A Sky Fit For a Redhead

One of the best things about Marcie and my neighborhood was the close proximity of lovely viewpoints along the various segments of Mountain View Road. I saw the sky and raced home to catch it reminding me of her with its brilliant color and complex depth.

Click to enlage the shots and get a better look at the gallery...



Sunset kisses are another thing she was very good at giving me. I miss that almost as much as the warm softness of her body bundled up and wrapped in my jacket and my arms as she watched the sun set with me on blustery evenings like this

I recommend a chilly, stormy sky sunset if you can, alone or not.

Chrissy's Dream

I loved hearing about Chrissy's dream because it shows the side of Marcie that was more concerned with her loved ones and friends than herself. This held up through her illness, to the very end.

Marcie's strength and empathy were always in play, and even if her patience wore thin and she grew tired of some problem she saw a fix to, her heart could only be sweet.

She might grouse later or point out the silliness of the people she comforted, but her consoling touch, which I miss most acutely, always shined. At times, i think she only complained to keep her tough image up.

We who loved her saw right through it, I know...
Chrissy shared:

"Shortly after Marcie passed away, I had a dream that she was picking me up at the San Diego Airport. When I saw her, she was dressed in a beautiful long, white, flowing dress. She came up to me I walked toward her. We were so happy to see each other. She had come to pick me up, and I knew we were going to her memorial. She put her arm around me and she said, 'You're going to be ok.' It was so special, because in my time of sadness she was comforting me, only she was already gone."

Thank you for relaying your beautiful and very telling dream of her, Chrissy. What a wonderful moment to share.

Much Love,

F.

A Dream with a Message

All my thoughts and signs of Marcie, as well as a peek at a friend's personal blog, triggered a dream last night. But it seemed like some little bit of Marcie was coming through with a purpose, and not the random synthesis of imagery drawn from our lives.

In the dream, Marcie and I were making out in an airport lounge, sitting in a little round booth with some hors d'œuvre and glasses of wine. A beautiful lilting voice came over the loudspeaker as we kissed.

"Flight Three for Mbingu now boarding at Gate Seven," it crackled, interrupting the music in the lounge, and our kiss.

"Mmmph... mmm," Marcie said, her hand on my jaw as she stopped. "We have to get to the gate or I'll be late."

I nodded and grabbed her bags, admiring her sleek form in her little aqua camisole and long but clingy white skirt. She was wearing white heeled sandals of some kind, and I remember thinking that they showed off her toenails' little flowers very well as we walked.

When we arrived at Gate Three, children were playing and clamoring around a few smiling adults. A young man stood in a white uniform that looked an awful lot like an Army uniform in Navy white, I noted. Everyone was dressed for summer.

"Marcie," a beautiful Indian (or perhaps Pakistani or Bangladeshi woman, I could only guess) said, beaming and taking her hand. "I am so glad you made it. Why don't you take these four and take them with you?"

She gestured to four little girls, one of them a redhead who immediately attached herself to Marcie's leg, the other three African, dressed the same, in little white gowns, one wearing her hair in hanging braids, the other two, smaller girls wearing little cloths wrapped on theirs.

The taller, braided one showed the other girls something in her arms, "It's my baby," she said. "I saw a brilliant glow in her hands and on her forearms, cradled but translucent, the faintest outline of a baby's form visible.

They murmured and the girl slipped her arms under her gown, smiling a moment at me. I smiled at the smallest girl, who looked at me a little confused, and she came over and took my hand, pulling me. I started to go, but the woman took my arm with a warm and gentle but firm grip.

"No, Serena," she said. "Francis is not going on this flight, but you will see him later, okay? Now go with Marcie."

"Sorry, Serena," I said, and before I could ask why I was not going, Marcie spoke.

"I call him Frank, Niyati, " she interjected, smiling at the women. Marcie stepped in close and her face slipped into a little sad smile. "Honey, I have to go now. I'm sorry, but they said you can't get an entry visa yet."

I suddenly realized that Marcie was seriously going without me, and that is why I had no luggage of my own. I began to protest and Marcie kissed me. I felt a strange electric jolt down my back and opened my eyes, my throat hard and pained as understanding dawned and I remembered.

Niyati rubbed my back as I listened to my little bride and the tears flowed.

"We'll have our second honeymoon, honey," she said. "But not right away. I have things to do, and you have things to do, too. I won't leave you alone. I'll call you, okay?"

I could only nod and then kiss back. The four girls hugged around us until Niyati took their hands and put them in Marcie's or on her skirt gently. Marcie pecked my cheek and Niyati took her bag.

"Okay, ladies," she said. "Time to go now. Marcie, I will see him home after everyone is in."

"Bye for now, honey," Marcie said. "Come see me when you can."

"I will," I said, hoarse but determined to sound strong, which I was not nearly.

They walked into the gate and were gone. Niyati rubbed my back and smiled when I turned to her.

"She waited for you in the terminal so you could see her off," Niyati whispered. "She is very stubborn. But it was okay to let you come here for her. You have been very good to her."

"Why can't I go?" I asked.

"It is rare for people even to come here," she said, "You have been here before, and you knew your way back, and you will know your way here when you don't get to go back again."

She sighed and smiled, stroking my cheek and smiling. "You may have been waiting for your gate call once, but this was Marcie's. Your ticket is expired, and your reservation is for a much later flight, so you can't board yet. You also need an entry visa to fly, and yours is not ready yet."

I nodded. "So I don't get to board until I die?" I asked.

"You will not die, no one really does who comes here, but you cannot be responsible for anything when you do come to depart," she said. "If there is something not yet done, you cannot board."

I was calmer but sad. I stared at the gate and sighed heavily, wondering how I would visit if I could not fly yet.

"Stay here a moment," Niyati said. She walked over to the confused soldier, who waved as she guided him into the gate. I waved back and nodded. I envied his luck.

Marcie walked backto the edge of the gate and beckoned to me sneakily. She bit her lip and looked at Niyati, who was greeting a young woman and a couple.

My heart surged. I smiled and ran to the gate on my quiet step, sneaking rapidly and leaping at the end, but a huge wall of a man suddenly stood before me. The gate slid back from me behind him.

He put his hand on my shoulder and Marcie came over as he spoke. "I know you can't help it, and I know you think you want to take my wrist, and you want to slip by, and you want to go, Francis."

I nodded and looked up at him. He may have been seven feet tall or so, but I didn't care. I considered the best course for a moment but my thoughts were scrambled as Marcie kissed me.

"Honey, you are very brave and I know you want to be with me, and I am so happy you ran to me for one last caper," she said. "But just run to me when you see me somewhere else, okay? We'll have our time together."

The man let go of my shoulder. "Thank you, Marcie."

I had one last kiss before the dream ended. As we kissed, i felt her mischievous delight with me and her passion. I woke and felt her hands on my cheeks and her lips on my own, phantoms of her again acting as company to me.


Sometime this weekend, I will share Chrissy's dream of her. I have been trying to digitize the wedding video. We will see. I may also get the archive of messages from Tanya, and I have found more little notes. Good night, friends. If any of you have dreams to share. please let me know.

Extra note: The name I heard was "Natty," but this is as close as I found from theplace I think the woman was from or supposed to be...

A very difficult project

So, I am calling it off and going to bed. I have been trying to digitize a very special tape. You'll know when I get it finished up. Night, folks.

A very tough day

So, todays was a day that, no matter what I did, was filled with Marcie. I imagine my dreams will be quite hard to put away when I wake up tomorrow.

First was the lady with her redheaded child who crossed the street in front of me at Park and Adams. The little girl, very "Natalie Wood" in her jacket and gloves, save for her fiery red curls, waved as she walked by and smiled.

A block or two later, Lily and Christine crossed the street from Cream, a local coffee shop. Lily is a pug, and Christine is her mom. I'll get pictures next time.

When I got to work, I was clicking through my old emails and came upon a nest of Marcie's. I read them and had to go for a little walk. I am waiting for Tanya to send me one she discovered, too... that will be hard as well.

On my way to the post office for my passport appointment, a song came on by Stevie Nicks. Marcie loved Stevie Nicks and I have always been bewitched by lady songbirds. It was "Changes," loaded with parallels and pain, and an acoustic version from one of my favorite all-decades rock channels, KPRI.

So much of it is so very relevant to our last months together that I had to pull over and sit for a bit:

Landslide

I took my love and I took it down
I climbed a mountain and I turned around
And I saw my reflection in the snow covered hills
'Til the landslide brought me down

Oh, mirror in the sky
What is love?
Can the child within my heart rise above?
Can I sail through the changing ocean tides?
Can I handle the seasons of my life?

Mmm Mmm... I don't know... Mmm Mmm... Mmm Mmm...

Well, I've been afraid of changing
'Cause I've built my life around you
But time makes you bolder
Children get older
I'm getting older too

So...

(Guitar solo)

I've been afraid of changing
'Cause I, I´ve built my life around you
But time makes you bolder
Children get older
I'm getting older too...
I'm getting older too...

So, take this love, take it down
Oh if you climb a mountain and you turn around
If you see my reflection in the snow covered hills
Well the landslide will bring you down, down

And If you see my reflection in the snow covered hills
Well maybe... The landslide will bring you down
Well well... the landslide will bring you down

Every time I hear it, I hear her singing to me, though I am well aware that Stevie Nicks sang it for her father. Marcie and I once had a long cry to it after her first surgery, the removal of her breasts.

It came on as I tended to her 4 separate wound drains. I thought I was hurting her, and I asked, but she just crumbled again and shook her head, hanging it away from me sadly. She said, "No, it's the song, honey."

I really listened to it for the first time and knew she was singing it about herself to me in her heart. I guess my heart sang it back, and now I am the one under the landlside. And man, did it bring me down.

I miss her more than I ever did, but I guess she is calling me more strongly than ever, too. That, or I am just grabbing at every single chance to stay connected and on track.

Chrissy's visit

So, Chrissy finally made it by today, and we shared a very Marcie-memorializing Rubio's meal. Chrissy had the taco combo while I had the mahi mahi combo. It was nice. Chrissy divulged that, since she's now living in Rockford, Illinois, fish tacos are far from common fare.

We went through a couple of albums and I, of course, let her pick out a few pictures. I let her take a very precious one from Terri Dambrose's wedding, of Marcie getting drunk with them, drinking straight from a bottle, her drss off her shoulder on one side.

God, she was so hot. Marcie definitely outshined the bride (sorry, Terri).

Back to the visit. So, Chrissy was a good sport and looked through Marcie's things, taking a few scents and creams, which I hope bring her joy and good memories of my baby. I also, since they shared a Lucy love, gave her Marcie's Lucy monopoly set.

She also selected a Matisse book for her coffee table and one other. Marcie would have been very pleased to see her take them, and I know I am.

The visit was over all too soon. However, I will be trying to make a trip to Rockford sometime soon, when neither mosquitoes nor cold bite one overmuch. We'll see how life unfolds.

I'll post some pictures of Chrissy and Marcie over the years when I get a chance. G'nite, folks.

Little Things She Might Have Liked (pt. 2)

So, today I took a big step in my life that touches on Marcie and my relationship on a number of levels. Marcie was a little paranoid about me. She was protective, true, but paranoid nonetheless.

I did give her a few reasons to be cautious. I was fast to the sword, so to speak, when I felt she was being slighted (or picked up on). I wrote for "underground" newspapers and fanzines, and had a very adventurous social set to run with.

I did not always show the most prudent judgment. I liked to do little feats, walking on my hands or balanced on handrails around City College, where I was the AS Senate President, or standing on tables in the cafeteria to emphasize a point or a joke.

Extra money came from working doors at punk shows and concerts. My whole approach could be called, "risk management be damned." So I understood to a degree.

I remember the day she let me know that I was going overboard. I was carrying a full load of A's at City, plus AS, running a side business, putting in late nights working doors and writing.

She took my hands, and stood very close, wringing them with her own and nodding, "Honey, you have to slow down," she said. "I am worried."

She gave me a tearful list of concerns, admonishing me from hugging her, as she had a lot to say. In the end, I reassured her, mostly by letting her know we would talk about initiatives before I launched them. I stuck to that.

Motorcycles were one of those risks she just set her foot down and refused to budge on for me. I wanted one, she couldn't see it.

"No, I would be worried sick about you all the time," she said. "Frank, just let it go. You bring it up like once a year and it just freaks me out. Just drop it."

And usually with a harrumph and an abrupt exit, she would go somewhere and close the door. She would remain tense and stern until the requisite apologies and placative gestures were proffered, including but not limited to gifts and some concession to her wisdom on the matter.

This ritual continued until 2004 and her cancer ended most of those ritual discussions. But the issue did not go away, though I had forgotten it.

It might be easy to magine my surprise to receive, during one of her trips to San Francisco to see Jane, an email from the aforementioned friend with the following contents:


Motorcycle Mamas

I quizzed Marcie and probed, then told her, "I guess I'll get a motorcycle and take you out into the hills on it from now on, won't I?"

"Sure, honey," she said. "When I am better. I think it would be fun, but I don't think you should go buy a bike, because I don't want to worry when I am sick like this on top of it."

Today, I bought a Harley Davidson Sportster from Buddy Carr, a former professional skater and businessman. His wife Tracy reminisced that he had caught her eye with the bike. Son Tosh came out and joined us when Buddy turned the engine over. Nice folks.

My Uncle Tim and I looked it over. It's Beauty. We both agreed it was 1989 Sportster with a belt drive, cam kit, lots of chrome and plenty of good maintenance. Here's Uncle Tim, with it as we prepare to unload it from his truck .He seemed pretty delighted:



I had worn my leather jacket, gloves and biker boots (all but a helmet) for the pickup, and immediately took the bike for a short spin down the block. Immediately meaning "shortly after I was browbeaten by Uncle Tim and Neighbor Jim."



It was awesome.

My plan is to take my time, get to know the bike, get a learner's permit and the registration changed, working on the bike as I go. When I have my license, I will, for my first freeway trip, take Marcie out to the mountains on it, as we said we'd do.

When I go, I'll find someplace pleasant and gentle, or a place she had loved, and leave a little of her.

Marcie's Modesty

I have been asked before and have recently had the question raised anew: "Would Marcie really want you to do all of this?"

The answer is that I do not know. But a deeper look at her sweet and demurring soul might just be revelatory.

Sometimes Marcie was modest, it is true. She did not like too much attention focused on her and shied away from recognition. At work, she considered little awards to be nuisances, and recognition to be a little overwhelming.

"I just want to go to work, do my job, keep my head down, be left alone and come home so I can enjoy my life," she said once. "I don't want to go out after work, I don't want to go to lunch with the herd, and I don't need to be pointed out for my work."

For the most part, that's how she lived. But being the beautiful and talented woman she was, word got around. She was an expert baker, a solid and smart worker, a brainiac, a delightfully friendly ear... she was recognized for the jewel she was.

She won little awards, but never brought them home to share or hang up. She never took me to her work's annual dinners, which she avoided by and large. She shied away from the acclaim.

I think it is because, no matter how much people told her they loved her, respected her and admired her for her talents and her every little thing, she was unable to accept it as genuine.

She barely believed me for a long time, and when she did take my compliments as honest, she just melted. She told me why once.

"No matter what, I was too fat," she said. "I loved to eat, and i was overweight, but it was the only thing my dad focused on. I was too fat."

She had dreamed of broadcasting and had even started doign the news at San Diego High. Her father had an ally in the teacher.

"I was always told that I might be a big hit off-camera," she told me once. "I quit the program the next year."

She was, of course, a curvy but absolutely toned girl when I met her, but those scars persisted. She could never get over the way that every accomplishment was overshadowed, unheralded or dismissed over some flaw that consumed her father's entire view of her.

I am sure that all her swimming medals, awards, accomplishments and character traits were sources of pride, as was her beautiful body and pristine beauty. I know she loved my long lists of praise on the couch or in the bed.

I think that she decided to enjoy so much of what she earned on her own, or just with me, privately, because she could never trust the wider perception of her to not become fixed on one flaw, long gone. She kept her head down.

She did let me perform grand public gestures, though. Sneak attacks with flowers at work, candy sent up from the employee entrance and other things only caused the most cursory of curses to be heaped on me, smiles and blushing the balance to that.

Would Marcie forbid me to pursue a long trek in her honor? Probably at first. Would she hate that I extolled her greatness on this site? Perhaps. But would she get over it all? I think so.

I know one thing about my baby very very well. Marcie could be convinced that she was all she was touted to be, but she very much discounted anyone she had not let in, and those people were few and far between.

I was chief among them. She would know I am sincere. I only wish that, as I prepare to change my life around and launch my trip and try to secure someone to publish the tale, I would be doing so in honor of the great courage she showed as she healed, instead of as she was taken from me.

Then she could yell at me and be embarrassed and furious, but then then kiss me and make it all okay again.

Little things she might have liked (Part 1)

Marcie and I did not do a lot of the things we had planned to. Some of those things were fairly straightforward, such as heading over to the most authentic Irish bar in San Diego and having a pint over Irish music.

I didit for her. I went to The Ould Sod and had a couple of pints, enjoyed some music and snapped some shots. I also tried to take a movie, but the lighting was such crap that it proved pointless.

However, to help you understand how interesting and nice the music was, I did save a snippet, mostly for sound:



There was at least a tad more success with the flash on my camera and some shots of the musicians. Take a look at the instruments and how I used the mirror in the shots:



It was looking to be a decent night when I left. But I really wasn't in the mood for a good night. I just wanted to go see the Tuesday night players for Marcie, and that I did.

I left very much wondering what she would have said about it all, as she had been to Eire before. When we did pop in, she didn't say much, really. I also wondered what it would have felt like to show up at such a pub in Ireland with my hot Irish-American redhead in tow. I imagine I would have been very proud.

I'll never know either, I guess.

No progress, really...

I had so many plans. I would start clearing out all the things that didn't matter, that had no meaning. Valuable? It would be sold. Valueless? It would be given or trashed.

But it's so hard. Everything is a memory and every breath of her is such a treasure to me. Marcie's every little thing is still in my home, and my heart is just sick over what I will do with it all.

I can't keep it. There is too much and I don't need it all. Too much furniture, too many knickknacks, too many clothes. Every single bit was brought here, into our little life, by her. Some of it is quite beautiful.

Even the not-so-beautiful things are emotionally loaded for me.

I tried to cheat on the whole thing a bit, to get our friends to take little bits of things as mementos, but to not much avail. I guess I am still way too raw.

I think this whole thing is complicated by the one thing that Marcie said to me that left a bad mark. She was mad that I could not move her into the front room and that she couldn't go for a walk. I was scared she would fall, and her legs were too weak to even raise, much less walk.

"You are just going to shake me off and move on when I die," she said, glaring and accusative. "You're just going to shed me like a skin forget I ever happened after this, aren't you?"

She was not in her right mind, and she quickly soothed me when she saw how much it hurt. But it stuck in my head and cut deeply, because regardless all of that, people do not say such things unless they believe them on some level.

So I look at all her old medication, her clothes, her unopened, unworn gifts from her birthday, and all the stuff I have left in place in our room. Then I look away ashamed for wanting it to be gone.

I know I want to send much of it off. I know I want to sell the stuff that could help pay for her trip, and I know I want to give much of it away. I want to empty this big house and just keep the most essential things, but I cannot.

I want to keep every scrap with her writing and every picture, every book she touched and was touched by and every CD and song her heart sang to. I want to have only those things most "her." But I keep the junk and the clutter, too.

I guess what is in the way is that I am afraid that if I do pare it all down, the dreams will stop, the emptiness will grow and her presence will fade in my heart.

Worse, I wonder if sometimes, when I am lonely or when I chat with someone I realize is quite attractive, I am not living up to her lowest expectations of me.

Either way, it all hurts.

No update tonight

I had some pictures to share but that will have to wait, as my camera is apparently still on my desk at work! Bah. I have been trying to get to little engagements around the neighborhood, some of which are quite fun.

One of them Marcie said she might not mind going to, but she only found out about while she read up on the neighborhood...

I'll share it tomorrow.

Night, F.

Marcie and redemption

I will return to the places of Marcie's and my early love in time. First, I need to take a trip up to Humboldt (for pictures of our place). I think I should snap photos of it. It was a very special chapter in our lives, if also a tough one for her.

I am having so many dreams about Marcie. I am, in fact, having so many that I somewhat wanted to stay home and sleep all day today. I did not.

I found myself reflecting on some of the more esoteric reasons Marcie and I were so in love with each other today. I overheard a coworker kvetching about her brother.

"Oh, he is not going to change," she said. "People don't change and they can only fake it for so long when they try."

Marcie had a different idea, which I came to share. Marcie thought that everyone could change, but some people simply would never choose to.

"Some people change or they just fix their problems" she said. "Some people are perfectly happy being whatever they are, no matter how mean or dirty or how ignorant they are."

My discussion with Chrissy reminded me of another aspect of Marcie's outlook on people. Some people change, some people don't, and some people medicate.

"I am telling you, it is a total Prozac nation," she would say. "People think they can get away from their problems by just popping a pill and forgetting they have them."

Marcie understood the need for some help in a crisis, but she was disturbed by the number of people around her on permanent regimens of antidepressants. I had a theory.

"Maybe it's the environment that makes people sick," I said. "The drugs might fix a chemical issue caused by the polluted world around us."

I would never have dared offer it if I was on antidepressants. Thankfully, I never was and never will be, short of being forced.

"That's a total excuse," she said, her pretty blue eyes rolling as one hand went to a hips and her other circled dismissively.

"Oh, I was exposed to whatever, so I am depressed," she said. "Oh, I am sooo sad that my mom didn't love me enough. BLah Blah Blah! People need to get OVER it already."

But she was afraid of sounding silly, and she was wise to boot (as well as pretty and clever and well-read, and any number of other good things).

"You could be right," she said as she disengaged from the conversation. "You could be totally right and people might be completely toxic from the world or whatever. But that's just like throwing up your hands and saying nobody is responsible for anything."

But her belief that people could change and be redeemed was most comforting. Marcie had an immense capacity to forgive and to love, even if she was hurt. It was a measure of her tender toughness.

I will not say who she forgave for what. I will only say that, though we fought from time to time, I never did anything that tested her capacity to forgive me. But I still weep at the thought of her pain with people at times.

There were many times she was ashamed or just beyond the veneer of her pride, and it was a privilege to hold her and comfort her in them.

I was so relieved when, as I told her I apologized for anything she was too good to tell me hurt her feelings or that I had done to hurt her, she simply smiled and squeezed my hand.

"You don't have to redeem yourself for anything, honey," she croaked. "I always knew you wouldn't ever even conceive of doing anything to hurt me."

I realized at that moment that some of the things I had heard her talk about and held her in my lap or arms over still, on her death bed, cast a hurtful shadow over her. Like so many times before, I simply enveloped her in my arms and kissed her.

Sometimes, she did not share what her crying was about. In retrospect, I would get frustrated, though I held her anyway. I now know that consoling touch was more important to her than any silly lover's quarrel.

What she was telling me that very sad day was that the reasons didn't matter. That I just made sure to love her did, though.

The all of you

"Smell makes the strongest memory," you said.
You inhaled me and I felt the cool of the air there.
"No, taste leaves the strongest association," I said.
I savored you like a wine and drank kisses.
"You are so striking to me," you said.
You demanded I not shy from your lens.
"Your voice soothes and bewitches me," I said.
I called every day to hear it, be calmed.
"I love how you hold me," you said.
You wiggled against me and I stroked you.
"I love how it feels to touch your skin," I said.
my hands still remember velvet on curves.
The warmth of you squirms on me and pushes
back against me, snug and soft all at once.

Your voice still rings true in my dreams,
It echoes in my heart as I wake.
It never tells me you are gone,
but insists that you love me.
You always look so perfect to me there,
but I can envision no less of you.

I still taste you, your hair and your skin,
your kiss, my palate your pallet still.
You are right. Smell is the strongest.
I remember you in every ward I visit.
But I recall your musk and your perfume even more.
Your visits leave it lingering so briefly, sharply.
Like the taste of you on my lips,
the sight of you in my dreams,
your faintly echoing voice,
and the giving firmness of your hips.

I wish they would linger,
but I am grateful for the ghostly warmth of your touch,
the phantom savor of your kiss,
the echoing hint of your voice,
the beauty of you in my dreams,
And the scent of you that flees when I wake.

Meet Cavinia

Here is a little short film I made of Cavinia on a recent visit to her neighborhood. The film is a bit grainy, but should look okay. I have added sound, a little song into I looped, but I need to get a better sampling program that is vista compatible...

At one point I lost my footing and scared Cavinia, but she's a trusting and sweet kitty and soon was letting me make up for it.





Enjoy!

Cavinia-Marcie's Friend

Marcie's little friend Cavinia was a companion for her during the worst of times. She was discovered immediately following Marcie's assignment to recovery, and with it disability leave. Marcie enjoyed exploring Niormal Heights on foot while she convalesced.

I remember the day she told me about Cavinia. It was following one of Marcie's walks, and Marcie prcatically bounced into the house and took off her sunhat.

"Well, I have some exciting news," she said.

I looked at her and thought of many things regarding breasts and chemo and cancer and reconstruction and a number of things far off her mind.

I made a new friend!" she said. "Her name is Cavinia, and she lives on Mountain View."

This was flabbergasting in its own right, as Marcie was certainly not quick to meet someone, get on with them and declare them simpatico.

"Really?" I asked.

"Oh, honey," she said. "I did. She's just the sweetest little thing, and she's got long hair and green eyes, and I met her while I was walking. She just wandered out and stopped me on the sidewalk!"

I was completely baffled but I nodded and smiled as I worked on cleaning the fireplace. "That's cool, honey," I said.

"Her name's Cavinia, and she's a long-haired gray calico kitty," she said. "And we will have to go see her together soon."

"That sounds wonderful," I said.

Marcie was not doen, though. "But there is one pain in the ass. This dog with no vocal cords makes these horrible hoarse honks while you pet her and spins just inside the fence by her, which I just know gets her poor little kitty heart upset."

"Well, she's probably used to it, honey," I said.

"Oh, I know that, honey," she said. "But we can't commune in peace without it yapping and wheezing like he's going to die and it ruins it for me."

Marcie soon turned the yapping dervish, known as Charlie, into a feature, and turned its vehemence to her own advantage, admittedly with spite, though.

"I just pet her and pet her while I look right at him through the fence," she said. "He gets so mad and he spins so fast that sometimes he falls down. I think he must get dizzy." She laughed a little at her speculation.

I loved it. She was simply letting the dog know she was more stubborn than he was.

I eventually made it down to meet the sweet little kitty. She had to be a decade and a half old, so frail but so very friendly and relaxed. The dervish huffed and he chuffed, and he spun himself down while we pet her.

It was quite dramatic, and Cavinia was quite the love bug, as Marcie called her.

"Are you a little love bug?" she cooed. "Are you a love sponge?"

Marcie saw her every chance she took to walk for three years. When I shared my cat adventures with her and she was unable to, she was disappointed to see no Cavinia images. But I made it up to her.

"Honey, would you like to go see Cavinia," I asked on a day when she seemed happy and active, her chemo beginning to wear off and her glow returning.

"Oh, that would be lovely, honey," she said.

So off we went, with me holding Marcie's hand. We strolled to Cavinia's house and she was there, ready for us, sitting in her favorite place. It never changes:

Cavinia's usual spot: The middle of the driveway!

Marcie spent a full five minutes trying to coax Cavinia out of range of the barkign dervish dog, but to no avail, so she went and pet her.

She spent a lot of time with her, and she had a hard time getting up until I hlped her, taking the moment to steal a kiss and making Marcie "happy annoyed."

"What are you doing? Frank, stop," she said, then grabbed my jacket and pulled me in for a better kiss. "Take me home."

I did, carrying her for a little bit as we got close. She was very tired, and I swear she slept for a minute or two. I just remember thinking how light she was.

"Don't ever tell anyone about this," she said. "I don't want to be humiliated."

I don't think there was anything embarrassing for her in it, but she had such pride. I hope she understands me sharing it all now.

Marcie never went cat-visiting again. But I do. I still see Cavinia and all the rest, and they seem to like that pretty well. I really do it to replace her in their lives, though.

I feel we all know what it is to lose her, and that means we have a lot in common.

A visit! And some plans

Marcie's friend Chrissy Patterson will be visiting sometime this week, so I guess I'll have to clean the house. Bleah. But the visit will be good. Chrissy and I actually got to hang out (along with her hubby Tom) a few times, unlike some of Marcie's pals.

I hope to get pictures of Marcie's cat pal Cavinia so I can finish off the story of their little love affair. We'll see if she feels like entertaining photographers, and I will try to film, as well.

I'll catch up later tonight. Have a good Sunday, folks

F.

Little moments of tease

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dreams upon dreams.

So, as I have been wrestling with dilemmas and working on the trip, the dreams have become very strong again. They are quite comforting at the moment, too. I intended to write about them tonight, but I have been busy on other fronts and needed to catch up with some friends.

I had an interview tonight for what appears to be a great project.Imagine a startup journalism site on nonprofit issues, growing slowly from a simple but professional, top-notch blog into a much more complex and powerful source of information on nonprofit work than currently can be found in one place.

I'm hoping I did as well as I might have. Make money, do good,all at once in one place? Sign me up! I'll let you all know how it goes. We'll see.

I need sleep. Good night, folks

F.

What riches for the moral?

Lately, I have been considering, or rather reconsidering, what eyes I look out at the world with. I have always been committed to playing fair, being good to people as much as I can manage and placing principle first.

I am beginning to think that perhaps such an approach may have contributed to losing Marcie.

During my time with Marcie, I did not do some things I now know would have paid off handsomely. Some of these would have brought serious detriment to other people, something I have tried to avoid ("First do no harm..." etcetera).

Others would have been unethical but not harmful to anyone in any direct way. But some I simply had to forgo because Marcie was not going anywhere. Marcie was in San Diego to stay.

I had offers of jobs in San Francisco, Los Angeles and Seattle, Portland and even British Columbia, but Marcie had her foot down. She did not want to leave her parents, specifically her mother, again.

I could have forced her to choose to follow or watch me leave, but I was honestly too smitten. Never mind that some of the jobs and opportunities were simply outstanding, replacing our two salaries at once. Never mind I have always hated the sunshine tax that San Diego levies with aplomb on all not related to the scum who own it.

I loved her and, even if I could win an argument, I could not stand to see her cry. So, I was trapped trying to negotiate a path that kept me happy with her and not so overwhelmed with frustration at the constant struggle to get a decent career going.

One consolation I had was that she always knew that I wanted to move on some of these opportunities. She was always supportive when I did not bury someone at a job after a big backstabbing took the rug out from under me.

"You're a pure soul, and you are better than that," she would say. "I am so proud of you and I am so happy you are not like that."

It is not much consolation right now.

I should have just gone and let her know I wanted her to come along but I would not wait. When I wanted to start a Ph.D., I should have refused to drop it as she wailed about the expense of school and her wish to stay rooted.

I sometimes feel that the jobs at several internet companies I was offered, including those very early on at CNET and a few with more business-oriented startups, would have greatly enriched us. Two of them had spectacular IPOs.

Why is this relevant now? Well, I have been thinking that perhaps not being in a better place with more money and a better life may have killed my baby. That process of thought has been stuck in my brain lately, those regrets and deep guilt teaming up on me as I consider my next moves in life.

I waver between keeping the faith and trying to find such opportunities again and simply going for the jugular on every opportunity I get, hurt to others be damned, ethics be forgotten.

Adding to this is a huge arbitration battle in the future over her death itself. I am a battler, and the only time she would become upset with me was when I would take up a crusade. There is no Mr. Nice Guy when I fight. I do not so much want to win as to thoroughly defeat, destroy and permanently debilitate my opponent.

I have never really lost when I have been in that coarse and mean mode, but I have had regrets. Cajoling and bashing at Kaiser for the best and most treatment worked, but was I even able to know about the best study medications at such a place?

Probably not. I wonder what I could have stomped around and, if not outright bought, strangled out of UCSD or John Hopkins. What could a few million have bought, and how fast would the problem have been detected? Would she be here making me some breakfast for dinner?

But then I come to the realization that my romantic proclivities got me into that regretful nostalgia. Do I really think that if I were involved with someone who loves me, the romantic side of me won't soften me too much to put my foot down?

Have no doubt that I will always have that romantic side to me. I write things about Marcie that will never see the pages of this blog. I have a chapbook full of innocent romantic notions that would make the most peurile and pedestrian poetasters sneer in contempt.

But I wonder if, barring the need for a soft heart (for a book tour and the writing of a book matched in tone with my love for her) and all those ethics and that whole purity business, I should not just seek every crappy dollar and crush anyone who stands in my way.

I have told a friend that the sun will likely set on romance as a guiding force in my life's decisions over the Atlantic as I watch from the Moroccan coast and the last of her ashes slips from my hands. Even my intended end to it sounds romantic.

More honestly, I am afraid that, should I ever fall so deeply in love again, I may not keep my eyes open and my will strong to tend to the opportunities that come my way. I don't want that to happen.

However, I acknowledge that I could find something enriching, or have one of my two provisional patents turn out to be valuable enough to secure whatever future I wish to have. Who knows? Maybe the book will be something with value in the market, not just my heart. I do intend to pursue higher degrees, regardless.

But if none of those pies in the sky are within reach, I want to start building up a pile of cash through more direct means. If I have to work in a field of relatively little appeal, or do it while stepping on people ruthlessly, then perhaps better late than never.

Perhaps I can join the scads of scum who redeem themselves with reviving that romance when they have had their fill, and somehow reconcile the moral body count and ethical boneyard in retrospect with some charitable grunts.

Then again, maybe Marcie would have left me long ago as my foot was down and I said I was going with or without her, or when I started leaving people in the lurch for a buck, or when I started applying my crusading ways to my business behavior.

For now, the only thing that has been strong check on me has been the memory of her stroking my face on her little hospital bed.

"You get so mad, honey, but you always do the right thing," she said. "You are such a pure soul. It just breaks my heart to think you'd change that."

And even if I have my thoughts, her voice is still so strong in my heart that I can't unleash my long-dormant predatory instincts. Honestly, though, I think a few more solid beat-downs, a few more paltry paychecks and a little more pain will "help."

New friend

Another new blogger and visitor has popped in. Teej, who commented here, then I ran into on Lana Banana's site, may be connected to this site and could be the author? Welcome, Teej. Let me know if it's your blog and I will put up a link.