MumbletyPeggy (pt. 2)

The black veils rustled as the little figure turned to Marcie then looked away. Peggy muttered and made intricate  motions with her clawlike fingers in the air in fron of her, waving them at the rows of painkillers.

I stayed back and was going to go wait by Maia when I heard the mumbles.

"Oh, oh, oh no. Oh no!" she said, her voice low and her. "Oh what does she WANT?! Oh, dear, what does she WANT?"

I stayed back bnut just within earshot as I saw Marcie's toes lift... and fall. Lift... and fall. She waited, then spoke.

"Would you like a basket for your stuff so you don't have to carry them in your pocket, Peggy?" Marcie asked, looking smug and absolutely not in the least bit fazed as the gestures became more agitated and rapid.

Marcie stepped back and grabbed a blue hand basket, then held it out, its two handles open. "Just put them in there and you can carry this while you shop for all your things," Marcie said.

Peggy's hand clenched into a crooked, aged fist and then her fingers flicked and shook as she made repeated grabbing motions in the air.

"So she so she so she so she does, does, does that she does, and she knows, knows, knows." the croaking voice, clearer and older now, crackled. "Fine."

Her gnarled talons, now clearer still as she turned to Marcie, flicked in unison, then her left hand snaked into her dress and the other shook and waved up and down a little. A box of Advil rattled several times, two or three in the air above the basket, before she dropped them in it.

Marcie handed Peggy the basket and Peggy took it and marched away, her veils clinging to her face a little as she walked rapidly down the aisle. Marcie waited and watched in th mirrors, then changed lanes to the snack aisle.

Marcie watched her like a hawk. The woman wandered the aisles and threw random items into the basket, her hands each time making a pattern of passes and gestures in front of the shelf before dropping the items in.

A cinstant stream of gibberish punctuated by her stream of thought in words poured forth:

"Msh mup mup mup Mup MUP!

"Whir whir whir whir whir whir whir were not whir word."


"Where did she go where did she go where did she go? Go go go?" she said. "No. No. No. She didn't go, she didn't go."

Whenever Peggy noticed Marcie watching, the babble took on a different tone and Peggy would make wild, lingering ritualistic gestures, occasionally freezing her hand in some contorted state and turning back to the products.

Marcie looked over at me and shook her head, then turned her attention back to Peggy.

"Are you ready, Peggy?" she asked. "Should I help you carry your stuff?"

Marcie walked down and Peggy handed her the basket, loaded with yarn and candy and various  medicine and drugstore items. Marcie waited and put out her hand.

Peggy reached into her clothes and produced a container of Maalox.

Marcie sighed, putting it in the basket and putting her hand out again. Peggy this time produced a large bottle of Centrum vitamins, a small stuffed Winnie the Pooh car mirror hanger, and a silver-topped ball point pen.

"Oh, that's all, all all," she muttered. "Smumf smuf smuff smumf."

Marcie gestured for Peggy to go to the front counter ahead of her and the crone's wobble turned into a rustling, off-kilter but high-speed stagger. She walked right past me, past the registers and to the door.


"No, I don't, I don't, I don't," she said as she turned and this time flicked her hair and veils off her face, revealing her angry snarl of a visage and raising her hand, which slipped and flopped and grasped and made fists of itself at a fever pitch.


Her free hand flipped her veils away from her shoulder and she opened her left eye. She appeared to be aiming, but then I noticed her right eye was closed as if sewn that way, and the skin there did not frame a socket so much as sag and pool atop the cheekbone.


"Mmmm, mmm, mmm you," she said as Marcie came and stood next to me, staring at her dispassionately. "You you you you YOU! MMMM! MMMMMFSH!"


Now both her hands flipped and clawed at air in intricate patterns that had to be killer for any arthritis she may have suffered, but she persisted and her face twisted into a grimace and a one-eyed squint.

"Huu- UH!" she said, then slipped through the door, pulling her veils back down as she mumbled off into the mall, her voice fading as she went past the store glass. "She, she, she she does and she knows, and mmm mmm mmm..."

I turned to Marcie and she closed her eyes and shook her head, then sighed. "She is so crazy," she said. "If she didn't shoplift every time, almost, I would enjoy watching her anyways."

Marcie looked at me as I stared at her and rolled her eyes, then mocked Peggy's hand movements, closing one eye. "I, I, I have, have have, have to put it all back, back back!" she said, exasperated, then turned and got to it as I guffawed.

MumbletyPeggy

I went and visited Marcie at CVS several times, all but two of them completely against her will. Nevertheless, her coworkers were nice and she admitted years later that she enjoyed my visits.

One of those visits was more than a little entertaining. It happened to be one I was invited to conduct. Marcie and I were going to head to the cafe by May Company and enjoy a lunch, then after her work day ended see a movie.

We needed no movie that night.

I was engaging Marcie in very light banter, whiling away time in the near-vacant store as she tended the front counter. Her eyes locked and then narrowed and she looked past me as a hunched, black-garbed figure tottered in.

"Smsh mup rummum mubbum mum," a distinctly female but whispery voice said, the sounds wafting out from under multiple veils of black lace under a wide-brimmed hat. I saw no face.

Marcie watched and made eye contact with a coworker named Maia, who came to the front and took over the counter. Marcie slipped out from behind it, eyes locked on the slow, unsteady figure as it lurched and hobbled into the aisles.

The words became clearer but no more sensible as we got closer.

"So she so she so she so she does, does, does, goes there, she does, yes, yes, yes," the woman said under her masking veils. "I know. I know. I know."

I looked at Marcie, who stood with one arm under her breasts and the other propped on its hand, playing with the curls by her ear as she watched intently.

"Who is..." I started to ask, but her hand stopped me cold.

She leaned in close. "That's Peggy," she said, quietly. "She's a regular but you have to watch her or she leaves without paying. She hates me because I watch her the whole time and I make her show me ID when she writes her checks."

Peggy had offended Marcie by screaming bloody murder when she was caught leaving the store with unpaid-for goods. She made good, but a security guard had yelled at Marcie for stopping Peggy and bringing her back in by the arm.

"Everybody was looking at me and thought I was totally abusing her," she said. "And that's just too bad, because I don't care what age you are. Nobody shoplifts from me."

But her actions had ended with her boss allowing the woman to return. That did not mean Marcie let her get away with anything. In fact, Marcie was now even tougher with Peggy.

"I do not like her," she said. "So I just watch her and let her get pissed off at me. I don't care if she doesn't like it."

Marcie cut off the conversation and marched forward as Peggy pulled a large container of Advil off the shelf and into her many layers of clothes. She smiled and turned her head a bit, looking down at the woman.

"Can I help you with that Advil, Peggy? Do you want to know how much it cost?" she asked.

And that's how the MumbletyPeggy game began.

Call for Input-When Marcie made you laugh

Okay, folks. I need your help. I am going to write about The Mumbler and RiverMannonite next, but Marcie had a beautiful wit and a very unique sense of humor. I would like to share that side of her, as well.

Marcie interacted with me differently from how she she interacted with her friends. Share some of your stories about your moments of silliness, joy or humor with her with me and let me know if i can post them.

Moments of her wisdom, intelligence, cleverness or quirkiness would be wonderful to share, too.

Thanks, folks!

San Francisco Trip Part 2

Ah, vacation(s). On August 29th, I will be in San Francisco, visiting Jane and Christina and perhaps scouting. This is something I have been forced to put off time and time again as the school district and other items have thrown me curve balls.

Just know that there will be many images and possibly some films. Unfortunately, the long trip along Big Sur from last time will not be repeated. I am a flying fool.

There will be a visit to Izakaya for sure. I wonder if everything is still "gorgeouth."

Muahaha. I plan to wreck the place. Hell, I need to. In a Marcie-approved way, of course.

When booking my little room in Japantown, I noted all rooms are for two adults (assumed) when reserved. Sure I am happy to be going, but those little things really sober you up.

Remaking the Bed

Before Marcie passed, I had been suffering in the bed. No in the way you might infer I intend to convey, but in regards to comfort. It was a strange thing to have a disagreement on.

It started two years before she passed, and it was a seriously bad item to discuss.

"The bed is tilted," I said. "I hate my side of it, I feel like I am going to roll off."

She huffed a little and looked over as she hospital-cornered the sheet and shook her head. "We can't buy another bed," she said. "It's not crooked, you're just crazy."

"I swear it's off a little," I said. "There's a serious slope on the bed. I feel like I am going to just roll off and I wake up all night worrying."

"Whatever, Frank," she said. "But for me, this is just your latest crazy obsession with something. If it isn't the television having a hum in it, which I don't hear, then it's the phone being hot or the water being metallic. My response is the same."

I looked at her and shook my head. She was just not interested.

"You're crazy, you're obsessive, and I love you, but please, don't drive me crazy with this, okay?" she asked, holding my hands in hers and pouting a little.

"K, fine," I said. "But why not change sides and you tell me?"

She glared. I had asked her to change sides on the bed and the universe had just gasped in horror.

"That is my side of the bed and I cannot sleep on yours, it doesn't have a window and it's by the door, which I totally hate," she said. "Now stop it."

Of course I mentioned it every couple of weeks when i would slip into bed. It remained that way until the week she took to a new bed in our living room, a hospital bed, whereupon I slept nearby on the couch.

For the last 9 months I have tried to sleep on our bed and have finally found that her side of the bed is flat and comfortable. The mystery of my still-sloping side remained that. Finally, today, the mystery was solved.

Perhaps I had been so fat the mattress flattened under me? No, I flipped it often. Perhaps it was the floor? No, I checked it with a level. Perhaps the underlying box spring was propped?

I have flipped the king-sized mattress a dozen times. This time, when I did, it became stuck on the light fixture. I looked and saw, wedged up on the base of the box-spring half of what was my Marcie's side, the headboard side of my own box spring, its base overlapping by a centimeter.

Only the top was wedged up, hidden against the wall and under the mattress and obscured by the foot, which was not wedged. The box spring eventually settled normally at the foot of the bed, the distance and weight allowing it to look well-seated, preserving the mystery all that time.

I took it all apart and found out the frame was bolted narrower at the head end. I fixed it and popped everything into place.

As I slept in it this week, I remembered asking her in those final weeks, before she was hospitalized and when she was just tired, whether she felt a slope. She had to use my side, as it was closer to the bathroom and easier for me to help her out of bed.

"Frank!" she growled through clenched teeth, fiery and beautiful and sick but stubborn. "There is no stupid slop on the stupid bed, so just drop it and move on! I asked you not to drive me crazy about this and for two years it has been your thing. Now knock it off!"

Thoroughly chastened, I kissed her on the cheek and nodded. I was happy. She had not been so animated in two weeks.

She called me back when I left. "Frank, I love you," she said. "I'm sorry I yelled. It does feel lumpy, but it doesn't feel crooked or anything, okay? I am sorry I called you crazy."

"Okay, sweetie," I said, hugging her."

And that was fine.

She said, "Okay, you can go now, I need to sleep. Good night."

I love that, even as the end approached, she felt it more important to stick to her guns than placate or indulge me overmuch. She had such a strong and stubborn spirit. But she was not remorseless in it. I know she realized I had been putting up with it a long time.

I think she was secretly pleased that I would when she found out, and that's fine, too. I would have put up with even more to lay next to her, this was just a little proof.

Mischief from an earlier time

"So what's up, Mr. Francis Stanley Pruett?" it read, her soft, elegant cursive out of place on the carefully folded notebook paper.

I looked over at her and listened as Ken Norton, our speech professor, droned on about persuasive and forensic speaking and the subtle difference between snooze and bore. I smiled as he scanned the class's eyes, including mine, then took my pen.

I scribbled as he took the chalk and turned his back.

"You know what's up," I replied, replicating her secret triangle perfectly and tossing it, letting it skip off her book and bounce off the wall into her lap.

She took it and read, then rolled her, eyes, looking at me and shrugging as if to say, "No I don't."

It grabbed my crotch and made a pained expression, then, making sure Ken was busy, let my tongue hang out of my mouth as I stared blankly at her and rocked my hips.

Her eyes went wide, her ears reddened with her cheeks and she bit her lower lip, glaring as if to say "stop" as I fluttered my eyelids in mock ecstasy. I heard the chalk hit the tray and returned to my note-taking posture.

"And Frank, if I were to say that enthymemes were employed..." he asked, his hands on his hips.

"We would be talking about a forensic speech in which certain key elements were left implied," I said.

He smiled, and I realized he was just asking his go-to student, not really after me, but Marcie smiled when he turned away again and pointed, mouthing, "ha ha," and squinting with her tongue at her teeth as if having a little laugh.

I smiled and listened to Kenn for a bit, then started to fold a piece of paper when the original hit me in the head.

"Everyone was watching you," she wrote. "Do something else."

I smiled and wrote back, "Sure," then folded it all back together.

I also finished my own little magic triangle and wrote, "So, what's up, Miss Marcelyn Ann Stoddard?" I tossed it back to her when he turned for a bare second, then waited. Ken started writing on the board and I stood, looked at her and thrust my hips before sitting down.

The classroom rustled a bit and Marcie hid her head in her book, her ears beet red. Ken stopped and turned. The chuckles subsided and he smiled as I adjusted interestedly in my desk.

My own came back and read.

"I have a bottle of wine for our picnic tonight... or not," she had written.

We drank it at the break, sharing only a few sips with out classmate, a Texan who had given us all a harrowing story of eating pork and developing worms in her brain.

How do you not give someone like that something to drink? Even if you're a bastard, she is bound to tell you something amusing.

It didn't matter at the time. We decided to finish class drunk after downing the whole bottle in 30 minutes.

It was the best day in speech class... ever.

Our One-Time Sod Anniversary

I made mention of a brief visit to the Ould Sod here. Last night was the anniverary of that little visit, and also corresponded to friend's invitation to go listen to some music. I have come to spend a couple nights a week, an hour or two at a time, in the Sod.

I have reviewed the Ould Sod on my Yelp page. They've been good to me, and I hope to make them the sendoff party location when I pack up and sail away from San Diego for good. We'll see.

I had an enjoyable time listening to the strains of Irish folk music, all instrumental, being played. I just pine for a Irish lass to belt a tune or two out along with the band. That would be something, now wouldn't it?

Of course, I would also settle for the off-key-but-adorable redhead wandering around the house and trying her best to sing whatever song was on her mp3 player at the top of her lungs. That would be something for sure.

On the Sod, I will post pictures later. I ran into my first professor of philosophy there last night, and he's a cool guy.

A little tiny moment

NOTE: Reference to fooling around (brief).

There was a muggy summer day in Humboldt County. Marcie had been to Wildberries, leaving without me and coming back in the misty heat. She slipped into the room as I toiled at the computer, pulling together a piece on The Dunes.

"Honey, are you hungry?" she asked.

I had heard her come in and kept working. But I stopped and considered the question. As was usual when I was working, my mind over-thought everything. Would this be a menu request afterward? Does she want to go have breakfast?

Her hand slid over my neck cool and soft and she began to massage me. I took a deep breath and enjoyed the sensation of her touch on me, the smell of her hair as she leaned down to read my work, and the smell of blueberries.

I saw in her other hand a little plate of blueberries, strawberries and bananas. A "donut stick," an unhealthful favorite of mine, was there, too. I smiled and licked my lips. She turned and kissed me, smiling.

It was a good, content, quiet kiss. Seamus did not even stir in my lap. Afterward, the story seemed clearer and I rushed through it with ease.

"You need to eat, Mr. Reporter," she said. She fed me the fruit and the donut playfully whenever I paused.

When I was done, she smiled as I saved and shook her head. I looked up quizzically.

"Oh, honey," she said. "It was a great story, I'm sure they'll like it. You're really good at this."

I was very proud, because she was a discerning reader. We fooled around, then bathed each other in cool water, and lounged the rest of the day in front of fans, watching television. It was just a simple, good day.

I miss those. I cherish that one in particular.

Where I run

Running has become my balm, my healing motion, my security blanket. I run like a fool, and I thoroughly enjoy it. I can start a run in a thoroughly depressed state and will finish it in a tired but elevated mood every time.

I have been running in my little neighborhood since before Marcie passed on and have built my distance from 2-3 miles all the way up to about 8, pushing to 13.1 every two weeks and dropping back down (to build speed) until I peak up again, adding a tenth or two each cycle.

Usually, I just run a little loop through places that I have walked with her. I am going to make little tours of our neighborhood, adding places to visit and some sound files. My hope is to let people walk in our footsteps a little and give them things to discover on the way.

You'll know when it happens, of course.

For now, here is my running path, replete itself in Marcie's walking haunts and as-yet unlabeled kitty pal stops.

A Moment with Marcie-Epilogue

It was the most clear and concrete long dream I have had of her, this last one, and there was of course a lot that I left out. But I think what was most striking, both in the garden and tea house-cum-shrine-cum pagoda, was how direct Marcie was.

One of the things that most bothered Marcie was that I took my time to decide on a course of action or a matter at hand. It frustrated her.

In most of my dreams, there is a modicum of control. I can manipulate the world at will around me and change the scene however I like. But in dreams with Marcie, things do not always work my way.

However, our conversations have always been very soft. This last dream was much more eye-to-eye, There was something she needed.

I always ask myself if what we dream is simply the firing of random neurons and nothing more. This always has put a sad little doubt in my dreams of her. But I think what Marcie's message was went well beyond, "I am real."

Marcie, in the place she visited me, wanted me to see these visits as just that and take them at face value. We discussed them long before she passed and she promised me them. She also said she might not know how she would feel about it.

Marcie was concerned I would never move on. She was right in her own way. I will take my time, likely infuriating her with my "Hemming and hawing" as much as this post, "agonizing" and analyzing the dream, probably makes her toss her hands up, roll her eyes and sigh.

Inasmuch as she can, that is.

What strikes me is not that she simply says, "I am who I am." That came across very strongly in my dream. Her honeymoon with the hereafter and her confusion were not even on the table. Her eyes were open and she was playful but sharp and incisive.

Of course, the question remains as to whether or not the dream is just a random firing of neurons that line up in a very favorable or enjoyable way. I think her answer is that it doesn't matter.

Mine is that as well. I agree with her reasoning, that she will be with me whether I decide she is not there (and suffer), or decide she is and embrace it. But I also agree for my own reason.

Even if everything is the pseudo random or random firing of neurons as far as how we perceive and experience the world and our minds in a dream state, the fact that Marcie did not "guess" what I was thinking and was off a bit was very important.

We can convince ourselves of anything, but the fact that something in me wants to be convinced to have an open mind on this situation and its implications.

So my reasoning is this: in life we were two people who grew to become a part of each other in addition to being our own separate selves. That which I took in from Marcie continues within me. I did not always agree with or understand her, and she did not always agree with or understand me.

That being said, it does not matter if she is made of memories and patterns and thoughts, or she is simply a soul coming to visit me when I am open to her or most able to sense her. That is not important or valuable.

The fact that I can experience her and her motives and personality in such a detailed way that we still do not have the same mind on things, that she left in me an understanding and a bit of her will so strong it makes its point and mistakes mine means I can continue to learn from her.

I don't care what the nature of it all is, as far as her presence's source.

Some ask me about all of this and faith. f it is a question of faith, then I will simply say that what faith I have is vested in the idea that we all continue to affect the universe as the ripples of our presence , relationships and actions multiply and go on.

That the phenomena that we collect around our existence, which can be said to describe us, now may lack one companion, "physically alive," in their company does not mean that they do not grow in number, or that we no longer direct them to.

I enjoy that she is still there at all, and I would rather agonize a little than decide, then get too hard-headed and -hearted to accept that beautiful maybe it all implies. And if I am just enjoying a little ripple of her presences, then it's a good wave to ride.

A Moment with Marcie Pt. 2

"Honey, there is no answer, there is nothing at all," she said. "What I am, right here and now, is what I am."

I felt a little let down and I bit my lip as I looked up at her with my head bowed a bit, but she stopped me cold. I felt a little less than enlightened.

"Let me ask you, honey," she said. "Do you believe in me, being here with you right now, or do you believe I am just some thought you had or some story you lived? Because right now, I feel like you think I am memories turned into, I don't know, a mannequin or something."

And though the hurt in her voice and its tone, combined with her upturned hands, was so very touching to me, I was at first ready to cave in, and it occurred to me that what had been in my thoughts was very different from what she had said.

I shook my head and she shrugged, questioning with a look and on the verge of tears. She was rarely so vulnerable in life.

"I was thinking," I said, my throat tight. "I was thinking that it is very nice to see you and it is nice to have you here in a way I remember my little redhead."

And she was in my arms and I simply absorbed the sensation of it, the softness of her, the warmth and her breath on my neck.

"I know you miss this, honey," she said. "I know you do."

And she sounded almost insecure, questioning. But I knew there was no question that I missed holding her in my arms.

"I miss you, I miss you so much. I miss everything, especially just being with you," I said, stroking her hair gently, her soft and thick mane of red, her head and her nape.

She looked up and closed her eyes as she asked, "Then why do you agonize and hem and haw over me so much?" she asked me.

I kissed her forehead and took a breath. "I don't mean to," I said. "But I just didn't know what to think of all these dreams."

She held my hand and she walked with me, up to the little tiny door on the pagoda, and smiled, then opened it, pulling me into it. I did not squeeze in so much as I simply popped into a different place.

Marcie walked out in a qipao with a tray, her hair up in a rare favorite of mine, a single bun, chopsticks through it. I smiled as she lowered the tea and varied sweets onto the table I kneeled at.

"I know it's a qipao and I should wear a kimono," she said. "But you like qipaos on me."

I nodded and looked down at my own kimono and shrugged. "I like you in a kimono," she said. "I liked that kimono from Okinawa."

It had been eaten by moths in Humboldt County after I stored it away in my closet. I had been too chubby for it. I had also forgotten it.

"Thank you," I said, smiling as she poured me the tea. I felt so very comfortable.

"So there's more," she said, matter of factly. "It bothered me that you thought of me as maybe just a figment or a memory or a dream."

I nodded, "I didn't mean to hurt you."

"Pfft, you didn't hurt me," she said. "I can't be hurt. But if you keep it up, you are going to hurt yourself."

I didn't get her, really, and my mind was reeling already. I was usually almost able to predict the course of the conversation, the tone and flavor of it. Now I was distinctly out of sorts and a million things to say, to do and to think vied. But I listened instead, very gladly.

"Agonizing," she said, smiling up at me. "You always, always agonized. Everything was complicated and full of implications, nothing was ever simple. Except one thing."

I sipped my tea and carefully set it down as she sipped and smiled back. "I never had any questions about how I felt about you," I said.

She held her hand to her face and bit her lip as she spoke, looking up at me as she tailed off, "You never left any question. I could not question your love."

She came around the table and kneeled next to me, her hand sliding down my arm and into my own.

"I want you to know that I still don't have any questions about us," she said, her blue eyes, the green flecks shining as I listened. "Nothing you do will make me change how I feel towards you."

I nodded and held her hand, squeezing, and said, "I know. Thank you."

She set her tea down and took my hand in both hers, earnestly rubbing it between them. "You need to decide how you want to see my visits and just accept them, or reject them," she said. "Because no matter what I am, you will only know me now as you decide to."

I nodded and she kissed my cheek. "I am not just a memory," she said. "I am not some thing you made up in your head."

"Okay," I said, pain turning me to gasps.

"Frank," she said. "I will be here for you, but if you keep telling yourself that you're making it all up as you go along, it won't matter. But if that is what you need, then do what you need to do."

I turned and kissed her cheek, and she let go of my hand and hugged me, then slipped into my lap. We were silent, and as I slipped into a sleep within a sleep I awoke.

And I still smelled her and tasted her kiss, and for a second my critical, doubting mind was silent and my heart was light.

I have thoughts on my dream to share next time.

A Moment with Marcie

I have missed her, though she has been in my dreams, alive and well, her body no longer infirm and her countenance unmarred by the fear and pain the gnawing of cancer inflicted on her. Sometimes, her appearance has been fantastical and her demeanor absolutely supportive.

But those have not been the most important visits. Of late, there have been few because of how little I sleep. I stay awake into the wee hours and plan and work, then wake and work at the school district. Sometimes, I seek out a little company and stay out late instead of in.

Last night, I dreamed of her for the first time in a long time. Perhaps it was because my work is beginning, or perhaps because my life is on the verge of changing wildly yet again. But what stuck out was how very present she seemed and how engaged. We had a strong, real conversation.

It's still haunting me.

I walked into a garden and saw a Buddhist treasure tower. Red and white, with intricate inlays and detailed carving, I stood near it and felt my awareness slowly open. I was dreaming.

"I'm in the Japanese Friendship Garden," I said, smiling. "I can stay as long as I want. It's my dream, and the garden can be as big as I want it to be."

The hair on the back of my neck stood on end a moment as I touched a beautiful pink Camellia. I listened to the wind in the trees. I felt a lump in my throat as I realized that I would usually be stealing bloom for her at this point.

"Of course you would," her familiar and smiling, mischievous voice rang out.

I knew I was dreaming. I bit my lip and my eyes burned. I wfelt tears in my sleep, I thought.

"Oh, my god, would you buck up?" she said, much closer now.

I turned and nearly ran into her. I was startled and stepped back, but she stepped in and grabbed my hands, squeezing them. I was hugging her and felt a wave of relief as her smell and the feel of her skin sank into me with a familiarity I do not believe a simple memory could summon.

"Ooookay," she said, impatience in her tone. "Okay, honey. I know you love me. I'm here now. Are you okay?"

I looked into her eyes and saw so many little details in them. The greenish and white flecks, some large and distinct, others so familiar they were distinctive to me alone, likely. I nodded.

"Well, I need you to listen to me, honey," she said. nodding. Her hands lifted mine and lowered them.

I nodded. "Okay, honey," I said, wondering what my unconscious had to say to me now.

"Frank!" she said, her eyes hardening and widening a bit. "Don't you do that. You need to listen to me and hear me out. Don't dismiss me like that."

I looked at her and she turned her head askance a bit.

"I didn't say anything," I offered.

Her eyes narrowed a little. "You don't have to say anything. I don't have to hear anything. I know what you are thinking, and I can't tell you what to think, but you would probably do well to just hear me out."

I nodded and bit my lip, turning my head a bit and squinting. I felt tears again and blinked. "I'm sorry," I said. "I miss you."

Usually, the Marcie in my dreams would pulle me into her arms and hug me, whispering and soothing me. But this time, she broke down with me and her tears flowed.

"Oh, honey," she said, her voice almost disappearing in the high range. "I know. I miss you too, sweetie. I worry about you so much."

I took her in my arms, and I held her, and she buried her head in my neck again, for the first time since she had died, really. She kissed me and we sat until quiet returned.

I felt her warmth and smelled her hair again. My heart slowed. "I don't know what to think," I said.

She looked up and she shook her head. "You agonize so much," she said. "Sometimes you think I am your thoughts, sometimes I am my spirit, sometimes it is your memories. Do you want to know?"

I bit my lip and remembered the tears and the dreams and the visits and the strength she gave me, and then I looked down, unsure.

She turned her head and looked stern. I suddenly understood that I would not know unless I told her I wanted to.

"Yes," I said. "I want to know."

She smiled and her eyes watered then teared as she replied breathlessly, "Okay."

And when I had held her a little while, afraid of what i would learn, she began.

I cannot continue tonight. Tomorrow, I promise. It was a long visit.

Starting in an easier place

So, I have been dragging my feet on selling all of our stuff. With Marcie's goods, this is because it kills me to look at it all and sort through it. The items she owned, even the insignificant ones, point to her personality and tastes very strongly. With the televisions and the electronics, it is just that I have to find the market.

Next weekend I will do a test garage sale and Craigslist spree. I will essentially attempt to pare my life down to almost nil... again. However, this means that I will have to work on selling Marcie's things, too. I dread it.

I will start with my own items for now and our videos and DVDs. After that, books, perfumes and knickknacks. Gah. This is so going to suck...

I will post links to the craigslist-offered items for you folks to look at. Unfortunately, Amazon makes it tough to sell or link to items I post there... but I will try when I get to that point. There will be a media list before I put that on Amazon, so watc for that.

I promise a substantive post tonight. I had a dream of her last night.

Things to look forward to

I will be returning to our friends, Marcie's characters, visitors and urchins and their associated stories, in due time. Due time means this week.

I will be launching a new site which will correspond with my travels to places Marcie wanted to see and my visits to locations she would have wanted to experience in those places. Oddly enough, the first stop is not in her longer list, but someplace she always spoke to me of.

I am going to Hong Kong in the next months to help a friend launch his publishing empire into the web 2.0 world. I may end up with a piece of that empire for my help. I will also be making stops in Thailand for the Moon Festival and possibly stopping in Fiji for a day or two, another visit Marcie wished to make.

The die is cast.

I will also begin the long goodbye, a blog dedicated to her memorial journey itself. It is time to set the plan in motion and start my new life with those first few steps to honor and complete hers. But we are not done here by any means.

The goal is publication. I will entertain offers and ideas on how to monetize my ongoing efforts. I am also hoping to hear back from friends so I can plan a trip to San Francisco. This will, as stated before, be a scouting mission for my eventual resettlement.

That's the big news. I return you now to our regularly irregular programming.

Her Little Ways: That quiet whisper

Not every special moment in my time Marcie was some gigantic occasion or breakthrough event. My tendency, I believe, is always to reflect on those things I know were grand and now will simply not be. But I often miss, as I have noted, the little things she did even more.

If our love was a house and the pillars of it built by her included her charity, her ferocity, her wit and her tender ministrations, then her ways with me carved intricate inlays and myriad baroque embellishments on them. One of them I miss is the quiet, beckoning whisper.

Marcie appreciated simple moments of beauty or joy in the everyday. She also loved to share them when she could.

I shared her appreciation. However, I was always focused on a project or a plan and not often aware of them. I could also be prickly when suddenly barged in on and interrupted. But Marcie learned to get around it.

"Honey..." she would whisper. "Honey, come look at this..."

I could judge what it was by the look on her face and the tone of her voice. Something cute meant she would say it with a rising voice at the end, with mischievous cuteness being marked with a knowing half-chuckle. Her eyes would roll.

If it involved something that could be ruined by too much noise, she would whisper her entreaty with a little falloff in volume at the end and a gentle shush. "Honey, come look at this... shh... quietly."

She would hold my hand or continuously crook her finger, turning, as she crept on her target, sometime a bird on the porch, or Seamus busily working on solving a locked door or a closed box of food. Sometimes it was a wild animal.

Those little words were soon used to interrupt her reading as I became more accustomed to, and attuned to, the same kind of appreciation. She too could suffer from tunnel-vision and a laserlike focus, especially with a new tome.

There were many little moments we enjoyed and shared because of that quiet beckoning.

It was just such a call that drew my attention to a pair of doves nesting in our porch plant on Suncrest Drive. It also brought me a view of a vole enjoying out birdseed and porch in Humboldt.

I cannot count the number of times that we sneaked up on Seamus in the throes of some deviltry, one or the other noticing his cleverness being turned to his whims or wants.

"Honey, come look at this..."

I miss those little words. But this weekend, while I was focused on some online work and paying bills, I felt that weird tingle on my neck I got when she would open my door and wait.

"Honey, come look at this..."

I did not hear the words or see her or anything so direct as much as I was acting on habit. I stood up from the chair I use for the computer desk and quietly walked to the back room, wondering what was going on.

Then I saw.

Seamus was inside a window between the glass and the screen at the back of the house. A few inches away, on the other side of the screen, was a green hummingbird, twittering and peeping at him, hovering.

Seamus chittered at the bird through a mouth full of slobber and the screen, eyes no doubt wide and pupils dilated.

He did not notice me, and I quietly backed out of the room, as she likely would have, not wanting to interfere with his moment. I walked into the bedroom before I realized what I was doing.

All I wanted to say was, quietly, "Honey, come look at this..."

So I did. But who was showing what to whom I can't say.

Pictures from the patio garden

I took a few shots of the patio garden and a few of the yard in front. Keep in mind that when Marcie and I moved in, the yard was all rocks with a layer of cloth underneath. It's now almost overgrown, cloth be damned. The larger plants on the porch are up for adoption, and I have good cilantro seeds to send out.

Tanya helped me repot most of these plants when Marcie was very ill. We arranged them to give her a nicer outside view from her hospital bed.



Just let me know what you want and such, and I will send it. Those are jalapeño plants, by the way. If they or the tomato plants bear fruit, some will be reserved for seed and I can send some out from that as well. Let's hope they make it.

An Unshared Road

I remember the paths we chose.
We did not always agree.
Sometimes we wandered.
We were never lost.
I joined your soul in long journeys.
We strolled in citadels of the mind,
and hiked the forest of the heart.
We were never lost.
I faced great obstacles with you.
We climbed mountains of tribulation,
took treacherous trails along chasms.
We were never lost.
I never knew where we were going.
We chose anew at each crossroad
and were each others' only guides.
We were never lost.
I don't recognize this place I am in now.
We never wandered in such ruins
and there is no path in the rubble.
I am so very lost.

Delay

Pictures are delayed until I can get some really good shots of the beautiful pink plumeria opening up on our porch... but they will be worth it. Also, I want one of the gardenia buds to open so that it can be part of the slide show.

F.

The Patio

I suppose I should have uploaded the shots of the patio earlier, but I promise to do so tonight. Certain flowers are emerging, some plants that were on their last legs are back and stong, and I have some herbs and other plants thriving, too.

Marcie loved our plants a lot, and tended them very carefully. The people I leave behind here will have a shot at having them for themselves, except for a few I want for me. Write me if you want to reserve one.

F.

Desperately seeking GrandCentral Invite

Months ago, I signed up for the Beta of GrandCentral, which allows the forwarding of cals to a cellular phone without indicating it is a forwarded call at all. I planned to use it to forward to a T-Mobile (adding my GrandCentral number as one of my five "faves"). This would allow me to work from wherever I wanted.

Unfortunately, it seems my application was never approved, or the offer (to let all bloggers on blogspot get in) was rescinded before my number was granted. Invitations, however, are out there.

If you are a Grand Central user, please send me an invitation number at francis(dot)pruett(at)gmail(dot)com.

Thanks, folks.