The turkey is dead. The last turkey is dead.

Who will bury him? I can't even lift him. It matters. I didn't think it would. But he just picked the exact right day to. And so it was, there he went tapping all of our tears and worries and it just filled him to death. We're sick and we can't tell anyone just how much we are. So sick it killed the turkey. And he's still laying RIGHT THERE.

You can't get hit by lightning if you're not standing out in the rain.

Struck, was I, not yet by Lightning —
Lightning — lets away
Power to perceive His Process
With Vitality.

Maimed — was I — yet not by Venture —
Stone of stolid Boy —
Nor a Sportsman's Peradventure —
Who mine Enemy?




Robbed — was I — intact to Bandit —
All my Mansion torn —
Sun — withdrawn to Recognition —
Furthest shining — done —

Yet was not the foe — of any —
Not the smallest Bird
In the nearest Orchard dwelling
Be of Me — afraid.



Most — I love the Cause that slew Me.
Often as I die
Its beloved Recognition
Holds a Sun on Me —

Best — at Setting — as is Nature's —
Neither witnessed Rise
Till the infinite Aurora
In the other's eyes.
(e. dickenson)

¿¿ʇɐɥʇ sɐʍ ʇɐɥʍ 'ʇıɐʍ

I'm taking less medication, which means I'm laying clutching my stomach for longer spells in the morning. I force my eyes to sleep through much of it. I get up and use the walls to balance as I walk to the kitchen for some early food when I give in to the pain and desire the "treat" from the orange pill bottle. Those plastic receptacles don't really seem much like bottles.

I think bottle has a few different nuances. I hear that Highwaymen song and I have no idea what "lost her bottles" means.

Today is sort of a TCB day. Business being hospital and school communications.

I just got off the phone with someone who is sending me a charity application to take care of my bill. I haven't even seen the dollar number attached to the doctor hospital business, and I'm certain it isn't going to be something that will please me or my empty pockets.

I'm kind of curious to know what the lab who analyzed the thing that was removed from my insides has to say about it. They said the results would be back in a week. Something wasn't supposed to be in there. It grew to the size of a goose egg and ruptured. I didn't care before, but now I really want to know why. I called the doctor and jussohappens that he'll be gone for a week. His assistant too. "Oh." I said and accepted another week of wonder. I know they said it wasn't cancer. But there is that little voice that sounds like "whatif." They didn't think the minor abnormality that appeared in my mom's mammogram was cancer until after they removed it and found out it was.

People keep asking me what I want to eat. I have no preference. My preference, actually, is to not let the pills make me throw up. As long as you present me with a meal, I don't really care. Wait, I DO care. And I really appreciate it. It can just be anything.

I feel a little out of it now, but it is apparently nothing in contrast to how I was when I took the nighttime doses. I fell asleep while continuing to communicate with my scientist friend, Lisa. I have the chat transcript to prove it:

me: My legs keep tripping

Lisa: ha

me: I'M not even walking

Lisa: literally or metaphorically?

me: I rolled my ankle
Like when you feel like you've been falling

me: Who Ii ty yyyy

Lisa: who what?

me: F ty u rob fu

Lisa: oh boy

me: I'm keeping the poltergeist

Lisa: sounds scary!

me: j can see him
They pullout pillow is texting

me: I have ny hand on my phone I keep squeezing a hand
But is the phone t

Lisa: hmm

me: It isn't.
Too far.
AND then they'd pull you t h chat records (like i did, i was onto my future self)
This phone turns into a tricky machine
Its ny brain.

[2:06 AM]
me: Don language, is eat

Lisa: hmm

me: I think I have small jerky seizures

Lisa: they're probz not for reals seizures
just little pilly blips
that happens

Clearly, I cut out most of the chatter, but for the most of it, Lisa was talking about real things and I was just mashing my keyboard in response. Actually, swyping on my smartphone. Same thing.

So that is my proof that I am still being medicated and it does nothing to contribute to my thinking brain.

I have been drawing. I stopped drawing pathetic self portraits and moved on to portraits of better looking people that I know. Also, each of them are awesome.

There's the aforementioned scientist. Who does not have an eye patch, but I couldn't help but take the Jeff's advice when he said, "have her wearing an eye patch that has an eye crudely painted on it."


The vintage clothier. Carmen, outfitter to the stars. I drew the logo for her brand, Closet Case Vintage.



And the musician. Caitlin Rose. She's on her way to being a really big deal. She has a unique sound and serious songwriting skillz. Go buy her new record. It's better than yours.



I'd like to do better drawings of all those folks and their interesting faces, but I think getting those out in my sickness ain't so bad. In the meantime, I'm going to try to get as much homework in as I can. Today has already exhausted me.

I'm the Queen of This Condition.

Six days post surgical. Five home from the hospital. I still hurt. Days alternate deliriums. I am frustrated because I want to write well, and I can't even think well.

Fee Fi Fo Fum. I wake with pain that hollers down the hallway throat. I will rip out of you! And then I have to eat, because none of my medicines sit without food ottomans to put their feet up on.

The pain killers make my vision fuzz. The head only finds comfort in one position on the pillow. I must not move or read or watch tv. I am really afraid of what heaving will feel like in my stomach.

The anti-nausea drug that takes the pain killer's hand just bring me to a sudden sleep. Until my mom wakes me up telling me she's going to get a sandwich.

The pain killers and the iron pills both constipate me. The one day I managed movement was the most miserable pain yet. I'll just take the anemia.



Then there's the stool softener to battle that.

There are more kinds but that's all I'm going to mention for now.

If you put both grapes and blueberries in your mouth, it tastes good. I really wish I had the capacity for finishing my homework.

Laparoscopic Salpingo-Ooph!orectomy

I keep attempting to write more, but the drugs sort of grog the inclination away. My attention span has been limited to 150 characters or less and listening to podcasts. Today was the first time out of bed since coming home from the hospital. I went back to the hospital. They said I would have to make an appointment with the dermatologist to get a Latisse prescription.

My mom kept asking what I should/should not be doing at this point. They gave her extra post-op instructions:



I think she was hoping it would be more like, "Do go to the grocery store. Do not vacuum." I'm really not feeling like doing anything outside of bed anyways. Walking around the grocery store today was a bust and the old people teased me for sitting on the old people benches by the door.

The doctor explained that I may still be sore from any blood that might remain in my abdomen and also, because they removed something 3" in length that had ruptured (in addition to my tube and ovary). They looked for my appendix to take it out while in there but did not see it. I have a sneaky appendix.

They took some more blood. I got some more pills. I have plans to play scrabble with Max when he's home from work. He thinks he'll win because I'm medicated. We shall see.

I got a sweet get well card from Nashville. I'm day dreamy and tired. Back to my fruit and celery plate. Most boring post ever. I really wanted to write something interesting. Whoops.

Small Town Ovary Blues.

While I was waiting in the emergency room for more doctors to come and tell me about the surgery I was going to have yesterday, I searched the internet for ovary jokes. I couldn't find a thing.

Right now I am wearing hospital issue underpants and I have three slices opening my belly. Orange creamcicles are the only things that ease the discomfort of the raw throat from intubation. They help the medicine go down. I dislike taking pain killers very much.

I've never had a surgery before. This was my first. As soon as she gestured the size of the abnormality inside me, I knew my trip to the E.R. was justified. And I began to cry. Oh no, it's not like cancer, I think she said.

I had just been through the most invasive and painful set of ultrasounds in my life. I had an IV snaking into the ditch of my arm. My abdomen was tight with blood.




The night before I had gone into Edison for drinks and was well into enjoying the evening with my friends when the bad thing hit. Sonja and I went for a pleasant first-time visit to John's, and I excused myself to the bathroom. As soon as my bladder emptied, I was struck with a sudden sharp pain and the feeling that something was very wrong. I pulled my pants up and braced against the sink hoping it would pass. It didn't - and all I remember was going to tell Sonja we had to leave. I don't remember walking down the stairs, but I do remember the pain bringing me to my knees and loosing my lunch. All over poor John's patio. I couldn't get up. I think I cried over and over again "Why does it hurt like this?" Nothing in the world had ever hurt as bad and I asked for an ambulance. I rattled off Max's Nashville telephone number. And I cried and cried.

The pain is what fills my memory of the rest of that evening. Pain and utter humiliation. I opened my eyes and my third grade teacher was talking to me, asking me what was my name, what I had had to drink, where it hurt, and Sonja said he also asked me about my artwork. She told me I frustrated one of the paramedics by refusing to get on the gurney. Even in that much pain I know what an ambulance ride costs. I noticed a crowd of faceless people. I'm sure they all thought I was drunk sick. That's what you think when you see someone collapsed in vomit, right? Sonja was able to walk me to her car and she took me home.

I tried to sleep the pain off, but the night was filled with more pain and more sick. In the morning Max and I tried to figure what the pain could be using Web MD. We concluded I was probably passing a kidney stone and I was looking at more pain coming on.

I called my friend Jennie to cancel the plans that we'd made. (This is the first time in years I've had plans with Jennie.) Jennie recognized the pain in my voice and put me on the phone with her doctor parents who just happened to be in town from their home in Costa Rica. Immediately kidney stone was ruled out and I was being sent to the Emergency Room. I would not have gone without that conversation.

Good thing I went.


to be continued...

"There's no place like home. That's why I left."

the winter months bloom wooden blocks
clacking early evenings

our fingers spider over hot whiskey death
i don't wash my hair for days.




sounds of effort from the kitchen remind me of
hedonism, the greeks and royalty: pale skin

my layers of bruised fat, the things i don't like
about myself on television, projections abetting

sloth. me, i say, i'm writing. survey bookshelves
for words. it is more cruel to talk about the weather.




i did that job for a day, i silk my fur like
the cat's. i mop, he sweeps: more productive

every female child draws herself a bride, none of us
calculated the word wife, like our mothers. smile

lines cut deep in my face, it's her face i touch, he
touches. i know words like bound, but i cannot



reconcile ones like homemaker. house item. nor
academic. the sun set at four pm, his cigarette breath

cold exhale. opportunities for
redefinition.

Save the Shuffleboard memories.

Here are my favorite excerpts from this week's newsletter (written by Phil):

Edison II got a 5-2 win over “visiting” Edison I, with good scoring from Jeston (37-24, 3-for-4), Frog (22-15, 2-for-3), and Michelle (a 13-pointer in her only game of the night).

An unusual match at the Edison saw both teams show up a player short. It was decided to play the match anyway, so everyone got to play 2 in a row and sit one out, and 2 players played 5 games each for both teams. In the end, it was Edison I coming out on top of home team Edison II, 5-2. Buck Buckius went 50-25 for the winners, not quite so astounding considering it was accomplished in 5 games, while Mark Meyer wound up 40-26 in 5 for the losers, and Michelle made a monkey out of yours truly with a 14-0 drubbing in game 6. Everyone agreed that the format made for a hell of a fun day of shuffleboard for the 6 players involved.

Princess of Tides

I rent a spot in a building we call Sloughside Studios. I sit at my desk and while I paint, draw or internet, the ducks play in the slough water out the window. The tide rises and falls. The dock rests and floats. Down the street are the bars where we play shuffleboard.

When the tide is in, the ground saturates with the water and the landscape changes ever so slightly. The shuffleboarders seem to be of the few that notice without looking at the water level or knowing their tide charts. The subtle underground gorge seems to effect shuffle play on certain boards, tilting them this way or that. This is especially noticeable when the king tides come in.


Two weeks ago, my lovely scientist friend Lisa flew in from Nashville for a birthday visit. We, of course, inducted her momentarily into the shuffleboard league and gave her a match against one of the league's best players. She held her own very well. I've invited Lisa to write a guest blog for Exit 236 about observations and insights she might've adventured while in Bow. Let's give her a round of applause.

So much has happened. So much to say. So much Bow. So much Edison.

But I'm not into blogging about it now.

In the meantime, this.

Day of the Living Bees.

I found a dead bee drowned in rainwater on the porch of Sloughside Studies, where I work. I picked him up by wing and brought him in my car with me as I was leaving. I put him on the dash on a bit of paper. He was most certainly dead.

Later, I went inside to collect books to return to the law library. When I resumed driving, he was all a flutter around my head in circles. I thought, this zombie bee must die! But then I didn't want to risk a sting so I rolled down the window and transplanted him from Edison to Bow Hill at the intersection of Samish Hts (Sandwich Heights, Max says) and Hobson (Hotdog) Road.

This was the most exciting thing that happened to me yesterday.


The end.

[Two days earlier, two wasps emerged from studiomate David's easel as I was borrowing it. I stepped on one to kill it. It just started moving it's little wasp legs around again. It is certainly undead, I fear.]

A Hard Bed to Lie In

A Hard Bed to Lie In
by Marilyn Dumont

A hard night, slept up against a rock face on the side where my mortality
looks like a mountain, leaving my life where it is on an edge
looking down.

tempted to jump, sprout wings as fantastic as the married arms that would
catch me if I leapt

I could have easily been a doe on a highway, (you a driver, your wife
beside you sleeping

me grazing, ruminating the coarse clover, wet blades a mixture of green
desire and

regret that I didn't accept the offer even though

a gold band shone like a beacon, to ward off prey
—not to be mistaken for a jacklight,

just a doe, a stretch of road, high beams

headlights, your eyes,

legs petrified at the speed of light, a flash burn, flare

transfixed by the jacklight and the daylight of the woman who moves
touching you
with her mouth of the moist night,

the night of my turning, aching, having you disclose your desire for me,
turning to yet
another confession in my bed, another crease,

the safe imagined hand crosses my breast to my waist, pubic bone, and
thigh, turns to
another imagined and perfect clean slice of a meeting, the one where I
would have met you years ago when you were an open space, a
meadow to be walked through at high altitudes

and the night's turning

down, wears out

trust in my age, that

flat sheets and a hard bed will not forgive.

Sometimes There's a Day that Begins Before 11 AM.

Some snow came. Then snow came heavy in secret in the night. Warm rain puddled into mud on waking and disappointed hopes of school cancellation. Winter break made us itch to go back, but it feels time is more precious if it's supposed to be dedicated to something else. Something more tedious.

After eight years of college level art studies, I should have been done. But then, here I am. Enriching my value as a worker, a useful cog in the machine, learning how to this and how to that ever so carefully so that I might contribute one day. Pull a salary while I nurture my artwork. While it grows into the big thing everyone promised me, (and I had promised myself), it was destined to be. So at Skagit Valley Community College, I chug along a route that will take me to hold a certificate from the paralegal program. Might as well, here. While I'm tucked in between the salt water and the snowy mountains of the valley, might as well. I scored an unexpected 4.0 GPA last quarter, and last week I was nominated for and elected paralegal club vice president.




I woke this morning with my husband. I sat in front of the light that mimics the sunrise well before there was any light in the sky. I showered, brushed my teeth, and thought about my week. Now, at the art studio space I rent in Edison, I plan. I look out the window at the slough, brimming with murk and a very special wildlife. Two hours until I'm to do some contract work at a local law firm.

Today is Martin Luther King, Jr. Day and I've been thinking about him. I've been thinking about Eisenhower. I've been thinking about Jack Kennedy. I'm only blocks away from the elementary school I attended until I was 14. I remember loving the holiday because sometimes it fell on my birthday and I would have the day off. I have the day off from classes today. My birthday is this Thursday. Fifty years to the day after JFK was sworn into office.


Tomorrow, there is a Paralegal Club budget meeting.
Then class at the Law Library.
Wednesday there is homework due. Class lets out at 8:30 pm.
Thursday, there is a chapter to be read.
Then another club meeting, out of which, I shall duck.
Max will take me to dinner to celebrate my birthday. Il Granaio.
At 1 pm on Friday, I will be getting my #10 root canaled.
Hopefully to recover quickly to dash off to Seattle and collect my scientist pal from the airport. (flying in from Nashville!)
Drinks.

And on Saturday, this:

Cliche. Aphorism. Inanity.

*There are a few swears in this episode of Bow adventures. I'm sorry, but they're essential to the story.


Yesterday sounded like turkey murder from the kitchen. I had to think, "Did I leave the gate open!?" Dogs and turkey and ...human? chaos resounding through my one window. I ran outside and a man was standing across the driveway yelling.

(The turkey just makes reactionary noises when things get loud).

"I'll ---king kill you! You son of a bitch!" he yelled toward the three dogs gathered around him. I looked at his truck. Post office vehicle.

"What is going ON HERE!?" I got quick with the yelling too.

"HE BIT ME!" and pointed at Eddie. "ASSHOLE!" He got in his truck and slammed the door.

I approached the window. "WAIT?! He bit you?"

"Well he nipped."

"I'm sorry, are you okay?"

Then the postman communicated that ol' One Eye had just nipped his PANTS and that he was fine, but in the most curt and aggressive way possible.

"He's never done that before," I tell him, and that's the truth.

He handed me a certified letter to sign, all the while tangibly hating me. My mom came out and he warmed up. So kind to her, he turned away from me. I just handed her the letter to finish signing, grabbed my dog and walked away.

I'm sorry mister postman, you were a dick to me. Like, a total dick. And I don't know what you did to my dog, but it must have been something. I've known him longer and better than you and I got his back. I rescind my apology.

"For (the sake of) old times"

Since thoughts of thee doth banish grief,
when from thee I am gone;
will not thy presence yield relief,
to this sad Heart of mine:
Why doth thy presence me defeat,
with excellence divine?
Especially when I reflect
on auld lang syne



Hearts beat much the same way they did in the days of poets Burns and Watson, who in the 1700s penned our midnight song to bring in a new calendar year. Hearts will continue to beat forth with regret and nostalgia (and more regret and more nostalgia), with hope and intentions (and greater hope and honorable intentions), and so on and so on. Just as fast as Christmas pulls the rug from your feet, you land on your ass December 31st. And a heartbeat away is 2011. A landmark propelling you further away from your past. Your mistakes. Your losses.

Last year we made our hair tall and checked into a hotel and cabbed to a party and danced among strangers in Seattle. This year we didn't even feign plan. I have lived a thousand theatrical celebrations. I feel my heart beat for another time and another place. To ring in another day, another year in a place I don't necessarily feel celebratory about remaining in, calls for no party dress. Only simple attire. A heavy coat.

I look out the only window. The sill, a shrine. A collection. Offerings to Ra, of whom I know too little. I drop vitamin D on my hand and lick it up. I look past the flowers of 2010, the dried remnants crumbling into the new days. The lavender bunch that felt like an apology. The twigs from the honeysuckle that smelled so much like summer. The dried Christmas flowers that were a miscarriage comfort gift. Above them sits the latest and the living. A "just because" bouquet that drinks up the water in the vase and the broken orange sunlight from the woods outside. I surround those memories with succulents because they need me the least. Aloe from John Simon's studio and the Belfast feed store. Jade because it reminds me of Eloise. A wandering jew wanders toward the sink where the woman's work is. It tangles with the dishsoap. Other treasures are there too. The bleached wishbone from the first turkey we slaughtered. I dare not wish.

I feel my heart flutter just in that way it takes your breath. I skate across the ice parking lots and the frozen mud driveway. I race the one-eyed dog around the property.



We heard mysterious snow crunch last night just outside of the porch light's illumination. The dogs went barky and we corralled them for fear of predatory cat. Listening harder with dogs safe, we decided it was not a wild creature. The sound was more human. More frightening. Roseanne flipped off the darkness and at the end of the night, I locked my deadbolt. I felt grateful for the protection of only one window. The guns nearby and my husband unafraid, I fell asleep and dreamed of what-ifs.

I wonder what's out there in the woods. What's out there in the future. I wonder what's waiting to be.

These are the things of which we don't speak, y'all. (Or even know).

Reading another blog born in the Carolinas today inspired me to add y'all to my sentences. Something about it feels friendlier. So imma try to do that now, y'all.

Unknown unknowns; there are things we do not know we don't know. Such a lovely concept. Thanks to the US defense leg and D. Rumsfeld for it.

...and then there is the call I keep receiving from "Unknown" who remains unknown because they do not leave a message. I screen, ladies and gentlemen. Leave messages.

Disclaimer: I have both a cold and what I believe is an infected incisor and thus, my cognitive sentence and idea forming skills are waning and mildly medicated away. Dripping out my nose, y'all.

Everything comes back to Edison. A thriving arts and beer elbow in this zip code. Just take Bow Hill Road exit from I-5. (Exit 236). Take it and do not stop heading west until you hit the quaint village macaronied by slough. Take it today, perhaps with me in tow, and then take it directly to where I left my car. Two days ago, y'all. Boxing Day and Sunday and dancing to that familiar Edison twang and reuniting with my lovelies. Shuffleboard and last call and let's go to Matthew's after party! I had a good time. And heck, I'm glad I didn't drive away from it. Even though I've recently learned that the boy I used to hold hands with on the elementary school bus is now a locally patrolling officer and I'd sure like to see him again - still glad.

What's making this difficult to transition to, this topic of unknown unknowns, is deciphering the language with which to talk about something that experience and societal habits ordain the secrets you must keep. News you must not share. Anything that dispenses discomfort. And then you will join me in the knowledge, and perhaps we can coexperience unknown knowns together. And known knowns. And perhaps we'll all dissolve this understanding and overuse of kn- words to the point where they look wrong when we type them.

Several people rubbed my stomach at the bar on Sunday. You see, what's more troublesome than telling people you are pregnant, is telling them that you have miscarried. And that you are not a fetal alcohol syndrome fetus mangler on your fifth beer. I feel bad to tell them this. Just in the same ways I can't tell people no, I have trouble delivering bad news. I hate making people feel BAD. Also, I don't want people to feel bad for me.

So very many of the women I tell respond with their own miscarriage stories. How common this is, y'all! And honestly, how much better these stories make me feel. Being alone in something sucks. I took myself out of public for awhile after learning, (coincidentally, the crappy news came via phone call received while shuffleboarding at the Edison), to privately grieve with my husband. To get past the point where I couldn't talk about it to the place where I can.

I'm not encouraging the complaint. Heavens-to-Murgatroyd we hear enough of those. I'm just sayin' that I don't understand the implied safeguarding of certain particulars. I'm not going to generalize with "having a tough time," or "everything's just fine!" I'm going to tell you we've been busy with this, and it is what it is. Starting now.

My husband and I have reached a point in understanding and have found places to appreciate our cards. It feels good to know that we are capable of making a person from nothing. We know that if something is wrong our bodies deal better than our minds. We know that we will be able to both enjoy a champagne toast this New Year's Eve, y'all.

I'm not sure any of this falls under the unknown unknown direction I set out to take. Or has an insight into 98232 life specifically. But I remember wanting to write about these thoughts as I was driving a few days ago, and well... there it is. Y'all.

Hauntings and Holidays.

Bow for the Holidays.


Apparently the clouds impeded our Skagit visions of the rare Solstice Eclipse. For those of us who ventured the morning hours for a peek. Those of you, I might say. I was fast asleep and warmly tucked into bed. Unlike the Summer Solstice, the Winter one doesn't really get me in the mood for a party. Mostly because by the point it comes, I've already been led to believe that winter was months in. The Winter Solstice event helps only to remind me that the cruelty of the northwest weather is really in for a lengthy and gray visit.

Christmas. Something about it makes me anxious. But my husband loves it. My sister and mother love it. I like it when they like things, so I'm here for the show. For the first time in our Christmas history, Max and Michelle Keller have our very first decorated indoor holiday pine tree. My sister brought this tiny thing and leftover trimmings over and now our humble shit shack has a lovely red and green glow. Bets to how long we leave it up are being taken.

Hot buttered rums were called for last night and I ventured the Edison Tavern's Taco Tuesday. Something special about holiday drinks. Spiced mulled wines and warm cocktails. A shuffleboard game with Dave kept me busy. I am tempted to go on here about the Edison's front board's characteristics, but I'll refrain. This could turn into a blog about shuffleboard more easily than not, so I'll attempt not. I swear I'm not secretly an old man. After the game, (in which I came up from a 10-3 score to victor), I had fantastic company and conversation. On my right was Randy, who is a jack-of-all instruments in local band Smoke Wagon, and on the left was Joel Brock, Edison's own sloughart star. Sandwiched between creative and conversational brilliance made bartender Jeremy's lovely hot buttered rums take just the right effect.

Let's use the memory of mention of shuffleboard and the scene at the Edison to segue into the final thing I feel compelled to mention. This image was captured two weeks ago as a shuffleboard camera-phone photo op blurred into haunting evidence of an extra presence:

The ghost of ye Old Edison Inn

This has not been retouched; you can trust me. I acquired this image via sms from Nerd's phone who got it directly from Kimmy. No one was standing in front of Kimmy as she snapped the image. You can see the front board in the lower right corner. Now, I've heard rumors of a man meeting his end down heart attack road on the third bar stool from Phil's favorite seat, but this image seems so feminine. I've looked for any written internet evidence to Edison's history and spiritual residue, but my pithy attempts are empty. So, what do you see? What legends have you heard? Have you had a spooky feeling while you were out smoking a Salem out in the garden? Bar ghost, or no?

"Oysters" by Seamus Heaney

Our shells clacked on the plates.
My tongue was a filling estuary,
My palate hung with starlight:
As I tasted the salty Pleiades
Orion dipped his foot into the water.

Alive and violated,
They lay on their bed of ice:
Bivalves: the split bulb
And philandering sigh of ocean
Millions of them ripped and shucked and scattered.

We had driven to that coast
Through flowers and limestone
And there we were, toasting friendship,
Laying down a perfect memory
In the cool of thatch and crockery.

Over the Alps, packed deep in hay and snow,
The Romans hauled their oysters south of Rome:
I saw damp panniers disgorge
The frond-lipped, brine-stung
Glut of privilege

And was angry that my trust could not repose
In the clear light, like poetry or freedom
Leaning in from sea. I ate the day
Deliberately, that its tang
Might quicken me all into verb, pure verb.

To all my friends! To all my frieeeeeends!

There's something to be said about coming home. Moving home. Going back to your people. I'm not sure if I'm qualified to say what it is, if it's good or if it's bad.

To me, coming back home was a signifier of defeat. Giving up my desires, crumbling in, sacrifice. But at least I'd have my old friends to reconnect with, right? Through the years away, my friends have stayed in touch to an extent. I'd come back on holidays and we'd all reconvene in a splendid and supportive constellation. So, they would be there, and my coup de grâce would not take me down completely.

My husband and I came to northwestern Washington from Nashville, Tennessee for greater employment opportunities. We love our home in Nashville; we love our friends in Nashville; we couldn't find a way to love the economy in Nashville. While Forbes Magazine has ranked Nashville as #5th most affordable US city to live in, we couldn't manage to afford it with the jobs we couldn't get.

A call of availability for fantastic job came for my husband last November. Six days later we packed what we could fit in the Subaru (including two rowdy dogs) and migrated north. (Go north! The rush is on.)

[While family is nice and is always there, this post is not about family.]

We had a magical Christmas Eve celebration on Samish Island that made me faithful about things to come. (Thank you Becky and Dylan) A seafood barbecue, merry beers, beautifully laid out smorgasbord, a santa firetruck, and a reconvening love that included my husband (who at the time was a stranger). It was easily one of my favorite nights ever.

I thought all future stages would be performed with that same love. I thought, I'm here now! I can be part of this again. But, the old gang has moved up and out. It has morphed. It has been married off, promoted up, moved away. I began to notice that I was sort of an afterthought for addition. A by-the-way, if you will. "Oh, hey! By the way... X is happening and everyone's going to be there." Being out of sight for so long must've put me out of mind. It's difficult to understand, because I have never forgotten them. I've loved them so. And I still do. And then I'm not invited to their weddings. (And then I have to see the photos of those weddings all up and down the social networking streams and everyone so happy together except, well, you know.)

I'm torn. Do I make the stronger effort to reconnect? Or, do I just look to reinvent a new social life? Something that I've done so many times in all the cities I've lived in. Something I never thought I'd need to do here. I'm at a loss in so many ways.

Do I accept the by-the-way invitation and set myself up for future reenactments of this scenario:

Talking with a group of old friends at a bar that I was working at. (Yes, I've even had to pick up bar work, because even here, while my husband has good work, an artist struggles in this economy.)

One friend says to the rest of us, he says, "I never thought we'd be so successful." So I guess it wasn't to the rest of us, but the rest of them.

I mention something about my success in academia, having earned two master's degrees and plenty of accolades along the way but the struggle I've had finding serious employment in result.

Same fella says, and oh! how it burns a puke-sick hole right through me, "Master's degrees are overrated."

I want to cry. This is the economy for suffering friendships too, I guess.

And now, I want to cry still. I am so desperately lonely, understanding that my social sacrifice is for the good of my future family - my husband's work. I relish in all the true-hearted communications, efforts made by my beloved old-time, all-time friends. There are many. I still have places to stay when I visit Seattle, (thank you Spencer and Andrew), and Portland (thank you as always Dylan). I know that people deserve more effort than what I've given, but at the same time... I have no idea how I got to this space.

Perhaps this can function more as a love letter for all the friends I left behind in Nashville, Tennessee. Their love and love and love and love keeps me afloat. While proximity limits me to the remnants of "the old gang," I still have a massive support system.


"To all my friends," happy holidays.

Rebirth of a young Bow blog.

So, here it is. I've been inspired to start anew. Inspiration comes this time by blogger friend Jessica Bonin's "One A Day" to begin again, especially by this post.

My mind is fatigued after working all evening on a 40 page effort composed of case briefs, court observations and a research report for my 100 level intro to law class. Complete with table of contents and tabs. I'll be damned if I don't earn a decent grade for the amount of sleep I've traded for it. It is 1:31am and counting.

I have a date with a cold car and the vet's office in the morning. At 7am. In about five or so hours. Our dog has a date with getting his left eye removed. Poor little Kentucky truck stop Eddie. Unlike in the picture below, his eye is swollen and infected. He's suffering a yucky amount of pain and tomorrow's surgery will be his relief. And perhaps his future cool-factor. It is also our future additional hillbilly attribute. Junk in yard. One-eyed dog. "Well, ya get down yer fiddle and you get down yer bow..."

So long, left eye. we will miss you.


It's been a year since I've updated here, and I'm quite sorry to report the only thing that has truly changed is that my little Ayrn has fled 98232 territory for the big city party that is San Francisco. I'm waiting for her sympathy to overtake her and bring her back here to replace my hardly any with one very best friend in Bow commisery. I just made that word up, but I'm certain it applies.

I'm once again shuffleboarding my winter by, and I intend to inform my three readers every time Phil mentions my name in the newsletters. Let me just catch you up to speed copy/paste-style on those:

"Edison II continues to impress, as they walloped the home team Edison I, 5-2, even with some of their biggest weapons absent. Capt. Jason (28-11, 3-for-3) and Leon (29-23, but only 2-for-4) took scoring honors, aided by Michelle (15-7 in 2) and Nerd (18-13 and 3-for-3). Mike Conn (24-23 in 4) had a part in both wins by Edison II."

"Edison II went to Gene’s to hand Gene’s I a convincing 5-2 ass-kicking led by Red Dan (22-4 in 3), and Kim Moore (18-8 in 2) with Mark, Michelle and rookie Ernie contributing their share as well. "

"Red Dan and Michelle paired for the only Edison win."

"Edison II, visiting Gene’s II, scored a 5-2 victory behind great shooting from Jeston (34-16 in 4), Leon (25-11 in 3), and Michelle, who had a game-ending 7-point end without the hammer (and she only needed a one!), as Edison came from 12-10 down to win 21-13 in that one."

Don't be jealous.