Social Insecurity with The Bureauman

So, I finally made it down to Social Security today. I have to admit that it was much, much harder than it seemed to be when I set the appointment. I had it set in my mind:

Social Security employee hears I have arrived
Social Security employee invites me in
Social Security employee accepts documents in pile
Social Security business done.

But we all know things that are sad are never quickly dispensed with. No, we are forced to linger over the minutest details in an excruciatingly slow, deliberate process, then wait. So how did the process go?

I checked in at a computer which found my appointment. A receipt printed with a random-looking set of numbers on it. I waited about 15 minutes. The wails of a mentally disturbed man gave a depressing audio backdrop to the pained and sad conversations around me.

"Well, we didn't know we had to apply then, we thought we had to wait until we were homeless..." a woman said to a bored-looking woman in a leopard-print jacket.

"I did buy Medi-gap coverage, and they were supposed to help me with hospitalization," an elderly man rasped ever more loudly to a sympathetic African American man. "I can't pay $15,000 on social security for that bill, and they say they are going to use my check for the next five years. I'll starve! Hell in a handbasket! Hell!"

"His daddy got me 'pregnit,' but he got blasted in LA," one very pregnant Latina told a very Wonder-bread looking intake guy. "I'm supposed to get some money for when he gets born, right?"

I want to correct her, since her boyfriend has been "blasted" and I can't stand ignorance anyway, but I keep my mouth shut. She's suffered to some degree, and she needs all the self-esteem she has.

"Francis Pruett," a voice from an open door calls. "Pruett?"

Finally. I handed the man my papers as I walked up.

"Just hold onto all of that, we'll get to it," he said.

I do and follow him into the maze of cubicles with identical desks, identical computers, identical plastic furniture, identically lacking in personal items, identically sterile, identically institutional, identically empty, identically oriented workspaces. Still, it takes him a long time to find the "right" one for us to sit at, which he motions to.

"Well, Mr. Pruett, first of all, Social Security wants to express to you our sincere condolences on your loss," he says, logging into the workstation with no eye contact whatsoever. "We know this is a difficult time for you, and we appreciate you reporting your loss to us."

I started to ask him a question and he interrupted me.

"We are going to fill your application out and then I will have you certify under penalty
of perjury that all of your answers are correct after you review it," he said, looking at me as if I had planned to lie, suspicion and derision in his gaze.

I nodded.

"May I see a picture ID, please?" he asked.

I showed him my license... he nodded and tapped into his computer as if his first ruse had failed him. "Damn! He has ID!" he must have thought.

"May I see the death certificate?" he asked.

I gave it to him, then my birth certificate, hers, our marriage certificate, which conspired to choke me up. Then, a copy of her memorial book fell out and I reach down... the whole pile of things I carry with her paperwork hits the floor, old pictures, her degree.

I thought to myself "I just spilled my Marcie." I gathered her up silently. The stuff had spread far and wide. There is no help from Bureaman, though. Just his impatient silence.

"Did you live with the deceased when she passed away?" he queried, staring angrily, defiantly at his screen.

"I took care of her to the last minute," I said.

He huffs and moves his head a little. "Did you live with the deceased when she passed away?" he repeated, his hands poised to clack at his keybord.

"Yes," I said. I wanted to add, "Yes, I lived with her as she died, I lived with her as she lived, I lived with her for a few hours when she was dead and I lived with her around fuckers like you who I would rather not let fucking live you fucking nitwit."

I didn't.

"Did you ever apply for Social Security benefits? Did she ever apply for benefits? Oh, I see she had disability benefits. Did she ever serve in the military? Work overseas? Work for the railroads? Work for the federal government?"

Yes, no dice, but they made me work, I wasn't crazy enough yet. Yes, that's what she... No. No. No. No. No, she had a soul.

"When did she become eligible to receive benefits?" he asked.

"I don't know," I respond. "It was a while ago."

"I see," he said, tapping loudly, frustrated that he has to look it up. "She became eligible in 2005. She worked one year on disability and made $13,000."

Wow. Bureaman can do his own homework. Good for him.

"I am going to print out a copy of your application. After you review it, we'll certify it," he said, getting up. He walked a few feet away and snatched each piece as it printed.

I scan the paper slowly and read the details. I notice him drumming his finger and not looking at me.

I nod and had it back over. "It looks OK," I said.

"Good," he said, whipping the paper around and into a folder which he snapped shut as he stood abruptly.

I stood as well but he had already turned and walked to the door, which he opened well before I got there. I took my time walking to it, noting him getting frustrated.

"It will be thirty days or so before your check arrives," he said. "Maybe faster."

Thanks for the $255, USA. Mighty white of you.

Fuck you, Bureauman.

F.

Bah, Humbug!

So, today was a big day at work. We had our annual Christmas Luncheon, which I enjoyed for the most part. Beef, Chicken, Fish... I took a little of all of them, despite my move toward less meat and more veggies. I was not in the best of moods, though.

I could not help but think about how, in the past, I would have maybe had Marcie there to show off. It was one of my favorite things, as childish and selfish as it was. Once in a blue moon, Marcie would bother to go to one of my work events and knock everyones' socks off. It always bought me a little breathing room, and more than a little respect afterward, mostly because of how we were together.

There was no dance floor anyways. I did mention that they should have one next year, if only for the sake of having one for people to use, as people could bring their significant others. But really, there would have been no point for it by me this year.

I won't be doing public things like that for a while, I've decided. *Sigh*

Messages Out of Time

"Did you find it yet?" she asked, smiling as she flipped through her New Yorker, watching me carefully as I ate my breakfast of omelettes and hash browns. "It's in your wallet someplace."

I looked up at her mischievous smile. Marcie was ever aversive with her pretty eyes when she was being bashful or playful, and always embarrassed at my tendency to look her up and down, drink her in a bit. Even now.

"Not yet," I said. "But I don't want it to be something I dig out, I want it to be something I find."

She shrugged me off "Okay, if that's what you want." It was genuine, it was her. "It will be a surprise when you least expect it. That is, if you forget about it. Look at this."

She showed me a small cartoon in typical New Yorker style featured two men speaking in front of a gigantic television and home theater system. A baby sat wearing headphones in the middle of the screen. The caption read "We're past Baby Einstein. We're on to Baby Bruckheimer."

And the issue of her love note was forgotten for the moment, buried mirth, then in busy days and nights. My wallet grew and was culled repeatedly, her note remaining undiscovered within.

When autumn brought the pain of her resurgent, insistent disease and we ventured out to Julian for a break from the pain, she asked again, "Have you found it?" I knew instantly what she meant as we laid together amidst crickets and owls and dark.

"No, baby," I said. "I haven't looked. It will come up when it wants to, or when I need it."

"I know, honey," she said, settling in and pushing back into me a bit.

And as I cuddled behind her in our little bed and breakfast and stroked her, I was quiet, and so was she. It had been a long day and her energy had waned quickly at the end.

After some time, when I thought her regular breath meant she was asleep, I could not hold in my tears. I let them roll down my eyes but did not sniffle or moan.

"It's okay," she said, groggily, half-asleep. "You'll find it, honey."

And then she slept, and the note was forgotten again, for a little while, at least. And then the world burned around us, and we both struggled to barely breathe.

"Did you find it yet?" she asked, her words so warbled and strained now. She watched me as I busily tried to finish cleaning her up for the second time in a few hours, trying to cover her and give her back some dignity. My queen, my lover, my wife, now my patient, too.

"Yes, I found the pad you wanted," I said, reaching for it. "Do you want to write a list of things to ask the nurse?"

"No, honey," she said. "No, did you find the mm mnogk? The mgogt?"

Realization dawned. "No, I didn't find the note yet, baby. I'll find it, I promise. Hold on," I said, intending to tear my wallet, a gift from her, apart to find it.

She touched my arm, her hand shaking as it had begun to always do. "I love you," she said, nodding as her tears came. I simply draped myself on her and held her there and whispered my love over and over. Her breathing slowed. She slept.

And the note was forgotten once more. And the fires subsided. And then she was taken from me, and I began to write notes to her. And I wished she could somehow write back, but the note stayed forgotten.

Then, December 11, exactly 6 months after she wrote it, the note fell out of my wallet as I looked for a business card.


"Just a note to say hi and tell you how much I love you, during your busy day, my dear," she wrote. "I am always thinking of you, sweets. Your ever-loving wife."

She had added a little heart and, as she always did, she dated the note for me, 6/2007. I found a reason to get up and take a walk outside, around the district headquarters.

I managed to swallow my tears until I got home. And I decided to write her back when I stopped swallowing.

Hi, baby. I miss you, honey, terribly, as I always do when I work. I am always thinking of you, too. I feel like I will now spend a whole life waiting to come home and see you. Thank you so much for your wonderful note. It will help me get through this work and through these very long, very busy days. Love, your devoted husband.

F.

Tonight's Movie

So, first off, “Starting Out In The Evening” was long and it was layered. Certainly, the core story, concerning an author (Leonard Schiller, played by Frank Langella) whose long creative snooze is almost interrupted by ambitious and somewhat manipulative graduate student Heather (Laura Ambrose) is interesting. But it's not that interesting.

Not helping is all of the window dressing going on. Creative death abounds. Schiller's daughter Ariel (Lili Taylor) is a former dancer who now teaches pilates and yoga, which she characterizes as, "what happens to dancers when they die."

Ariel's smashing her head up against a wall of stereotyped 40th birthday female angst and her "Oh, my god, my clock was ticking and I think it stopped" shenanigans provide the movie with more a hoped-for audience demographic than a plot element. Lame attempts to cast Langella's Schiller as disappointed non-grandparent aside, Ariel's newly rediscovered love for, then liberation from, then love for an emotionally distant man-child only serves to set up a punchy line or two between her and her father. Even the cross-racial window dressing is just that.

Ambrose's Heather does everything she can to wring something of quality for her thesis out of Schiller, whose lethargy and doubt in engaging her seem both fortuitous and wise, if boring and lifeless. But when he finally caves in and opens up a little, it comes off as something dirty, and Ambrose's Heather seals that deal for us on all counts. No distance off-camera is off enough in this case, and that is what we get.

When the writer becomes bored with his characters, as both the on-screen and the off-screen and, likely, the screenwriter did, there is a tendency to toss them into tragedy or crisis. Sitting there waiting for it as ham-fisted telegraphing paraded across the screen was excruciating. Foreshadowing my ass. There was a veritable total eclipse every quarter hour with partials on the half.

The end of the movie lingers over small details, which will appeal to the perfectionist whose obsession with endings and closure overrides all sense of boredom. Unfortunately, the "Is it happy?" finish that redirects the movie utterly serves less a delicate touch than a mercy killing that also drags on too long before the screen blackens.

But at least Ambrose was a redhead.

My rating (1-5): No.
Marcie's Probable Rating: "Sorry, honey. That was so bad."

This review does not reflect my gratitude to my coworker for sending me the pass from the Film Commission. Listening to the crowd around me was a hoot, too. Thanks, Elizabeth.

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. More info later.

F.

Marcie's Little Qipao (Adult Situations)

In trying to stay upbeat for a few posts, it has occurred to me that I could share some of the fun... within reason. So, as I have alluded to before, Marcie and I had quite the sexual relationship. Come back tomorrow if you don't want ot hear about it. I won't get (too) graphic.

One of the things Marcie did for me that stood out was put up with my various passing fancies. I had a passing fancy for jumping her in while she was in her work clothes, so she put up with that for a year. I went through the stockings and garter phase, she loved that (or pretended to), did the merry widow lingerie thing, etc. etc.

One of those passing fancies that stood out was the cheongsam (or qipao). Marcie introduced me to this sexy Chinese dress with her all-night Gong Li movie events, remarking on how they fit the actress, testing to see if I thought Gong Li was pretty (I did, but she's not my type).

I was soon thinking Marcie would fit one even better, and started pestering her. I had all but given up after a few solid months mentioning it in the afterglow, at dinner, when we woke up and were cuddling in bed against the impending responsibilities of work. Basically, whenever it struck me I had not mentioned it.

Well, Marcie surprised me with her little qipao after a trip to Chinatown in San Francisco. She not only wore it for me, but she went through elaborate hair preparations, leaving her red locks in a chopstick-bun. She could have been quite the arm-candy at a social.

Alas, we never got to put it to use in a social setting. She wore it a few times for me and made the mistake of wearing it after we had been separated by a trip I took to school (5 weeks). The resultant ravishing was too much, and the zipper gave out (meaning became separated from the silk).

But her green-blue eyes really went well with it. Not having her to model it takes a lot away from the dress, but it's still a pretty reminder. I can't wait to ask Jane about that shopping trip when I visit later this month or early next year.

In Better Days We Had Animal Pals

In better days, Marcie and I would take walks around the neighborhood. Generally speaking, Marcie did this every day or other day and preferred to go alone, but it was not uncommon for me to go with her.

It was nice to hold hands, even as they turned sweaty and Marcie grew annoyed. It was also fun to stop and chat with our mutual animal pals, petting the dogs we knew wouldn't bite. Both of us also enjoyed being waylaid by attention-starved "outside" kitties, which invariably ate up a good five or ten minutes of our time.

Marcie drew the animals in. I had always been boastful of my charming ways with the furred set, but Marcie was so gentler and quiet, usually able to suppress her own versions of my sometimes boisterous outbursts of delight at spying some furred denizen of the neighborhood. Consequently, I have many of my neighborhood animal pals because of her and because I was with her when she won them over.

Tonight I took a little walk down the block and visited a few of them before dusk brought the cats' more private nocturnal urges and the dogs' more guarded natures to bear. I wanted to take a walk with Marcie, so I just retraced our meandering neighborhood route.

Each animal I met and pet opened a floodgate. Memories of visits from those better days, those sweaty-palmed, frumpy-comfy walks, washed over me as not one or two or even three, but six separate cats we both had known visited with me tonight. I also checked in on Fred the Bellowing Basset Hound, who bayed mournfully when I was done petting him and moved on. I "feel ya," brother Fred.

When I got home, I turned and looked down the alley I liked to walk home in. Marcie and I both enjoyed visiting with a huge clutch of cats, all feral, who live behind a TV repair shop there. I noted a stunning sky, and thought I would share a snapshot I ran in and got the camera for. It became a "Stunning sky with telephone poles" shot of the alley instead.

Alley of The Cats at Sunset

A Note of Thanks

Last Night, I was over at Tanya and Shawn Aeria's house for some delicious Mexican food. Way to cook, Tanya! The "meat" inside was actually Quorn, a mycoprotein product made from fungus and egg whites, which was DELICIOUS.

Marcie was totally in love with their son Dante, who does not understand that she is gone. He's a sweet kid, and that's likely because Tanya and Shawn are great parents who have a very good support system. He and his little brother Oliver will rule the school someday, mark my words. That, or they will be protectively home-schooled. Who knows?

Thank you, Shawn and Tanya, for that wonderful meal. Perhaps we should all get together with Walt and Lisa as you two mentioned, maybe time it around a visit from Jane, and throw a Marcie meal over at my place. If nothing so ambitious, I will at least feed you folks, just call and ask for your reservations at Chez Francois.

In addition to feeding me, they let me rant and rave in my own very Frank way, so extra points for putting up with it. You're both great sports and wonderful friends.

Love and gratitude,

Frank

Looking for Guest Writers

When I started this blog, I had hoped that people with specific memories or good times to share about Marcie might chip in. I know I have been a little heavy of late, so that's likely been a deterrent. I am about to start writing about some of the better times and moving forward with some more uplifting, funny moments from my and Marcie's life together.

If you would love to share something about Marcie and your relationship, please just email me with it. Click on the comment button under this post... my address is on the feedback page and I will post it. I will edit it for typos, but I will not edit content.

Let's start celebrating her life. I'll kick it off with a story (which will likely be inappropriate) tomorrow evening. I will also be adding more pictures :)

F.

Coping Kitty Quietly Communing

What a comfort Seamus has been to me in Marcie's absence. He's in my lap when needed, playful when he senses a little cheer might go over well, and just serene and quiet otherwise. He spends a lot of time near Marcie's shrine, and has been sleeping under it, as seen below. He was sleeping there a lot before the shrine was done, too... It's behind where her hospital bed was. I wonder...

Just a comfy spot to sleep or something more?

I know how lucky I am to have him here. A coworker lost both her cats in the last couple of months, one just the other day. Cats are friends who choose to stay with you because they deem you worthy of spoiling them. I can't believe Seamus will be 14 in March.

That little pad under him is one of the first things Marcie bought him. It's a heated pad from a catalog. I put it there when I saw him sleeping under her shrine often in the early evening and the morning on weekends.

Marcie's "little lamb" on his "little woolly lamb pad" (Marcie's words, not mine).

Incidentally, this picture was taken with a much better camera than the first, a Canon S5 IS, which I have procured for the trip. You can see a lot more detail when you blow it up, and can tell that the fountain is running by the reflection in the lip of the container.

Some Plan Progress

So, I have been working on book and article proposals in addition to a few other items. Unfortunately, it's slow going with every day spent at work and most people in the media businesses hard at work during the same hours. We'll see what comes of it all, if anything. I still have time.

I have sold one of our DVDs. The Bourne Files, the first two Bourne videos and a bonus DVD in a collector's edition kit, was shipped out yesterday. I also shipped out a package Marcie herself prepared with a relevant find or two she did not have set aside and ready to go.

I'll be picking up some spot work at my old newspaper over the Christmas holiday. I am probably looking at a few days of work and maybe an article or two. We'll see. It all goes into the kitty for the plan.

I am considering either taking the blog private (invitation-only) or promoting it heavily. One plan involves trying to get on "Hey Mom, I am on 91x," using my old connections there to do it and, shaping the whole thing around a time line of songs and artists, then spring boarding off of that if it proves popular with listeners.

The bonus there would be a podcast of my show if Steve West picks me, which I would put on memory sticks for people and post online (here). We'll see. If you have ideas, please email them via or use the comment/feedback function. Thanks, folks.

F.

The Memorial Book & Visiting Our Old Places

I am going to visit some of the places Marcie and I enjoyed together over the next few days and weeks and take pictures of them. My hope is to capture some images of her favorite places before they inevitably change and are no longer those places at all.

I will post galleries of that when I can. For now, I have a huge post to share. I have modified and corrected, then digitized and reprinted, Marcie's memorial book. I have decided to put it in a slide show for you all, which links to an album on the web.

I will actually be rescanning most of the pictures and redoing the typesetting, but I wanted to post this in its original form for people who never saw it. To read the pages you will need to click on them so that they enlarge. Enjoy, save, share, etcetera:

A Little Note to Marcie

I miss you, but it isn't all the time.

I miss you when there is nothing to distract me.
I miss you after work when I go home alone.
I miss you when I wait for sleep to claim me:
You always come to soothe me
You never seem to worry about the world
You only seem to want to make sure I am fine

I don't miss you when you tell me you're OK now.
I don't miss you when you say I'll be alright.
I miss you when I wake up and I realize:
You cannot make us coffee.
You don't worry that I won't get up for work.
You cannot keep me company when I awake.

I don't miss you when I am busy at my job.
I don't miss you when I am helping out my friends.
I miss you when I check my watch and remember:
You don't need me to call you.
You are not worried that I'm out late.
You'll not be there for me to love you when I'm home.

I don't miss you when I'm running in the canyons.
I don't miss you when I am playing in the surf.
I miss you when I turn to home and face that:
You cannot meet for dinner
You don't want to get out to go see a show
You cannot go with me on little getaways.

I do not know why I force myself to do this.
I do not know why I get up out of bed.
I do not want to wake up when the clock calls:
You cannot wake up with me,
I've forgotten that you're gone until I do
Remembering is another tinge of hurt.

I want to stay asleep and have you hold me.
I want the world to let me have some peace.
I try to reason that I have a purpose:
Finishing another day,
Finding sleep and dreaming of my love for you
Forgetting that another day must dawn.

Another song I think of her to

So one of my favorite singers from the 90s was Welshman David Gray, whose Lost Songs 95-98 and White Ladder were constant companions in the early days of the new century. He's made a greatest hits album, which I generally abhor, but this one came with a bonus.

This song, which debuted as a single November 5th, would have made a great song for Marcie and my anniversary date a week later. I was always looking for songs to dance with her to. I guess, for now, this will be one I just think of her to. That is, unless a little dinner and dance date is forthcoming in dreamland.

The World To Me - David Gray
Started talking and the line went dead
Never heard a single word you said

Babe I said I’d give my right arm,
Every day that I decide on

Baby baby you’re the world to me

I woke up, the room was cold
Looking tired, feeling old
Cursin’ all the changes I’ve to say
The more I cursed into the flood
The less it seemed do me good
Clearer became my mind than I could say
Baby baby you’re the world to me

My head is roaring like a waterfall
Give me everything or not at all
You don’t have to turn the sound up
Babe I want you from the ground up
Baby baby you’re the world to me

Baby baby you’re the world to me

Baby baby you’re the world to me
Baby baby you’re the world to me

You don’t have to turn the sound up
Babe I want you from the ground up
Baby baby you’re the world to me

Iridescent like a starling
Won’t you be my little darling
Baby baby you’re the world to me

Baby baby you’re the world to me
Baby baby you’re the world to me

The first time I heard it, I changed the channel at "went dead." The first few lines brought to mind Marcie's seizure, during which she screamed and dropped the phone. I found her passed out after rushing home. But I am glad I gave it another chance.

The links below point to the single and the album if you want to buy it for your MP3 players/Ipods. I can say that the greatest hits album is a pretty good collection, despite the fact that I generally avoid them.

Watching the Fountain with Marcie

I never thought I would settle down when I met Marcie. I was never one for multiple partners or anything so sordid as that, but I had always been serially monogamous.

I had one great love before Marcie, my first love, and that woman's transformation into a practical and calculating person with little but wants and wounds from what she was had taught me hard lessons. But I was not embittered, simply wary and less willing to put my heart on the line to any dangerous degree.

When I met Marcie, my plan was and had been to simply love who I could as I could for as long as I could. That changed soon enough. I do not think I had been with her a year before I was so besotted that I asked her to marry me, and meant it. She turned me down and said I should slow down.

As yesterday's poem reveals, she had a change of heart. I was unsure of the whole situation, but was glad she had come around. Six years later, that is.

The point of this is that I felt soon after I fell in love with Marcie that I had loved her for a very long time. This was something remarked on by Marcie as well. "I feel like we have been together for a lifetime, honey," she said. "I feel like I have known you since I was a little girl."

This phenomenon many of us have faced and some of us are privileged to experience it every day. The feeling is not limited to romance. Rescuers, Poets, and even Elvis have experienced the feeling. It must have some merit. I am susceptible to an willing to indulge that perhaps I have known Marcie for lifetimes.

Enter into this sentiment-cum-phenomenon the movie The Fountain. Taking place in three eras, it tells the tale of a man seeking to meet eternity with his love and to become one with both.

Marcie rented this from Netflix after having seen it in the theaters. It was a prelude to very difficult talks she wanted to have with me that I had avoided. I watched it with her. She cried and I joined her a little, but tried more to soothe her.

When the chemotherapy drugs and sleeping pills had finally sent her to sleep on my chest, both of us laying on the couch, I absorbed the meaning, the message Marcie was sending and the hope she wanted me to have in my despair. I held her there for a long time, but she awoke and I saw her to bed, holding her in the hot late summer night.

I have added the film to the list of items in my Amazon Store (Left column). Watch it with a loved on, especially if you have that special feeling, as we always did, of having known and loved them forever.

Marcie's laugh and another poem

A recent email about a particular part of Marcie we all loved (her sweet laugh) triggered a lot of good memories. Thank you, friend. A long time ago, I started writing Marcie a poem that wound its way through the stages of our relationship, including that first laugh. I shared it with her, but I intended it to be ongoing, and I would add to it over tiem

I lost it, unfortunately, but there is some hope. Marcie usually kept everything that I wrote to her, and I printed the poem several times. I found new pictures just this week, and I will find this poem somewhere as well, I suppose. For now, I have rewritten it, and I know at least some of it was true to the first version.

I also have decided to update it, and it will remain a work in progress.

In your thrall

I saw you in the castle square
when Amyrillis bloomed red.
You glanced at me and lingered there,
then finally spoke, and said,
"If you would speak to me then do,
but do not waste my ear.
For I have met many just like you,
and know your tricks, my dear."

I took you in, red hair, blue eyes
round hips and ivory skin
Hands on your hips, defiant guise
I saw your fire within.
"Is it a trick?" I asked you there,
"To gaze upon you thus?
Or do you hide some other care,
mayhap we could discuss?"

You flipped your pixie locks aside,
then harrumphed and walked away.
But a smile was on your lips, I spied,
and I saw a playful sway.
To have you then I set my mind
and sought you out each day
Until the stars were thus aligned
and Venus had her way.

You cast your spell with laughter's voice
I pursued you even more.
You played me well, I had no choice
but with ardor to adore.
I had my princess like a thief,
who sneaks through in the night.
Hid in your wardrobe, your relief
My stealth for your delight.

You christened me your cavalier.
and charged me when you toured,
to wait, be firm, to persevere.
You left, I stayed, endured.
You filled my ears with tales of lands,
of places you had been.
I only cared to fill my hands
with your fiery locks again.

When finally I heard the call
to journey north, to learn,
you went there first to found our hall,
and bring the hearth to burn.
Among the giants, in the cold,
you kept me warm but sighed.
Two winters passed and not a day,
not one more could you last.

So south again, where friend and kin
now awaited our return.
And autumn's eve, among the din,
I thought that I could discern
a sadness in my fairy love,
a frown upon your face.
I knew then what you fretted of,
embarrassment, disgrace.

You called me to the parapets
where sullied pennants waved.
You asked me as you waved your arm,
"Is it me who has been saved?
Am I to wait for you, my knight,
until I am too aged?
For you to marry me, despite
our seven years engaged?"

I pulled you close and as you cried,
gently reminded you
That I was he you once denied,
the chance to marry you.
"But if you now believe me worth
a year, a life, an age,
then I will bend my knee to earth
and end this long engage."

We flew, without our friends and kin,
to initiate new life
We swore ourselves and once again
I'd won, this time a wife
"I will not fail to honor you,
nor fail to hold your faith."
"And I will not abandon you,
to wander as you wait."

To family and firmament
we made our union known.
No challenge to our testament
our lives now shared, our own.
We went to battle, and to fair
unbeatable and strong.
My fiery heart, your fiery hair,
and nothing could go wrong.

Until one day as I averred
the wrongs of one corrupted,
your cries rang out and I deferred
my probing interrupted.
You said it was the mark of death,
but I could not believe.
For it was you, to every breath
my soul, my heart, did cleave.

So off again, this time to war,
you were scarred and then rebuilt.
When you flowered in hope once more,
your bloom began to wilt.
I carried you, watched over you
my life, my love, my queen.
And treasured every breath of you,
each day, each night, each scene.

I was your cavalier, my love,
I was your questing knight
but now I quest for remnants of
your red-haired, fairy light.
And though the ashes of our life
rain down around my head
I will not quit my geas, sweet wife
even if I am dead.

Technical Issues

Due to a camera that did not record what I needed it to, I will have to postpone sharing Marcie's last list. Rest assured, it is coming and I am ready to share it. I will also be talking about a movie I watched very recently with Marcie which just wrung my soul out.

Bah. Hours wasted on a file that was corrupt. Bad batteries! Bad!

A Treasure Trove is Found

While looking through the closets today after work, I stumbled across Marcie's photo albums. Pictures of her travels around the world, from her youth and her early adulthood abounded. Though I was just hit over and over at how much I have lost, it was a wonderful thing to find. I will post more substantially tomorrow.

Expect selections from her albums sometime this weekend. Good night, folks

F.

Marcie's Shrine

In the days following Marcie's death, I decided that I was going to need a shrine for her. I have finally decided to share it. It has all of her favorite scented candles, scent beads and little items that remind me of her and our times together.

At the risk of creating discomfort, here is a picture of the shrine. To be honest, I was relieved at how the picture turned out. I do not have a digital SLR camera, so it was taken with the same little digital no-name Point and Shoot cheapie the films are shot with.

As a tip for would-be dark photographers with ill-suited equipment, I set the little 5.1 megapixel camera to ISO 200 emulation, flash off, and used a little bean bag to prop it for the shot and keep it steady as the overly long exposure was completed.


The picture of my beautiful bride is one I framed and matted myself, and it is the print from the memorial that some of you may have never seen. The candles, in addition to the hearts and jars from the reception, include all of her candles from around the house, scented or not. The working fountain is one I made her for its calming effect.

Unseen behind the little incense holder in the forground is a collection of Marcie's coins from around the world. The delicate petals on the lower level are the orchid blooms from Jane's mother, which finally fell off this evening, as if to tell me to do this with them.

The runners were her favorites, and they match. Two show from the top of the higher table, and a longer one runs under her vessel and the lower candles, lengthwise. The bowls and the little square saucer contain her scent beads and her bits of tumbled, colored glass.

There is the idea that negative ions feed the spirit and calm the nerves. The salt rock candle is the only way to make those ions without creating ozone and a shock hazard. The ions also apparently feed ghosts in some popular trains of thought. Wonderful.

I always light the lower stage last, and the two stick candles in particular. They flank her ashes, which are encased in their container within the Indian box in the center of the picture. Both have little bells in their bases.

I gave one of those belled candles to Marcie when she was initially bedridden to summon whoever was there to help her. She used it a few times, and she always seemed to smile when I came to her at its call. So, when I am lighting them, they ring a bit, and their gentle little tolls give me a good memory of her, and help to make the whole scene that much more meditative and serene.

In other words, not creepy, just gentle and comforting. I'll get better shots of our Marcie's picture and some shots from other angles of the shrine when I can.

Good night, folks.

Frank

A Few of the Hardest Times

My moments with Marcie toward the end were sometimes soul-crushingly hard for me.

A few which came and went toward the end, beyond their inbuilt painfulness, were simply unmanageable, not because they were happening in general, but because of my baby's nature, and because they seemed to rip little pieces of her away.

They were so bad that I found myself thanking the stars that her mother, her brother, her friends and my family were not there to see it at all. But they have been eating at me, because I did not let people know how much utter destruction I handled alone.

I will simply list them here, so I can write about them more fully later, if I can get it together. They still push me to the edge. I will address them to Marcie, because these things happened at times when she may have been out of reach.

• When you held my hand and your voice was gone, I am sorry I could not understand. I think you meant to tell me something more than what I could read your lips to say, but that "I love you" was enough, and the rest you put so much effort and sincerity in is a loss I lament and wonder about daily.
• I am sorry I could not lift you into our room from that damn hospital bed. I was afraid to have you fall out, I was even more afraid to drop you. I should have taken the chance so I could have held you.
  
• The night your eyes pupils became different in your size. I saw it coming and I could not stop it. I held you but you I knew I could not hold you here.
  
• The day I brought you home and they had not done anything to rehabilitate you. I could not believe how your legs had turned to mush in that nursing home. I cried in private after every time I exercised your legs, and I was shattered when you no longer could resist rangte of motion when asked. But I fibbed, said "good," then kissed you.
• The night you died. Oh, Marcie. I wanted to force the life back into you, to pump you full of life, to stop the infection in your lungs by sheer will. I should have just held your hand. I am glad I did read to you, but I wish it had another day to.
  
• The days we had when you told me that I had to let another woman "experience me," your plans to prepare for death and your wishes for your birthday, to see a movie and have a dinner. The day of our date you had to go to the hospital.
  
• The day you told me you could see the changes in me and they made you sad, that I deserved to be happier. Oh, baby. I am so grateful for you, and I will be happy again someday. Give me time.

One evening Marcie "caught" me hiding my tears. I had just changed her diaper as she slept at about 2 in the morning, something which did not bother me in and of itself. Knowing my little Irish queen, my Macha, had that indignity to deal with, though, did.
She woke and caught my eye. I smiled reassuringly as I put her lotion on her legs.
"Oh, honey, you've been crying," she said, taking my hand in her weak little fingers.
I said, "Oh, I'm fine, honey. I just had a tear or two."
She would have none of it, and she sighed and gave my hand a squeeze. Her mumbling, warbled voice was clear, if quietly so, for a minute. "Honey, you've been crying a lot," she said, pouting. "I know. I know because your eyes are green right now, and that's a very rare, very hard cry for you. And I want you to know it's fine. Just let it out."
With another squeeze, she breathed deeply and was out like a light. I hugged her but did not cry any more. I just stayed resting, holding her in her little hospital bed until I heard her lightly snore.

I don't know that anyone will know such small, intimate things as she did. There were so many other little ways we knew each other. My eyes are very green now. Good night, folks.

Frank