And now take the time to write, knit, weave and crochet... I eat good food, I walk the dog and I care about what people think about everything. While I have shelter and sustenance, I am calm and peaceful, but I'm not assured that the serenity I live in now will abide if I were to lose my income and lived under a bridge. I do not live under any illusions that life is fair. I have had too much heartbreak to believe in justice and so have you.
The shadows in the jungle were deeply green and impenetrable to those without eyes to see. The soft breeze was cool, yet the air was also warm and cloying. Her light, filmy garments clung to her wet skin. She felt… she felt like she was warmly alive, sensual, moved.
She had come to the pools of Naemahn. How she had come, she didn’t know. Why was she here? Who had brought her? What was she to do? And yet, not knowing was not unsettling as she stood at the edge of the water. These were subtle and slow moving streams connecting miles of waterways.
The water was covered completely with green algae, large pads of lily with erect stems supported graceful and large, creamy pink blossoms. Through the soft light, blossoms of ruby, violet and golden flowers could be seen peeking out along small paths into the interior catching what light penetrated the shadows.
Large birds with soft grey feathers and long beaks stood on spindly legs that pierced the water. Brightly colored parrots flew randomly and silently through the dense canopy above the water. Other creatures moved through the underbrush, soundlessly on soft padded feet, eyes glowing as they lowered their heads to drink from the pools. All the sounds were muffled and murmured almost imperceptibly to those without ears to hear.
A luxurious flat bottomed barge painted with many colors pulled up in front of her. It was draped in silk fabrics that waved softly as they caught the breeze and completely obscured what was inside. A stunning woman dressed in purple and lavender, embroidered in golden thread, appeared on the deck and invited her to board. Without hesitation she stepped aboard, noticing only at that moment that other rafts similar to this one were seemingly languishing but slowly floating through the waterway.
The woman held open the curtains and a fragrant interior slowly came to light as her eyes adjusted to the candle light. Smoke from incense filled the room. The heady scents of frangipani, myrrh, frankincense, bergamot, rose, clove, cedar, patchouli and more seemed to sedate her. The interior was filled with a pallet and cushions that were covered in the most lush fabrics in saturated jewel tones. The many shades of greens, blues, reds and yellows dazzled the eyes. Every sense was heightened.
The woman motioned for her to sit among the many cushions. She did not resist. She saw no reason to. The barge rocked slowly as it moved away from the shore. The woman, whose name was Ipreet, began to loosen her clothes and slipped them from her shoulders. She sat next to her and gently laid her back on the cushions. The pleasure she felt from the movement of the boat, the many fragrances, the soft light, and Ipreet’s hands, caused her to move gently like a cat.
Ipreet began to massage her slowly and softly with oil of which she could not identify. Its fragrance and softness was like nothing she had ever experienced before. Slowly Ipreet had removed her clothes entirely and was massaging her breasts, her thighs, her stomach, arms and feet and reaching to touch her most delicate parts causing her to reach the heights of ecstasy without letting her reach the peak where every feeling would be released.
After sometime, she felt someone board the raft and enter the room. It was a man. He was dressed in a pure white robe, a white turban and he was barefoot. He had a white beard and deep brown eyes that were almost black and there was a golden light emanating from them. Her legs were open and he sat at her feet.
Ipreet brought him a brass plate with a fragrant smoke climbing sensually to the ceiling. She was feeling an intense desire for this man, though she did not know him. She wanted him to touch her… to continue what Ipreet had started. Where he sat, she could see that he had a large penis. She moved sensually as to arouse him but he remained flacid. She wanted him to enter her. She wanted to have what she knew would be the most remarkable fireworks of her life but he sat there and only smiled at her showing perfectly white teeth and full lips.
Ipreet slowly covered her body as she lay there. She remained uncovered from the waist down. She made no effort to cover her private parts. She wanted the man to make love to her, but he brought the plate between her legs and blew the warm smoke into her. As he did this, she exploded into a million stars of every color. He stayed there, it seemed to her, for seconds, minutes or hours, she didn’t know.
She fell into a deep and mystical sleep filled with beautiful and strange dreams. When she awoke, she was at the waters edge, rocking gently. She was alone. Ipreet and the stranger were gone. The dim interior of the barge was still lit with candles and the incense still burned. She moved to get up and she was aware that she was once again clothed. Her skin felt soft and the fragrance lingered on her skin and in her hair, evidence that she had not been dreaming.
She stepped off the boat onto the jungle floor and moved into the shadows. It was as if no time had passed. She needed no guide. She seemed to know her way out. She felt more alive and fulfilled than she had ever felt before.
She would not soon forget what had happened to her this day… or was it night?
A friend of mine, Jeff, was found dead in his apartment. He worked for me for many years. I don’t know any details yet and I’m not sure that I will. He was totally depressed after retirement. He had at least a million dollars saved and a huge retirement package.
Jeff was forced to retire after working at OHSU for more than 40 years. He didn’t have any health issues and so I don’t know the cause of death. He might have taken his own life but I don’t know that. I will really miss hearing from him.
Jeff and I were friends for more than 20 years and he worked for me for at least 10 of those years. We became quite close and he told me a lot about himself, his family and his life. I knew him before he went through rehab for drinking and probably other drugs and I knew him after he got through rehab. I knew he was depressed and that he didn’t really want to go on living once he was forced into retirement but I didn’t think he would take his own life but I don’t know. Unless his friend Shirley contacts me to tell me what she knows, I may never know what happened.
I spent the day he died on the phone with people who knew Jeff and wanted to console me. My son came over and we had dinner together and before that he and my daughter went out for a hike in the snow.
I went upstairs and ate some Ginger snaps and drank a cup of tea and watched something on Netflix or YouTube. It’s hard for me to keep my mind off of what happened to Jeff. I want to know how he died. I want to know if there’s going to be an obituary… whether there’s going to be a memorial service. I’m just filled with questions. He didn’t have any family until he found some cousins some years back. His mom had passed away and he never knew his dad. I want to know who’s handling taking care of his body and his burial. Hopefully he had directives and plans for all of that. I’m just at a loss.
I talked to his friend Shirley for about an hour that night. She doesn’t know what he died from but he was in bed when she found him and he was already cold. He had lost so much weight and he was a tall bean pole anyway. He was so skinny he couldn’t keep his pants up. She had been taking him brunch and dinner everyday because she was worried about him. The day he died she had taken breakfast over. He sat in his chair. When she went back that evening with food, he was still sitting in his chair with the breakfast plate in his lap, only partially eaten. After he ate what she brought for dinner, she saw that he climbed into bed. The next day when she took a new breakfast, she found him dead.
She didn’t know the cause of death, but she’s calling the coroner’s office today. My friend Judith, who also knew Jeff, said he died of a broken heart. That might be. He was so hopeless and lonely. He really wanted a female companion and he did not want to retire.
He had FB friends but other than Shirley and James, he didn’t see anyone. He had, in the last years, found family and was so thrilled. He had photos, and histories… they were quite well off. He found out who his father was and found his half brother. His half brother is coming from California to settle Jeff’s affairs. If family members are his beneficiaries, they’re going to inherit quite a fortune.
The cousins I contacted are in shock. I also contacted his oldest friend… since childhood, and he’s really shocked, too.
Shirley doesn’t believe he would take his own life. She’s known him longer than I have, so I tend to believe her. No blood, no vomit, no pained look on his face or uncomfortable posture. It was as though he just passed over.
I hope his brother arranges some kind of get together.
I hope I learn more. If his brother doesn’t arrange to clear out his apartment, I’m going to go over and help Shirley do it.
I tend to believe that I will never find out the real cause of his death, that thought is good enough for me. He was miserable and no matter what I said to him it didn’t change how he felt. Jeff loved food. For him not to be eating meant a lot. Maybe he just let go.
You and I both know that we can’t control another person’s life if they don’t want to live. It’s really their own personal choice and we have no say in it no matter how much we love them. We have to let each person that we love walk their own path without our interference. But we, who are Left Behind in these circumstances, suffer a great deal of loss and pain. Jeff now is out of pain; he’s out of misery.
It seems like he had been to the doctor but wasn’t going back. He was having back pain. He really didn’t see any reason to go on; he had no purpose in life, he thought. He was lonely and miserable and had obviously started drinking again after years and years of abstinence. Jeff was done. He wanted to step off and he did.
For some reason I decided I would go over and help Shirley clean the apartment. Jeff’s brother has come and gone. He took what he wanted. I don’t know what he took since this is the first time I’ve been in his house. All of the furniture is still there. Nothing worth saving really. The books are mainly packed up. I gathered up all the DVDs, CDs, videos. His old friend, Shirley, is cleaning his kitchen, bathroom, and getting rid of his clothes. His electronic devices are still there, nothing worth much. I spent all my time today gathering papers from every drawer, nooks, crannies and shelves, in every room. I’ll spend tomorrow sorting. I don’t have any more heavy things to lift, thank goodness. There is one small table I want… well, two, but I’ll check with Shirley. I don’t really have any right to them. I’m just doing this to honor Jeff. He was one of the kindest men I ever knew. He was wild in his youth, but always kind and a loyal friend. He was my best employee. Really brilliant. It’s so sad he had only found his family in recent years. I just want to help preserve something of him.
He had a nice home. Books, entertainment, money but even with friends and new found family, it wasn’t enough to make life worthwhile without work. I’ve never been depressed so I don’t understand it.
He obviously had kidney problems because they don’t just fail suddenly but he never said a word. Maybe I’ll find evidence of it in his papers. Funny, he was a wonderful archives assistant, yet his own papers are in total disarray. His place is beyond dirty. He could have easily hired a house keeper. He ate very well. He loved food. Good old fashioned American fare. But, once forced to retire, he lapsed into drinking again. Dammit!
When I got home from Jeff’s. I took a bath using a CBD bath bomb. That was so relaxing. I have another day over at Jeff’s to be done with not only his paperwork but boxing up his books and throwing away a ton of paperwork, knick knacks, clothes and the like.
There’s no one who gives a damn but me and Shirley. Today, Shirley stayed and helped haul stuff out to the dumpster. I have gathered up at least 2 boxes of things to send to his family. I’ll have a large box of his writings. I actually don’t know what to do with them. The boxes will go to Powell”s bookstore or to the Goodwill or the management co. will deal with them. There is a box full of land deeds from his family. I wonder if they still own all this land and just don’t know about it. I’m going to try to find out who to send them to tonight.
Nobody is here who cares.
Shirley is my age and a long time alcoholic. But more importantly, she’s a Blood/Blackfeet Indian. She’s been married to a white man for 23 years who’s been in love with a black woman for the last 5 or 6 years. She’s full of tales of abuse and fighting, of arguing, of jealousy and the cops coming to the house. Funny though, I like her as long as she doesn’t say anything about trump. How can a Canadian-American Indian say anything good about trump. The only thing I can figure out is that her husband is a racist/ redneck and so she’s getting her political views from him.
She’s a tiny, skinny woman and a hard worker and strong. She’s been married 5 times but only has one, gigantic, son who is 32 and a daughter. She’s toothless but has a good figure and I think at one time was probably quite attractive. She has bronze skin and deep brown eyes and a typical Indian nose… long, slightly hooked and wide, on a round face with high cheekbones and with long black hair that she dyes. She’s letting it grow out and the white is shockingly white. She tells of Indian wisdom and yet she allows herself to be humiliated. She says she is stuck in this relationship. Her husband is one of Jeff’s oldest friends and Jeff was the best man at their wedding. She came to love Jeff as a brother and cared for him, having him over for all holidays, sending him home with food for him to cook or with leftovers every week, taking him shopping. James and Shirley were companions to Jeff through rehab but now everybody drinks and smokes. She got a call from James twice while we were working and he wanted her to take his stimulus check and go out and buy whiskey and beer.
She told me the story of a time that he burned her with chile by throwing it on her off the stove and all over the couch. Now James has had a stroke and he can’t walk and he can’t hurt her anymore and the black woman doesn’t want him. Shirley wants him though, at least she needs him. Yesterday, I had to deliver Jeff’s keys to her house. Shirley wasn’t home but James was laying on the couch yelling at me to open the door. At 1st I didn’t hear him and so he yelled forcefully to open the door. Their house is cozy. They have nice things.
Shirley has worked hard all of her life. She got fired just recently though because her company found out she had voted for trump, that’s what she says. They said it was ethical for them to fire her. Between James and Shirley’s social security and maybe retirement they probably have enough to live on without Shirley working. She could put James in a nursing home and she could move back to the reservation where she has family. She might be happier there but she wants to stay close to her son Calvin even though her daughter lives on the reservation.
It’s not funny how we get stuck in situations that are not good for us and yet we stay. I wish Shirley all of the best. I think I might miss seeing her. I couldn’t really socialize with her at home, but perhaps I could meet her for coffee some times. She’s a very generous person. Perhaps if she moved back to the reservation she could see how trump is a bastard.
I’m happy. I hope you’re happy too. I have a sense of accomplishment for working over at Jeff’s even though it was not my responsibility. I feel good that I was able to do something for him even though he doesn’t give a rat’s ass what happens to his material belongings now that he has passed on to something, somewhere, we know not where or what or how. For now his family will have a sense of who Jeff was though they barely knew him. What a terrible father he had not to let his other kids know about their brother. He was all alone for many years. He was the offspring of an affair… but unwanted. That’s very sad.
Happy rain day, dark and grey. I love the view from my window by my bed. Our yard is so green.
I look down on the apple trees, the honeysuckle, the vine maple and the kiwi, that create an arbor covering the patio. They surround and shield us from the harsh sun and neighbors.
And I even love looking over to the neighbors flat roofed garage to watch the puddles grow and the rain drops splashing into them.
Every once in awhile a fresh breeze comes through the window bringing with it the fragrance of the wet earth and plants.
We have so many fragrant flowers like kiwi, lavender and jasmine. Someone should create such a lovely perfume. I would wear it everyday when we so easily forget summers past.
Such beauty I couldn’t imagine if I tried. Or have I?
We lived on Montgomery St., just below Vista Avenue, before Hwy 26 went in. The construction destroyed miles of large beautiful houses built at the turn of the century.
Beautiful large homes, in the West Hills, like this one, were bulldozed to make way for highways.
Portland exemplfies the song “Yellow Taxi” written by Joni Mitchell, which goes, they paved paradise and put up a parking lot… Portland was being raped and thousands of long time residents displaced. No one who was making a killing cared.
Our yellow house was built with four apartments. The front was built at street level on a steep hill leading towards downtown to the East, and to the North, the land was even steeper giving each apartment spectacular views of the city.
I couldn’t find an historic photo of the area but this is the type of house sacrificed for development
Each apartment took up an entire floor. The ceilings were at least 10 feet in height with windows almost to the ceilings. There were at least three bedrooms, a large living room, a kitchen and with just one bathroom. The back door opened out from the kitchen onto a balcony with stairs that led to the ground below.
This is not the house but reminiscent of the types of houses in the area.
This was in the late 60’s. Pure LSD was easily had and weed was $10 a “lid”. Our rent, if I remember right, was under $100/month. We didn’t need much money to live, so we bought pounds of marijuana, divided it into plastic sandwich bags and we put them in a large container just inside the front door. Whoever wanted to buy pot from us could leave their money and grab however much they wanted. The honor system at work.
Marijuana, LSD, psilocybin, peyote and the like, were all illegal. But at the time, we were more concerned that the house would be raided by FBI agents looking for draft dodgers and those who were AWOL. It had happened and it was scarey but if they’re looking for people, they had no jurisdiction to bust us for drugs.
Our life on Montgomery street was mostly peaceful. It was a good time for exploring both internally and the world around us. We were protesting the right of the US and other countries to invade others to procure resources. We were protesting a culture dictated by corporate greed and materialism. We wanted a simpler and more peaceful world.
Unfortunately, our idealism could not, and has not, changed the white and wealthy. We were using psychedelics, meditation and exploration into philosophies both western and eastern, to found a new path to a kinder and gentler world. But what I know now, is what history teaches us: the few wealthy are lords in the earth and the rest of us… well, we work for them and try to keep our heads above water. No one benefits from war but the wealthy and the young are sacrificed to that purpose.
Those were days that I would return to. Those were days when we thought that on that LSD trip, the answer had been given to us but language failed us. The answer slipped away as we “came down”. One definition of reality that I can recall so clearly came out as I sat looking out over the city as “loud tomato raisin”. I’m still looking for the translation. Perhaps one day I’ll be enlightened enough to translate. 🤭
Those were days of infinite sexual energy, which I didn’t experience again until my 40s and 50s. Hormone saturated freedoms. Dancing in the moonlight. Light shows. Live music and open mic poetry readings. Unbridled idealism anchored and tempered by existential nightmares that things always stay the same.
David Byrne sang, “Burning Down the House… same as it ever was, same as it ever was…” and it appears that we are burning down the house. We can see the ashes. But now it’s not just the big beautiful houses that were once our abodes but it’s the planet where we live.
This cross stitch quilt is spectacular and it only took five decades to complete.
The quilt is made by making millions of tiny cross stitchings that I started sometime in my 20s and continued into my 30s. All the while there was home, children, work and gardening, weaving and spinning, macrame, sewing and crochet. There were births, helping with school projects and homework and driving to soccer and baseball games, picnics and family reunions. And then there was moving… from Portland, to Estacada, to Lacey, to Whibey Island, to Washogal and Home Valley, then back into Portland.
But all along, the quilt stayed with me, patiently waiting. The children grew and moved away. Finally, in my 40s and 50s, I started the hand quilting but then I started to knit, as well. Then there was the divorce and new relationships. There was years of University and moving to Florida and California. And the beginning of my career. Once again, the quilt was all but forgotten. But I kept it, and it lay dormant, waiting.
Once, I accidentally tipped a cup of tea off the table into the basket sitting beside my chair, soaking into parts of the quilt. That’s when I almost gave up on it. I thought it was forever ruined. I couldn’t wash it because the pattern was not indelible. The ink would wash out leaving me without a guide. But I couldn’t destroy it or even give it away. So, I put it away while getting my BA and my MA and even started and finished my career.
Finally, in my late 60s, I picked up some quilting hoops and worked on the quilting some more. I set up the hoop stand in the living room where I looked at it every day. The quilting thread and needles beside it and I spent some brief hours working on it. But I somehow knew that sewing tiny running stitches to cover the entire queen sized quilt would never be done. It was discouraging. It was so beautiful, I just couldn’t give up on it.
I was now in my my 70s. I had worked on it and carried it everywhere with me for five decades and I was in danger of never finishing it. It didn’t help that I was developing arthritis in my hands. In the end, would it remain unfinished? The thought saddened me.
Luck was with me, however. Crafting podcasts and vlogs became a thing. I watched them constantly while I knitted. I had my favorites but once, by the recommendation of other crafters, I came across a woman who lived on the English border with Scotland. Her blog, Kate of the Last Homely House, a reference to Tolkien’s, “The Hobbit”, became a favorite of mine. Anyone who loves Tolkien is a friend of mine.
After her mom passed away, Kate was left with boxes of unfinished patchwork quilts that only needed the quilting to be done. It was then that she mentioned Kat, a long arm quilter, who lives in Scotland, who she would employ to quilt her mother’s quilts. What is this, she says? Could I find someone near me to finish mine? I had no idea. I had no clue as to what a long arm quilter was.
It took only a simple Google search to find a few long arm quilters in my area. I called one of them and made an appointment for the very next day. I packed up my tea stained quilt (the stain had faded over the years) and entered the world of long arm quilting. The machine is huge and nearly filled the entire workshop. It’s connected to a computer whose software programs a multitude of designs to choose from. I showed my soon to be savior my “art piece”, chose a design and I said, “f***k it”, when I accepted the $300 quote with ease. In two weeks, voila!, I had my beautiful finished quilt in hand.
But wait! It still wasn’t finished. A quilt consists of three layers. The top, the batting, or the fill, and the backing. The four raw edges of these layers need to be bound. Would the quilt now languish once again? No. Not this time. I was inspired by already having paid for the quilting and its beauty.
Some months ago, I bought the fabric for the binding, I made the binding, machine stitched the binding to the front, then, I finished it by handsewing the binding to the back.
I washed it in the clawfoot bathtub, hung it to dry and here it is in all it’s glory. The stain is still visible if you really look for it but that doesn’t bother me at all. As an archivist, I see every part of this quilt as evidence of its journey to the present. I wouldn’t change a thing.
The only problem is, now that it’s finished, what shall I do with it? I can’t leave it on the bed because the dog sleeps with me and she’s got dagger claws. It wouldn’t take long for it to be ruined.
Shall I just fold it up and display it on the end of the bed or should I figure out which wall I could hang it on?
Besides that dilemma, I am really over the moon, and all the stars, that it’s finished. For now, it hangs out on my foot stool where I can enjoy it all day long, every day. It’s already almost an heirloom.
I finally retired in October 2014. Kristi had retired about a year before me. One day we met for coffee at an intimate, neighborhood cafe in Woodstock to celebrate.
We bought these cups as a symbol of our promise to be companions as we aged, to take trips together and maybe even one day to live together. Little did we know that within just two weeks, she would die in a terrible car accident.
Kristi’sMine
Two days ago I was drinking coffee out of my cup and I thought about these promises we made to one another. I wondered if Kristi’s kids had found her cup amongst her things.
I sent them a message and in a short time, I got a message back from Sharon, her oldest daughter, with a photo of the cup saying that she drinks out of it often.
I cried for loss but also for gladness. A girl could not have had a better sister. My memories of her span 64 years, so they are many.
When she was only 3 years old, I contracted polio, and for the rest of our time together, she did for me what I could not do for myself. She was my confidant. She was my buddy. She was my heart.
I miss her so. When I drink from her promise cup, my heart fills to overflowing. I’m so happy to know that my promise cup to her still exists.
Weird day. I took the bus to Wal-Mart. Wrong idea. Nothing at all of interest. Next door is the Vallarta Mall. Less of interest there. I need tank tops. How could they not have decent tank tops? Everything is extremely air conditioned. I started to feel sick, so I got out of there.
At least I saw where the cruise ships dock right across the road and walked straight into heavily armed military guys who looked to me like teenagers.
Where the cruise ships dock.
In order to catch my bus home, I have to pass thru Old Vallarta so I decided, of course, why not go to the beach. I was getting hungry and as is my wont, I started asking where the good comida corrida is. After walking blocks and blocks, I was getting parched. I saw inside a building alot of tables with no tourists, just locals. There was no sign but a placard that said, Comida Corrida, $65 pesos. That’s a little over $4.00 USD. Soup, shrimp fajitas, salad, beans, rice, agua fresca and dessert. Now that’s what I’m talking about.
Then for a long hot walk on the beach. I was parched again and needed to get out of the sun so again I stopped at a place with no name, broken chairs, worn out umbrellas, and desperate beach guys waving menus. I was at the end of my energy, so gratefully sat at a table and ordered 2X1 mojitos. It was taking so long for them to come, I almost left.
Soon handsome beach guy, Armando, came with my drink. He was not young but was probably approaching 50 but extremely handsome. He carefully stirred and stirred the best mojito I’ve had to date. We chatted for awhile and I learned that he sleeps at the place.
A “cafe” outside of these tourist zone
While I watched a large group of really big, heavily tatooed men with women and children playing in the water, drinking and talking, I found myself thinking that the guys had hydraulicly operated hot rods with amazing paint jobs and guns and knives and that they loved their wives, girlfriends and kids. Its amazing what stories I can make up out of stereotypes.
Well, so as not to make this story any longer than it already is, while drinking my second mojito, Armando ended up massaging my right shoulder, sending healing energy into it and declared that I had a piece of metal in there (which I do) but that he could heal me. I’m suppose to go back tomorrow.
I don’t know, maybe I’ll go back, or maybe I’ll have a facial.
eyeamdust 