May 2014

You are currently browsing the monthly archive for May 2014.

There is no dusk to be,
There is no dawn that was,
Only there’s now, and now,
And the wind in the grass.

Archibald MacLeish

Happy Twenty-First Wedding Anniversary to me and the hubster!




Because a “friend” in high school forced me into bathroom with him and told me, “You know you want it.”

Because straight men find it offensive to be objectified by gay men but see no problem doing the same to women.

Because, while standing in a crosswalk, a man leaned out his car window to squeeze my breast.

Because, when the hubster and I were approached by a homeless man begging change, and I answered no first, the man said, “NO bitch, it’s the man who decides!”

Because male “friends” in college heard a woman being raped and did NOTHING.

Because, while walking home, a man leaned over on his bicycle to grope me.

Because, while reading a book on a park bench, I was told, “You wouldn’t be here if you didn’t want to get picked up.”

Because, after calling the cops on a guy for beating a woman, he did not apologize to her, but said, “Haven’t you ever been frustrated?”

Because, while standing on a crowded bus, a man fondled me and shoved his hard penis against me.

Because the number of U.S. troops killed in Afghanistan and Iraq: 6,614. Number of women, in the same period, killed as the result of domestic violence in the US: 11,766. Source: Soraya Chemaly

Because, in a court of law, women have to prove they weren’t asking for it.

So, YES ALL WOMEN, including me.


Holy cats!

Pictured at top has got to be among the top five best bathroom wall decorations of all time (though it is much brighter in person). If you do not know where it is, I am not going to tell you (save in North Portland), not because I am one to keep secrets like that, but because my delight upon first laying eyes on it was so spectacular and mirthful that I would rather you not expect it in hopes that you experience the same moment of wonder.

And Paris, bundled tightly post bath. My little sausage. “Let me out!”

Out snapping the peonies. Sadly, the season is winding down. And how about that last shot? Some sort of bee-mimic. We shared a magical, I see you, moment, inches apart and eye to eye. Wish I could have captured that one!

Mock orange: this tiny sprig scents the entire bathroom.

Out under the clerodendrum, eyes skyward and fingers plunged and twining the grass.

A sunset walk, eager for more of these, that soft hour of quiet, the revealing of different mysteries.

Happy Memorial Day, grateful for this great land that is America!

Have a listen to how I am feeling…


I’ve been thinking a lot about success lately, and how to measure it. As is my wont, I vacillate between opposing poles, one moment intensely satisfied with my lot, and then, quite dreadfully, woefully disappointed by it. You do know that I’m a Gemini, right?

On the plus side, I have a successful marriage with the most stellar man I have ever known. We love each other kindly and profoundly. We rarely argue. We enjoy life, the loud spacious laughter, the soft quiet, the hours and days together and apart. It is all GOOD.

We bought this house together, shabby, peeling paint, flea ridden, dead car in the back and a garden with more weeds than any other growing thing. Now it is lovely and fine, each room its own special place, comfortable, welcoming; full of love and awe and beauty, with the sound of birdsong in the air. It is HOME.

I am healthy. My body is s t r o n g. I can speak two languages, almost three (Yes, oui, si!). My friends are the best, kindest, and brightest. I am a good cook and have a mostly green thumb. My love for this universe and her occupants is ENORMOUS.

And then, there are the moments where I cannot measure my success at all. My stories and poems go unread. My drawings are worthless scribbles. And financially, independently, well, I could not, at present, survive. Quite perplexed, I ask, “Where did I go wrong?” I do good work. I joyously sweat and toil at what I love. I want more for myself, to know I could survive by my own means. I wait for my time. Perhaps my train is slow to arrive, last to the station after an interminable day? Or maybe, like this quotation that so often floats about in my mind, it is never meant to come, and I must appreciate the work and my passion for it for its own sake. Not always easy. Sometimes plain WRETCHED.

I have no answers, but I plod forward, sometimes even skip(!), with as much grace and patience as I can muster.


And the night shall be filled with music,

And the cares, that infest the day,

Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs,

And as silently, steal away.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow



« Older entries