginger Greens
3. Miso Francisco
4. Heartening Dumplings and Pot Stickers*
5. Redhead Rice Marcelyn
6. Joyful Jumble Stir-Fry*

These dishes benefitted from my Cilhini spread, Auburn Sauce Christina, Sweet Hot Jane Sauce, Red Hot Marcie Dip and a little Ling Ling...

One recipe will be posted per day, folks, with sauces last. Tomorrow, I mix in the rest of the dreams. Did you think I forgot? Heck, I may last long enough to post one tonight. First, a recipe

Spring Rolls of Soothing Savor

Ingredients:
1 package rice paper
1 cup imitation crab,
1 Haas avocado, -just- ripe
1 bag bean sprouts
1 carrot
1 cucumber
1 head butterleaf lettuce
1 sad smile
Frank's Cilhini spread-
4-7 cilantro sprigs
1 lemon

-Small bowl of Frank's Cilhini spread-

3 twists fresh ground pepper,

2 tbsp warm roasted sesame seeds,

1-2 tsp rice wine vinger (spiced okay),

1 tsp cilantro juice from crushed and squeezed herbs

Grind all ingredients with a mortar and pestle or a bowl and spoon, adding
cilantro juice at the end and holding off on vinegar until a paste is made,
then use vinegar to *just* loosen it to spreadable consistency. Set
aside.

Cut carrots and cilantro into strips, roughly 3-5 inches long, depending on your rice paper size. Cut avocado to the same rough size and drizzle with lemon to rpeserve and flavor. Fill a pan with hot (not boiling) water, and soak rice paper until clear. Pull rice paper out and place with one edge hanging off the work surface. Create a line of crab, avocado, vegetables and sprouts on a butterleaf, lay the leaf on the paper half-rolled, and roll gently.

Hold the paper a moment until it "heals up," thinking of something sad about someone you loved then set the spring roll aside, thinking about someone you love who knows why you are sad. Repeat until all the ingredients are gone. Take dabs of the Frank's Cilhini spred and drop the dollops on every other roll. Dress the mass up with cilantro garnishes and decorative vegetables, such as carrot flowers.

Makes 10 4-6" rolls that make it easier to take the good with the bad and which seem to invite more good into your life.

Much Love,

F.

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.

The Fancy Food Show

A foodie paradise settled into the San Diego Convention Center today, booth upon booth of delicious treats, sauces, oils, new twists on old favorites and the tools to apply them. The Fancy Food Show.

Marcie would be in heaven there. Marcie and I had an affinity for food. We cooked for each other, prepared food with as much show as taste, and collaborated to create dishes.

As an extra bonus to my attendance under a press pass (in order to write a nice column), Jane and Christi, the San Francisco Angels themselves, are in attendance for McEvoy Ranch.

Tonight, I will recreate one or two of those, without her, and serve Kane and Christi the dinner we planned for our anniversary. Then, I don't know if I will ever make them again. Something bland might be better from now on, at least until I connect someone else to the effort.

The food I have come to make has too much feeling in it. When you build and cook it from scratch for someone you love, it becomes assocuiateds with them. Delicious as it may be, I can't keep going back to those feelings every time I want a little nourishment.

F.

Generosity

About the dreams...

The shortest dream, and the only one I did not see Marcie in directly was the dream of Generosity. I know that these little dreams were likely created by my mind reconciling and grieving. But the way they were set and what they contained connects them to each other and Marcie for me.

Generosity

I "awoke" into the dream world on the same granite surface I had been on before, and I immediately began looking for Marcie, fully aware I was asleep. My plan was to basically make sure I interacted with her and asked her all the questions I had, and to make sure I let her know how loved she was. I did not see her, but the furniture was there, though covered in dust.

I opened a double door onto a point overlooking a vast plain. Wandering it were massive herds of llamas. Some of them were singing as a person of indeterminate age and gender, dressed in the manner an Animal Planet host might, rattled on in a weird, tinny radioesque voice about how expansive a llama's voice range was, how they interacted socially, and various other items of interest.

I watched the herd and scanned for Marcie, but one comment pulled my attention back to the speaker.

"Thanks to the generosity of Marcelyn Stoddard-Pruett, all of these llamas will be returned to South America next year, making them the last held outside of their home hemisphere forever," the host said.

I turned, incredulous. "Where did she get the money for that?" I asked the man, who shook his head.

Oh, no, she gave no money," he said. "She wanted to do this very badly, and she was alwas talking about it, so we thought it would be good way to help her better rest."

I nodded and as I slipped out of the dream state again. I understood. Generosity of spirit will often produce the same benefits over time that any physical of financial generosity would.

I woke fully and the vision disappeared.


F.

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.

Of Preparation

With the tingle on my lips gone and the numbness of sleep sliding over me, I felt fleeting brushes of hair on my skin. I should have startled out of my sleep, but instead had that falling sensation we all know along with the feeling of hair sliding past my arms.

Light eventually struck the world around me as I slid down a billowing red slope of satin or some other unbelievably frictionless material. It felt like I was sinking into the cloth as I slid through it, and the strands caressed my arms and my legs, my whole body, more soothing than sensual.

I slowed and, from the endless expanse of red, I saw a white edge, then as I drew closer, slowing still, I saw silver water beyond. And as I came to a stop, somehow on my feet, the material retreated and various furnishings were revealed on a mostly unpolished but somehow comfortable granite floor.

Here was a 5-post bed with a pentagonal mattress, something I have never seen, yet seemed familiar. Black sheets stretched over it, pillows sat in a pile in the middle. the drapes were pulled up with red and gold braided cords, which shifted oddly from time to time. The frame appeared to be part of the floor, one piece of stone, continuous and unbroken.

There was a kind of lamp stand with an odd miniature gaslamp on it, black and white with a warm red flicker within. It sat next to a bookshelf with myriad books, all of them tiny, tiny versions of larger works. I pulled one out labeled, simply, "Cummings." Behind it was one labeled "Joyce."

I saw a multi-tiered desk nearby, the arms of which wrapped around the seat and merged with it oddly, though I knew it was a seat. I slid into it by stepping over an arm. There were dozens of drawers. I opened one.

Inside was a little note which read, in her writing, "Remind Frank to pack."

I was suddenly stricken by the anxiety that I had forgotten to pack, and then that I had forgotten why I was supposed to. I started opening drawers and flipping through empty sheets of paper. I finally opened one drawer and found a note.

Again, in her hand, a note. "Oh, honey, I was just teasing." Marcie's smirking admission, never false, only to keep me from obsessing on her latest cryptic comment.

I felt very sad for a moment and I clambered out of the odd desk. I was naked, and though I had likely been naked, I wondered how but was not anxious about it. I reached awareness of my dream state just as her voice tickled my neck, my ear.

"Because I used my hair to take them off, silly," the voice said.

Having become aware of my dream state, I froze and tried to reason through the situation. But my heart won out and I turned, looking back at the sea of red cloth.

I realized it was not cloth, but a massive, endless cascade of her hair. It wavered and then retreated, shrinking down as it reformed in scale and darkness, lightening and slowly turning to waves. It stopped as it formed in a thick blanket down her back, to the floor, the rock.

She turned, my beautiful baby. Again she was ageless and young, no cruelty of disease, no fear or pain or sadness. Not so for me. I felt tears, then heard them spatter on the floor as she walked over to me.

Her hair trailed behind like a bride's train and her smile was broad. She looked at me with her head tilted, circling me slowly, sauntering. I was frozen in place, afraid she might shatter with my dreamstate, if touch her I dared.

"I need you to be awake for this," she said. "Because it isn't something I think you will keep with you if you are really asleep."

I gulped and she took my hand in hers, that warm sensation so strong and real in the half-dream, the lucid fantasia. I pulled her into my arms and smelled her Chanel No. 5 again. I consciously tried to feel her flesh and was breathless as I did, my hands unable to cease, my mind-within-my-mind marveling at it all.

I did not have to say I loved her, but she had something to say to me.

"Honey, you get the details and you get the big picture, but you need to make sure you don't just dive in like you have," she said. "Because you're going to get hurt if you don't know what you are getting into, and I always tried to plan for both of us."

I nodded and wondered what she meant. Everything was a plan to me, something I had learned from her. Everything was a list, another thing I had learned. I wondered what she meant.

"You could also lose a good opportunity if you don't plan to take advantage of it, mister," she said, stroking my back and kissing my lips, the tingle returning to them, my hands tingling as I stroked at her.

She broke the kiss and smiled, "I told you so."

I panicked and fell, and there was no silky slope, no mass of hair. I awoke to the cold night again, and the tingle of my hands and lips. One was from my sleeping position, the other from the cold. I pulled the blanket into a tube around my head.

I decided that I would have a plan for visits, as irrational as it all was anyways. Somehow, I felt a little burned, but I had learned a lesson in just the way Marcie liked to teach them, too...

F.

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.

The Dreams

"Thoughtfulness, preparation, generosity, love, enterprise, passion and wisdom."

These were, in retrospect, what the dreams I had one morning in December communicated to me. My own "Christmas Carol," only without the pain and only a little scariness for my troubles. Before I share these dreams with the reader, I want to remind them of some other items I have posted, especially regarding dreams, our loved ones, death and continuance beyond it.

So, whether by my mind or by my heart, by Marcie or by the simple process of things working out in all of those, perhaps with the influence of too much meditation and flowing tears, I had a rough but sufficient sleep from about midnight to 8 a.m. December 25th. During it, I had dreams in sequence, waking from each and immediately trying to cram myself back into them, to feel close to her.

As is often the case with dreams along themes, and especially those in sequence, nothing was quite the same when I escaped into sleep and rejoined the dream state. My lucidity in sleep, by the way, is both a curse and a boon. I can remember much, but I cannot always force my dreams to do what I want.

For these dreams, it was best that I wasn't able to. They were perfect how they were. Tomorrow, I will share the first of them, which I will simply call Thoughtfulness, because it was all about that aspect of Marcie.

Teej linked

I have added Teej's "Smells Like Happy" to my related blogs list. A fellow journalist! Check her out if you have time. I will post something tomorrow, maybe one of the dreams.

Upset at myself

I found more of Marcie's written materials last night, from this year's birthday, but I appear to have mislaid it. There were also more notes from her from the Humboldt visit and other occasions. I am quite distraught. On top of that, Christi's computer lost a lot of information during the storm in Northern California. Jane thinks some pictures went with it.

I did not bring my own camera because, though I was on almost a tour the last night, I was hosting them and wanted to focus on sharing before my visit ended. We'll see if Christi has those images on camera still (via memory card) and I'll post some other time if so.

I can't do this stuff today, too much is on my mind. I feel as if I have lost a part of Marcie, but I have decided to let it find me. Besides, I have already torn the trash apart looking for it... crap.

On a more positive note, I have a new reader. Teej, the commenter below, has a blog, too... I will be linking and tracking back, maybe.

See you Monday, folks.

F.

The San Francisco Moment

The blog may seem to have turned into a logbbook, but I have a point in sharing my San Francisco adventure. I will fully flesh it out in the book, but the trip has been multilayered and revelatory. The voyage, the stay and the departure were all one big moment of Marcie.

As I have shared with Jane and Christi, and which Jane already knew, the world Marcie lived in was divided into realms. Work people only rarely met family. Family and friends mixed sparingly or not at all. Lastly, the spouse was not to get to close to, or to interact too much with, the girlfriends.

There were some exceptions, to be true. I occasionally got to spend limited amounts of time with Tom and Chrissy Patterson before they moved to the Midwest, Jane was a common and welcome guest (though I was often shooed away by Marcie) and Lisa and I often enjoyed long calls. Tanya was persistent and had known us both as neighbors, so Marcie was occasionally willing to interact with me in tow. But, when it came down to it, I was generally cut out of girlfriends' lives. I took an interest in their activities, but she kept the wall there.

That changed as Marcie became ill. I met Walt, Lisa's boyfriend, now husband, and we went sailing with them and had dinner, something I greatly enjoyed. Calls and visits with her girlfriends became longer, more personal and connective.

But Jane remained largely a mystery, as did Christi, a person I met once and heard of several times and had even heard a story or two about (when I was not told to go out and surf or to leave Marcie with Jane in peace). Jane was the near-sister who occasionally summoned Marcie to her side for joy and merryment, support and indulgence.

But I started to really discover Jane and Christi before the memorial, then at it, then after it as we cleaned up the wake. I knew I wanted to visit them in San Francisco when they offered to have me up. Then I truly began to understand a little about why Marcie loved them so.

Jane, Jason, Christi and their whole world unfolded before me, and with it, a special corner of Marcie's life, that "magic trip" that always lifted her spirits. So, I may call Christi and Jane angels, but it may be because they showed me just what Marcie's heaven could look, feel, taste and sound a lot like. The experience was at least in part due to Marcie herself. Not simply because she was such a friend to Jane, though.

In Marcie's world and in any given realm within it, everything was always planned, usually thoughtfully so. When Marcie summoned me from my exile (for their girl time) to see Jane to her car, she told Jane and I before we left that she wanted us to stay in touch and support each other, no matter what happened to her. It was a devastating thing to hear, as we both still expected a good outcome, and it meant she felt her way of living and separating her social groups was no longer serving any good purpose. It was a tough walk to the car.

In that little dictate, she gave me the greatest inheritance she had, the last of her friends. In so doing, she let me out of my box and then told me where to find more of her to love, in San Francisco.

F.

The Big Chair

I realized that I never posted my picture from the big chair... Thank you, Christi, for sending it. This is from the last night of the visit. That's another wonderful day to share sometime... Here's the last thing we did before we dropped Christi off via taxi and headed to Jane's:

The San Francisco Angels

So, I have finally gotten together my permission to post some pictures of my hostesses from our day and two nights of grand debauch. I may also post unmentioned photos that I feel express something revelatory... as long as they are flattering, that is.

I cannot fully express how good this trip was. I enjoyed the journey, to be sure, but I was absolutely spoiled the whole time after I arrived, and I feel elevated, and more than a little lighter of heart. As much as I speak of a grand debauch, nothing was excessive, but the luxurious and rather rococo setting made it feel as if just a few drinks was a long, languid party. And we had that a few times.

I have chosen not to describe this trip in multiple long posts. I would rather share it in little bits and sprinkle the trip across several posts over time, and just refer back to some of the special moments when I am not still relishing them stingily. They seem pretty private right now.

But here are some pictures, as approved by my San Francisco Angels, Ms Christina Cavallaro and Mrs. Jane Steele. First up, a shot which I think shows off the coziness of Christi's cocoon-nest:

Next up is a shot of pure animal love. Here are Christi and Samsara, a shot chosen by Jane. I have two, and they are both very sweet. I was lucky to get clear shots:

A doting kitty mother
Samsara cuddled in and beyond all escape

We did quite a bit of walking after we left Christi's cozy little nest. We ended up at the high point of Fillmore after a while. I did not choose to frame in Alcatraz, as it is an image I find pretty depressing, though I will likely tour it someday. I still like this shot, though.

After we turned back toward Christi's end of Fillmore, I snagged a couple of shots outside a bookstore of the two hostesses. I actually pulled of a surprise shot:

Cooperation with the camera handler began to break down after I took the first shot from behind the window display. I still managed to get a few more, though. First, I took pictures of a cute little pup to push their guards down. This is Little Kim, who soon also decided she was not happy being photographed and trotted off:

After one shot, Little Kim deployed her "Dog Smears Window with nose" defense.

We moved on and eventually landed at the O Izakaya Lounge, featured in the video posted earlier on the blog. Here, I actually snagged quite a few shots, most of which were too dark and grainy. However, the angels found one or two that were acceptable, but looking down means many things, so both seem good to me:

Considering their apparently plentiful and "Gorgeous" options (see video in post below...)
Preparing to admonish me (again) for taking more photos

Eventually, we landed for real dinner at Benihana's, where we finished the night out. I like this picture from there, dark or not:

We hiked back to Christi's, happy, full and no, not drunk. It was a feeling I hadn't had in a long time. Sooo many good conversations... in confidence until they can be in context. Night, folks. As soon as Christi gives me more shots from the second, wilder night, I will post about it. We didn't start at the big chair!

So much to post, but first... a request

We had a good time at O Izakaya lounge in Japantown. Our waiter was quite fun to watch and to film. There is one adjective which seems overused. Thesaurus, anyone? This is actually posted more for Jane and Christi than general use... They're cute as buttons, no?

Jane just cannot deal with the filming of it after a while... you'll hear her at the end. Stick around for the credits...

Catching up on my Vacation/Scouting - Mission Days 1-3 in the Bay Area

I have had a wonderful few days in San Francisco, and because of that I have been quite remiss in my blogging... but all for a good cause. I have MORE pictures, and I get to introduce friends in pictures who have not been featured visually but have made their respective debuts before.

First off are Jane and Jason, whose home has been mine as well since I arrived on the 30th, and who will be featured in their own "plus bunnies" post when I get home. However, for now... here is a wonderful picture of the two of them overlooking the Pacific:

Setting Sun For a Couple

Jason was a champ. He may have even turned me on to watching football and finding some intellectual stimulation from it to override my disinterest. The sociological angle is just what I needed. I'm not saying I'll watch every week, but I will read the sports news more often. Thanks, Jason.

My first day up here was spent walking around the neighborhood Jane and Jason are privileged to live in. Wow. What a beautiful neighborhood, amazingly only one block from Golden Gate Park and a scant few more than that from the beach, which is where the above shot was grabbed. Yes, that's a bird in the middle, but an accidental one....

The tour of Golden Gate Park was quite nice. It has enough country to appeal to that part of my soul, and enough city to make it feel urbane as well. Some of the highlights to perhaps pause and look at include the horse we visited at the stables, the bison, and a raven. I also fooled around with catching a fishing line in mid-cast, which Jason actually was doing first but I had to try.



After a long trip through the park, including a little free entertainment (a reggae concert which was quite well done) and a visit for batteries, we headed to the coast. Wonderful, wonderful, wonderful:



As if to end our day on mystical note, a beautiful dog kept flying down the beach and into the water, drawing my shutterbug out and challenging me not to take a picture When I saw he picture on a computer screen afterwards, I was very pleased. What an effect. It's a dog leaving a trail of fire in his or her wake:

The Trail of the Fire Hound

After our dog-frolic encounter, it was time to head back for a delicious and hearty cornbread and turkey-chili dinner, which was a very good thing to have in my belly. Talk about a long and sound sleep! I did not know it, but it would be a needed rest...

Tamalpais and New Year's Eve-Day Two

The next day dawned, the 31st, and it was off to a hiking trip. Jane and I went alone on this one, to Tamalpais, above Sausalito. But first... first a trip to a delicious and deliciously underpriced, diner. Marcie would have gobbled it up, and I certainly did. Traditional breakfast served fast and sweetly by an Asian family. Yummage.

Then, we were off! Just a 20-minute trip from her home, a jaunt over the Golden Gate bridge, Jane has the countryside and a fullon forest in her backyard. Actually, several, but let's focus on this trip's destination, hmm? Agreed? Yes! What can I say? Nothing. It was better to take pictures and a film. The pictures first:



Jane claimed she was prone to getting lost, but she was an excellent guide. Much talk of my baby here... Marcie would have marched us for the whole round trip, but we turned back for a night on the town... New Year's Eve! But first, a waterfall film. Turn on your sound...

I will be getting New Year's photos from Jason and Jane later. For now, just know that the debauchery was kept to a relative minimum but that we found a cute little place to eat with a kickass host, drank at a Beat spot, crashed a party at Bimbo's and loved us up some North Beach. But I was restless, which was a poorly timed state...

The Debauch-Day 3

Day Three was a meandering joy. The first order of business was to decide on what. Both of us suffering from stiff calves, Jane and I agreed that a trip to another out-of-doors location might be "uncalled for." Another trip, and perhaps a lighthouse then...

But for the third day, we would meet with newly minted co-conspirator and Marcie-sanctioned, long-time Jane pal Christi. The other wonderful hostess and helper at Marcie's memorial, Christi is a true gem and a multi-talented maven.

Since my little trip is a mix of memorial, vacation and thank-you for their help, I had brought a collection of items which I felt were appropriate as gifts for Marcie's friends. Candles, candies, drink (high-end vodkas) and some more personal items were brought and given (to a great reception). We had some long discussions and champagne, food and candy.

It was a little memorial for my baby, and every gift had in it something I knew of her or the two of them. The gifts did not go unanswered. The answer, a field trip, took all day and much of the night and was thoroughly enjoyable as much for watching my two lovely companions interact as it was for sharing little bits of my Marcie's person with each other.

Hmm... I have too many pictures to share here, but I need to clear them with Jane and Christi. Women love their images only when they meet their own standards. For now, I have been admonished for not putting myself and my picture on the blog, so I will share a picture of all of us at the Japantown Benihana's.



We'll talk more of the debauch (post, talk, whatever) after I go home and have time to digest it. Suffice to say it was awesome! Benihana's was the last stop before we all paraded back to Christi's, but there is way too much before that to share for me to keep typing now...

More from Big Sur

I have been running the shutter on my camera's CCD like wild. I am posting some leftovers from Big Sur in this slide show and then later some pictures I have taken since I arrived in San Francisco. For now, enjoy these:



More later today, I promise.

F.

On The Big Sur Route

The first day of the mission is under my belt. It felt very lonely, I must admit. Toward the end of State Highway 46, I was hit by an urge to pull over, much in the same sudden way that I would be told to stop someplace when Marcie was driving with me. This, a few miles from the southern end of Big Sur, was what I saw, a panorama from Morro Bay northward:



I did not get as much time in Big Sur as I wanted which means I will pass back through on the way home. I did get a few good snaps, though.

The Elephant Seals! Jane told me to stop and check them out, and I am glad I did. The first thing I saw was the wee babies. This little guy hammed it up for the camera:
Is he flipping me off?



This momma has her hands full. Four of the fat little pinniped burritolings to feed! And yet, fat they were. One of them has already been nibbled on, though, and lays on his side to keep pressure off the wound. He'll be okay. Or, sadly, he'll be lunch. I'll try to check in on him on the way home:



Speaking of lunch, the family bull was about to he handed his but he seemed to ward off the three suitors who came calling for mom. Some of my shots were too blurry, but here is one high-drama moment as two bulls square off. The big one is the daddy:



Daddy swings his head down and knocks back the interloper, who subsequently leaves:



Now, I try not to bother marine mammals, but when they call me out to challenge me, I admit I stop and take pictures while I talk back to them. Is that a felony? Probably is... but it makes for good candids:



Yes, those last two were sunsets. I have more scenshots, which I will post when I am not at a location with crap connectivty.

Night, Folks.

F.

A note and then Note #3

Hi Folks,


I will share with you about my dreams when I finish the notes. This is the last of them, but it lets you in one where we were in our relationship in that summer fugue of 2004. Sent just before my return, Marcie alludes to our passion and our bliss. I was almost done at school and was more than ready for home and wife.



I think it's safe to say that everything she wrote here, in 2004, translates to now, 2007. Considering my dreams, the picture certainly does convey and her words as well. I miss all those things about her, too. Again.

Night, folks.

F.

A special treat on Christmas Eve

Christmas was a big holiday for Marcie. Every year, she plotted and planned with her family and her friends to get together the perfect bundle of thoughtful gifts for her loved ones. She started the day after Christmas each year and bought little bits throughout the year, collecting little perfect thoughts that would count for the next December.

So, it has been difficult, missing and remembering how we would spend the few days of peace before the big day and how we would savor the extra time off with drives and little trips or dates. I was thinking of what Marcie and I would have done this year when I went to bed Christmas Eve.

I generally find I am awake and aware of my surroundings when I am in the first stage of sleep or falling into it. As I nodded off in the front room a bit after midnight Christmas morning, I could feel Seamus' fur under my hand as he laid in his little wool bed.

I thought of how Marcie and I, after a good night and while we were in bed pillow-talking, would sometimes end up with Seamus between us, being petted into a stuporous overload of pleasure before wandering, staggering, down the bed and onto one or the other of our feet. I enjoyed the memory and almost caught a whiff of her as I did, deciding it was a pleasant dream effect, even if I was somewhat still awake.

I progressed toward dreamland wakeful in my mind. I felt her hand on mine as I drifted on the lake at the edge of the waking world and felt myself begin to flow down into deeper sleep. But there was something less phantasmal to me which diverted me and as the gentle down slope became a free fall, I startled out of my sleep.

I kept my eyes shut, moving my hand a bit and making sure my other hand was not the cause of the odd feeling of having a hand laid over mine, but it was behind me as I laid on my side, under me, really. I stroked gently at Seamus's fur to see if I had startled him. I hadn't but he groggily motored his purr a bit to signal he was aware of my touch in his slumber.

I waited for the odd sensation of the hand on mine to pass. It didn't at first, so I moved my hand and shook it. It seemed to go away. "It must have been my blood circulating a certain way," I thought. "Maybe it's related to parasomnias or dyssomnias."

I gulped sadly a little after I opened my eyes and saw no visage, not a presence. Just the cold contours of the couch in the front room, beyond Seamus, under my hand in his little wool bed, and nothing more. I sighed and whispered my love for Marcie and settled back in.

I was not asleep when the sensation returned, and I did not move my hand except to pet Seamus. I seemed to feel a little pressure, but I just let myself fall asleep, keeping Marcie and my memories of her favorite season foremost in my mind.

My dreams were extraordinary.

There were seven of them, and I am at a loss of where to begin. I am writing them down. Be it wish fulfillment, my grieving process operating at the near-unconscious, or simple but extraordinary dreaming, her presence was very strong.

My dreams seemed themed, and touched on the thoughtfulness, preparation, generosity, love, enterprise, passion and wisdom Marcie expressed through this special season in her life. They were my Christmas gifts, and I will be proud to share them... Soon.

Thank you, Marcie, if not directly for the dreams and the sensation of my hand being held, then for the memories which shaped them. I love you.

F.

Merry Christmas

I am missing Marcie more than ever this morning, of course. Christmas was a favorite time for her, save for the obligations to be social with either throngs of people (my family) or to sit "in audience" whilst certain characters held court and regaled us with tales of the wondrous "before" (hers). But we managed to enjoy every one of the ones we had together, thank you.

Here's hoping that the tales you listen to are gifts themselves, that the throngs bring you a festive spirit, and that the day and its activities go by at the pace you would most prefer it to. Merry Christmas, folks.

F.

Letters from Marcie: Note #2

Here's the second of the series she sent me. I am still looking for some of the letters i sent back, but they may be among the many missing letters and her journals still lost. I have not been able to make myself open every box...

That first week, after I got her initial letter, I wrote Marcie about seeing old pals, getting my studies wired and on wheels and just the natural beauty of the place. I had a deer for my neighbor in the dorms and somewhere I still have images of her. I had also called every few nights and was leaving messages between classes with my phone card.

It felt as if I were back in the Navy in some ways, but without the 6-months-or-more madness a cruise means. But the analogy falls apart at most unpleasant points, like hot racks (having to sleep in a rack someone else just left), steam-or-ice-or-both showers, constant loud noise and a plethora of retarded shenanigans going on all around oneself. Furthermore, there was a phone available at less than the price of a whole paycheck and an ass-kissing session with the ship communications sleazeballs.

My roommate, and his girlfriend, by the way, always sat and waited for me to share these notes and the longer letters, and I was proud to. Of course, that meant roommate demanded notes from his love, too, despite their proximity.

There was much mirth in that dorm because of Marcie. People who never met her loved her. The phenomenon continues. Someone told me that her personality comes out in what I write and they love Marcie's spirit. I'm glad I am expressing her well enough to show that part of her. She was my doting spitfire.

At any rate, this one was just a little pick-me-up note from my baby with yet another cute cat scene... it's nice. The letter is somewhere else:

Note #1- Letters from Marcie

Here is one of the notes I wrote about in this week's earlier, heavier post. It relays some of the love, as do all of them. More importantly, it illustrates the kind of wife and lover Marcie was, romantically speaking. Perhaps most importantly, her notes, letters and communications always told me what was on her heart, not just her mind.

The picture she sent me is the one of her in the green tank top at City College, viewable in the memorial book gallery widget/slideshow. She had not changed much at all, and I told her so. So beautiful...

Seamus was always sensitive to missing people in his life, and he still has a very good memory for people he has liked. He is quick to get close with long-absent pals and slow to take in unknowns. When Marcie or I would leave for extended periods, he would take up the habit of sleeping in the front kitchen window, overlooking the driveway all day and night for a few weeks. This was one of those periods, as she mentions.

Please enjoy. Reading these lately has made me feel at once both very loved and very forlorn.



I know she knows I love her, but I still have to declare it. God I love you, honey. I missed and miss you, too, and more all the time. I could use another note, too.

A little respite

A week from tomorrow I will take be on my way to San Francisco. My trip will meander up the 101 and the 1, including stops to see sights and take pictures of spots like this:


The above image is the lovely postcard I received from Jane today when I got home from work. Thank you, Jane. I love it, and I can't wait to pass through Morro Bay and Big Sur on the way up.

People are chipping in on this one and I want to thank them. Seamus will have a few caretakers. Dean and Joey and Tanya and Shawn have volunteered to watch him, pet him, love him and feed him while I am gone. I am glad I do not have to board my buddy. He's not one for the hospitality scene himself.

Walt and Lisa are at it again, reaching out and offering to share a good spot to stop at. A library of some sort. Lisa got a new gig (good job, Lisa!) and she's pretty busy, but she's very conscientious and loves to share her travel tips, be it Hawaii or little jaunts up the coast, which is nice.

My neighborhood has my back like I have theirs. When I am gone, my neighbor Bobby will be playing a cat backup role and general eye on the place while I am gone. The "dawg pound" will remain on patrol, too. "There'll be no perpetration" when I am absent, or so they tell me.

I'll talk about more specific plans and some back story closer to departure time. I just wanted to share the pretty postcard and clue people in on the plans. Thanks for all the support, folks.

Love,

F.

A very special gift

Walt and Lisa Soto, our dear friends in San Clemente, told me about this gift, but I was so deep in my grief that it just kind of faded from my mind until the package arrived today. Treepeople is an organization which is helping nature heal our cities.

Now, Marcie will be a part of that effort. A grove has been donated and will be planted in her honor. I will attend a planting and, in my own mind, dedicate the trees I will later visit when I want to do something related to her memory.

Thank you so much, Walt and Lisa.

Much love,

F.

There are others to thank. I will get to them as I can. Tomorow I will share my little cache of notes from my sweetie, dating back to my "second coming" to Humboldt, as she called it. G'night folks.

The Tide's Turn

So this is the latter half of the story. NOT FAMILY FRIENDLY!


The Summer of Lust (2)

I first thought of how strongly connected Marcie and I were when I was up in Humboldt alone and relishing those phone calls and letters between my studies. I eventually figured it out to my satisfaction.

The key to making our lust last in our love was in drawing it out, but also in leaving the other one guessing as to who wanted the other one more. We treated lulls like opportunities, building anticipation up with teasing and flirting.

On a more animalistic level, we also both tried to be the most demanding, randiest in the relationship. Lust is a good drug, pastors, practicality and prudes be damned. It is also the only one that seems to get stronger the more you are exposed to it.

But more than all of that high-tension sexuality was the idea that we were a team, we were together, and we stood alone against everything and everyone we had to. We might have setbacks or misfortune, disagreements and uncertainty, but eventually we made it through.

And when it came to handling our opponents, there was a special connecting bond that saw us scheming to conquer or to thwart. Of course, it helped that, whether victory was assured or not, we'd have sex to celebrate its inevitability.

We only lost once.

Marcie was her usual amorous self when I returned from Humboldt State. We were in a good place in many ways. Except one. Seamus was sick. Wherever he went, he would lie on the ground and cough little, pathetic kitty coughs.

We tried everything to get him to feel better, and the veterinarian was stumped. When we were told that he would likely die, it dampened our mood. We worried but he ate, he drank, everything seemed fine save for a cough.

That the veterinarian tried to convince us he may have cancer was not terrible. But that she would not try asthma medication was. After an expensive set of scans and lots of gouging, she finally determined that he had asthma.

The vet got her money, we just had to do three heartbreaking months thinking of our cat as a dying cancer patient. In the mean time, Marcie and I were confronted with moving to a new home as our apartments converted into quite crappy condos.

Our lusty ways subsided for a while as we wrestled with the upcoming move, getting me a job which drew on my shiny "new" degree, and getting Seamus on his feet again. Nothing puts out the fires of lust like a coughing kitty climbing onto the bed.

But our latest sexual renaissance still smoldered nicely in the background. Then, in a new house and after things were on track, Marcie called me into the room. I was expecting a new lingerie set. She had stopped at the hosiery.

"Does this feel different to you?" she asked, looking very afraid as she gestured to her breast.

It did. There was no lump, just an overall firmness I did not remember from before, which was just a couple days earlier. I nodded.

"Honey, you may have an infection," I said. "Was there a lump before this?"

"No, honey," she said, sniffling and biting her lower lip. "I'm very scared."

And so we went to bed but we did not indulge in each other. Later, Marcie called Kaiser while I went to pick up Chinese food. We ate silently and held hands across the table.

Cancer was unthinkable. Marcie told me years earlier that she'd had a fibroma removed from her right breast in her twenties. It was quite a scare for her and the doctor had believed that she was looking at breast cancer. Marcie religiously checked her breasts.

The sexual side of our relationship slowed more that week as I awaited her appointment, which never seemed to come. When I finally asked her why, she told me Kaiser had put her off. I called them up and threatened massive mayhem. They saw her the next day.

The nurse practitioner who saw Marcie performed multiple small biopsies and told Marcie she would be in touch. Marcie was relieved that the practitioner suspected an infection.

Three days later, the phone rang as we tried our best to break our new king-size bed. We ignored it at first.

"Hello Marcie, this is your nurse practitioner at Kaiser," the voice said, not neutral. "Could you please call me at (619) 57..."

She did not have time to answer. Marcie ripped the receiver off the hook.

"Hello," she said, her hand on my chest as she sat back up, steadying herself on me. I held her hips and massaged them.

"Yes, I'm Marcie," she said, biting her lip afterward and listening. "It did? That was fast. what did it say?"

She dropped the phone and draped herself on me, her nose buried in my neck as she sobbed and shook. I heard a faint voice on the phone as I stroked her back now and tried to keep my composure, comfort her somehow.

"It's cancer, honey," she said. "Oh, my God, what are we going to do?"

"We're going to get you treatment," I said, noting the faint voice's apology as the receiver clicked. "We're going to get you fixed up."

I held her there for a long time and whispered my love in her ear, soothed her and stroked her magnificent body, her soft red hair and kissed her tears away. "We'll beat it, honey."

And for a while, it would certainly look as if I were right.

Notes from the Rising Tide

When discussing Marcie, I have been accused of being overly airy or romantic about our relationship by those who I can only consider must have far more concrete and firmly grounded ones in their own lives. That is not an indictment, but I am glad that Marcie and I had what we had.

Our relationship was, to me, always new and exciting, at once both comforting and familiar, yet unpredictable and volatile. I liked a little struggle, deciding in an argument whether to "win" a bitter victory or "suffer" a delicious defeat. Marcie did, too. It all worked out between the lines and the sheets.

But how does one relay that the strength and fire of a relationship over a decade old was not just my own take to the more jaded? By making everyone sick, of course. I know no way of doing that more adroitly than sharing Marcie's and my notes and letters.

I will save the cards and notes she sent me for another post. Instead, I will share an excerpt from my planned book. It's raw, but it's completely honest and puts across where we were and how we were feeling back then.

Not fit for family, folks.

The Summer of Lust (1)

The long days at The Learning Annex in the dark back room, and the ever quieter and increasingly demoralized office could not dampen my ardor for my wife. I blew out of the office every day and flew home.

She told me I was a menace, and I was and knew that to be so, but I could not get enough of Marcie that summer. I was wild, and she was gleefully willing. But Marcie had her limits, if not in principle.

"Look!" she demanded, motioning at the pile of sheets on the floor. "Look at this! Honey, this is ridiculous. I cannot do this much laundry every week. This is one week. One!"

She glared and kept her finger pointed down at the pile of sheets. Two sets in three days, and last week's to boot. I smiled, and I imagine impishly so. "Maybe we can try the floor again?"

No sooner had I asked than I was dodging the pillow she threw at me from the room.

"And that's ruined, too," she said. "Honey, that was a feather pillow, they're expensive. I don’t know why you shoved that under me. You don’t care, though! You just don’t think about these things."

Her eyes narrowed and she put her hands on her hips as she responded to me, a little frustrated, "Oh, the floor, huh? Yeah, so we can enjoy rug burns again? I don't think so. Maybe I'll just cut you off for a while."

She smiled and nodded her head, biting her lower lip. Her protests amused me. I read them as her way of saying, "You have been home 10 minutes. Why are you not all over me?"

I decided that what she needed was what caused the problem in the first place. “Cut me off?” I asked, standing up and slowly sauntering her way. “Cut me off and do what? Hmm?”

She squealed a little as I caught her around the waist when she turned to run into the room. She didn't put up a fight unless you count play wrestling. But she did make me do the laundry that night. It was worth it, all four loads of sheets.

They came and went, these long spells of satyriasis. And at the time, I needed the release, love and lust aside. I had made the mistake of not being attracted to a vain girl.

Having no desire for my rather snotty boss's hipless, assless, breastless and thoroughly unwomanly form offended her, I know. I took that to be her frustration speaking. It's hard to manipulate people who don't want the only thing you're good at selling.

But marital fidelity and indifference to a manipulative alpha bitch's charms had its price. There was grumbling and lying to my supervisor, who did not believe a word of what she said, but he still acted on her feelings. He was a besotted fool.

So, I was usually caged all day and separated from free air by the malice of the vapid bit of fluff in the front office and the dissolute nature of my also-married supervisor. Unless she was home playing sick, as she did about 40 percent of the time, I recall.

I was a menace to anything in Marcie’s social calendar that took place when she was not at work. This would be intolerable to Marcie, except this all involved the one thing she enjoyed even more than being organized and punctual.

Marcie and I were on a major roll in our relationship in 2004. I was working two jobs, but sometimes I had time off to relax and plan for graduate school, and I was taking an occasional course at San Diego City College.

I could tolerate the vain coworker’s borderline personality disorder gone wild, and I could cope with the hectic schedule. But I decided to make a move.

But when I applied for a graduate school slot in the UCSD Communications Ph.D. program, there was a problem. My Summa Cum Laude Journalism and Mass Communications degree from Humboldt was simply not there.

By way of a failed petition for credit, lack of proper documentation and changing general education requirements, I had graduated with a diploma that had no value.

“Honey, you need to go back and finish your degree,” Marcie said in the afterglow of yet another stress-relieving sheet wrecker.

“We can’t afford it,” I said. “I would have to stop working and enroll full-time, and then I would have to spend two semesters at state or UCSD getting enough units to graduate.”

“Honey,” she said, holding my hand under the sheets, “You need to just go back to Humboldt and take the two classes there, and turn in your portfolio. I am sure they will honor your credit from the transcripts if you petition.”

I put it on the back burner until cuts came down to the Learning Annex office. My boss initially chose to cut across the board, but after some wrangling, the bitch got her way. I
knew days before he told me. He had left the document on the public share on our server.

“I’m sorry, I have to lay you off,” he said.

“That’s okay,” I replied. “I have some prospects.”

Shortly after that, I received unemployment benefits. The vapid ex-boss almost boned herself by trying to claim I was fired, nearly committing perjury in the face of contrary documentation, before she backed down.

Marcie set me straight when I started to plan lots of regulatory and detail-oriented awfulness for the company. "Honey, they did not deserve to have you working there, and they treated you like shit. Let them eat shit."

The company tried to hire me back part-time, so I applied for and received underemployment. They eventually gave up, so I suddenly had time to finish my degree, and an income to do it with.

Marcie set me straight when I started to plan lots of regulatory and detail-oriented awfulness for the company. "Honey, they did not deserve to have you working there, and they treated you like shit. Let them eat shit."

Shortly after that, The Learning Annex signed Donald Trump for $1.5 million. "The Donald" lied about the value of the contract, hyping it, but his television show gave the company initial success.

After a year or so of selling Trump the Chump as a motivational speaker to real estate conventions, the bottom fell out of both the convention business and the real estate market. My former supervisor lost his job. The fluff is still there, older, more wrinkled.

I found out that my makeup would only take a single intersession summer “minisemester” to complete. I was enthused. But there was a problem. Marcie had hated Humboldt the first time, and she was not going to entertain seeing that place again as a vacation.

“I am not going to Humboldt with you!” she screamed, leaning forward, face red as her hair. “Jesus, you can’t handle five weeks away? You were in the Navy for Christ’s sake, what did you do then? Cry?”

“Well, I thought you could come up for a week or two and…”

“NO! No, I am not using my fucking vacation time to go hang out with the fucking hippies and those fucking redneck lumberjacks!” Marcie said. “Are you fucking crazy?”

So the plan was in place. I packed for a week, planning every minute and step along the way north for maximum efficiency. I also stocked up on Marcie.

When she came home from work, I had a little Marcie. Before the alarm went off, after the alarm went off “accidentally early,” and after her shower, I had a little more Marcie. And the morning before I left, at 4 a.m., I had a little more.

She saw me out, looking a little tired but happy as I kissed her goodbye. “Honey, I am glad you are getting this out of the way. Look at it this way, you’ll be able to move on,” she said.

Graduate school, a job in the media or perhaps in public relations, continuing on my work at the Annex, it all seemed pretty good, even if I had thought I was already set for that months before. “Okay, honey. I’ll miss you,” I said.

“Oh, I’ll miss you, but it will be nice to get some sleep,” she said. “You just call me when you feel it coming on, mister. I trust you.”

I smiled. Five weeks would pass slowly but make her very hot for me, I knew. The trip to Humboldt was finished before the sun set later that long summer day. I called her from
the motel pay phone to avoid the outrageous in-room fees.

“Honey, where are you?” she asked.

“Arcata,” I said.

“What? Really? You didn’t speed, did you?” she asked.

“No,” I replied. I hadn’t, but I also had only stopped three times, all for gas.

“Well, how was it? Was the drive nice?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” I said, spying the statue of McKinley in Arcata square through the trees as I looked down the block.

“Well, I love you,” she said.

“I love you, too,” I said. “Which is kind of why I called. Call me back, okay? I am in room 114 at the Days Inn, (707) 822-2036. Call me in like two minutes.”

And she did. I had just gotten comfortable and smiled as I answered the phone. “Now, you hussy,” I said. “Tell me what you’re wearing.”

And so the madness continued for five weeks in absentia, with lust on the phone at night and classes by day. I moved to the dorms, wearing long coats and memorizing her dirty telephone tales before slipping into my room, keeping the home fires burning.

But all was not lust. I got to experience a little taste of long-distance love from my baby, in the form of a long exchange of letters and notes via email. What we did not exhaust in our titillating tête-à-tête conversations came out there. It was a time of joy.

More from this little excerpt tomorrow and the notes themselves by Wednesday... or Thursday.

F.

To my anonymous benefactors

What a sweet and wonderful holiday gift. I put up the donation links on my page after I began to explore how to raise funds for my trip to honor Marcie. You have been very kind, and I did not even know it. I received this message in my email today:

Dear frank.pruett(at)cox.net,

Greetings from the Amazon Honor System.

We wanted to let you know that we have initiated transfer of the
balance of your Amazon Honor System account to your checking account.
It may take your bank several business days to record the transfer.

$120.47

Here is the receipt for the transfer:
------------------------------------------
Date:          17-Dec-2007
Amount:        $120.47
Last 5 Digits: 27179
------------------------------------------

There were several transactions, two of $50. Thank you very much. I know that you likely chose not to reveal your names to me, as it would otherwise send me an email with contact informations, but if you did not choose to do this, let me know who you are so I can thank you in private.

We both thank you. I am deeply touched.

F.

About the notes

The notes I found yesterday are very sweet and come from a time right before Marcie fell ill. If there are any relics which illustrate the bliss we were experiencing at that time, these are they. For now, I am cherishing them. Additionally, I am having some tech issues wit the system and need to just not post tonight. I promise what I eventually post will be worth the wait. Thanks for understanding, folks.

F.