Last Night's Dream ...

Had a bizarre dream. My mom and I were having a steak dinner, and I started eating the remnants of my steak from the night before, which I suddenly realized had been left out/not stored in the refrigerator.

A friendly couple from down the way showed up and my mom invited them to join us. After my first bite of steak I realized I needed a new steak, not because it was rotten, just because I knew it was probably going to make me sick. So I excused myself and inconspicuously spit out the piece of meat I had been chewing.

I grabbed a bunch of new steaks and was sidetracked by seeing activity at an investment property my parents bought and improved. Odd because they aren't married in my everyday, waking consciousness.

Here was the snag, they bought half the property and improved the property half way. The other half owners were running an event business out of the property and my parents intended to use it as a short term vacation rental.

While I was onsite the other alleged half owners showed up. We sat down and talked about the situation. They were too quick to offer a buyout. I suspected they were squatting on the property vs. actually on title. The wife in particular was really shifty about giving me any contact details for follow up. They also alleged my folks hadn't done much to improve the property.

When I first saw the property, the home was really tired looking and dated. I recall after my folks bought their share it had been modernized, with really cool black metal framed windows, including a funky black glass interior room divide. Walls had been removed to open up the interior spaces. Now up close I was having a hard time seeing the work, and after I left I wondered if I had been influenced to see what someone else wanted me to see.

Meanwhile an event was taking shape outside. A party, a rather large one at that. Low and behold all my steaks I had fetched had been consumed.

There was a sea, like the sound, and I washed my hands in the saltwater. It was night, music was playing, jovial voices muffled below the volume.

I had set my cooler and a couple other things stacked upon it in the shallow part of the sea. I turned to grab some replacement steaks from the party BBQ, they were of poorer quality. I ended up only taking one, the best looking one left. Someone grabbed me a piece of foil to wrap it in. I ended up putting it in a corrugated to go box.

My cooler and other items had vanished. No, they were just farther up shore. So I waded out to get them and then headed for dry land.

The rest gets fuzzier. I was driving my mom's Exploder (slang for Ford Explorer) into the woods. It was either Patrick (my ex's middle brother) or my old friend Andy (from the early 90s). Or they are actually one in the same person. Either way, I told them about the odd property dealings. He knew the people and he was certain they had no business being there and no actual ownership interest in the property.

I was out of breath from having run from the shore or something. Before I knew it Patrick/Andy had loaded my unwieldy items into the back of the SUV, and I was intending to return to my mom and guests. That's where the dream ended, I think ...

What World Do We Live In?

Went to a client's housewarming party this afternoon. He has a lovely, eclectic group of friends. I met people from China, Israel, Mexico and Nigeria. My client is from India.

In high school I found myself gravitating toward the foreign exchange students. To look at our world through someone else's eyes, from a completely different perspective, I find that fascinating. I still do.

So getting beyond the initial "where are you from" icebreaker, this gal from Nigeria (wish I had gotten her name) and I had quite the exchange. She made quite the declarative statement about the U.S. not being a first world country. I couldn't agree more.

In 2009 I took Amtrak down the Northeast corridor from New York to D.C. Between each gleaming capitalist mecca of skyscrapers were the most bombed-out-looking, decaying townships of urban blight you've ever seen. These scenes looked very reminiscent of the most run down, down-and-out parts of Detroit. In 2014 I took Amtrak up the Northeast corridor from D.C. to New York. The picture gliding by out the window didn't look any better. Buildings boarded up or half open in ruin, piles of bricks, weeds growing out of streets. It looked completely post-apocalyptic. This is America?!

This beautiful young woman I spoke with at the party from Nigeria thinks at least forty percent of America lives in a substandard state of poverty. In her home country, she said even the poorest of the poor can still get by. Her people take pride in helping others. She said her people routinely ask each other if they've eaten. She said if she were starving here in Seattle, perhaps she would only call on her closest friends for help. Back home it would just be granted by whomever.

My new acquaintance from Nigeria also spoke of some time she spent in Chicago. She was shocked by the urban blight she saw there, ruins of neighborhoods, horribly impoverished ghettos, which she drove through for about forty five minutes before the scenery improved. She has traveled all over the world, and thinks America by far is the most racist country on the planet.

From her perspective, the saddest thing about this other America, the decaying third world part of our wealthiest country in the history of mankind, is many who live in these squalored conditions are unaware of their situation. They still think they live in the greatest country on Earth, and most are compliant to believe what they're told by the media (which is corporate controlled).

We're only as strong as our weakest link, and we have some terribly weak links. Wealth inequality is one thing. The extreme disenfranchisement of millions is another.

Speaking of, my new acquaintance is being mentored by King County councilmember Larry Gossett, who is working to reform Washington's prison system. She mentioned about seventy percent of our prison system inmates are black. That's when I piped up, "But isn't our total black population here around three percent?!" Yes, she agreed I had it right. OK, that's insane. One of the smallest segments of our general population comprise nearly three quarters of our prison population.

And we also covered the topic of government surveillance. She said it's nearly as bad as what occurred in the former Soviet Union. On the contrary I would say far worse. We have so much more technology at our disposal, thus you need far less man power to more comprehensively know what the population is up to every moment of everyday.

She remarked sometimes she's thinking about something only to a short while later be Googling something and see an ad representing the topic she had just be thinking about. She said it may sound crazy but she thinks they've found ways into our minds.

I don't think it sounds crazy at all. I don't think it's happening quite the way she alluded to. There's a stream of consciousness, and some of that stream may be forced, such as through broadcast frequencies, etc.

It amazes me how much America condemned Soviet surveillance of its citizens during the Cold War, and yet what America is doing to its own citizens here and now goes far beyond. Was pre-1989 America different?

Oddly enough one of the first online topics that caught my eye after the party was my friend Richard's posting, a WIRED article about surveillance: http://www.wired.com/2013/06/why-i-have-nothing-to-hide-is-the-wrong-way-to-think-about-surveillance/

It's important to be aware, to know the truth and to help others. For this reason I believe it is essential to do some form of inward looking/meditation on a daily basis. Some way to calm the mind and tune out.

During my drive home from the party I listened to NPR, which featured an intriguing On Being segment. Today's guest was writer Rebecca Solnit. She searches for the hidden, transformative histories inside events we chronicle merely as disasters, in places like post-Hurricane Katrina New Orleans. She writes that, so often, "when all the ordinary divides and patterns are shattered, people step up to become their brothers' keepers. And that purposefulness and connectedness bring joy even amidst death, chaos, fear, and loss."

I was just talking with my mom about this very thing the other day, the hidden beauty shrouded in our darkest struggles.

On a final note, because so many more days are physical struggles for me than not, my perspective around problems has shifted. A long time friend of mine sent me a text this evening about how his ex lied to him about where they were and who they were with. This friend along with many of my other friends usually avoid asking me how I'm doing. Not that its a prerequisite, it would be nice. Sometimes I think that I've been sick so long people have forgotten. Then again, I don't see friends very often. I pointed out to this friend what a luxury it is to be concerned about what other silly humans are doing. That the trivial weight of such burdens is in some ways enviable. They insisted this was bad because they were lied to. I reminded my friend he and his ex have had many lies between them over the years. I asked whether they were surprised.

I don't intend to lack compassion around such things. I just really couldn't care less.

Dealing With End of This Life

First I want to insert how much I subscribe to native and ancient spiritual beliefs about "death." To these cultures, there is no death rather a change of worlds.

My bestie and I lost a former co-worker and mutual friend to cancer within the past few weeks. Well, she was more an acquaintance to me. Even so, she was young, vibrant and a good human whose life in this world abruptly ended. I recently discovered another acquaintance perished a couple years ago. That's even stranger, to much later realize someone my age just suddenly left us some time ago and I was completely unaware. Then there's legendary celebrities such as David Bowie and Prince suddenly passing on. Or seeing icons of my youth having progressively aged. Then there's what really hits close to home.

Being middle age, living with a serious, life threatening (at the very least life altering) disease and my mom having stage four lung cancer. That's a lot to cope with, and I'm unsure whether I've been doing so as well as I possibly can. Of course my initial urge is to in some way make myself wrong for this; feel guilty. The better internal dialogue is I am coping and I have a yearning to learn how to cope more effectively. I'm grateful for being able to allow my grace and imperfections to shine through during this process.

I recently read a couple great articles about holding space for someone as well as yourself. Actually, it's most important first to hold space for yourself before you're able to do this for someone else.

Simply put, holding space is about how we help support one another without judgment. Or as the blog Spiritual Awakening Process lists:

1. Letting go of judgment
2. Opening your heart
3. Allowing another to have whatever experience they're having
4. Giving your complete undivided attention to the situation/other person

I have a really tough time with this. Well, I think many of us do. After all to err is to be human.

Problem solving is in my nature. So stepping back from doing that, trying to fix or influence a better outcome is really challenging.

When I think of this topic and how it shows up in my life, I think of how hard a time my husband has been having holding space for me as someone living with and trying to heal from a debilitating disease. I also think of how difficult it is to hold space for myself when I am also so focused on living my life, which essentially boils down to earning my keep as that's primarily all I have energy for.

As I explained to my bestie this morning, I'm really perplexed with how best to hold space for my mom. She reminded me I am a problem solver and advisor so it is very inauthentic of me to backburner traits so core to my being. While I understand what she means, holding space for others is not about being true to ourselves. It's about being true to the other person. It's a selfless, willing act of love. Thus why it's so important to be able to do this first and foremost for ourselves.

When my mom called me yesterday, and asked if I was busy, I knew she wanted to talk with me. The last time she needed to talk with me, my mom requested ten percent of her pittance of what remains of her total life savings. And she broached that conversation on the eve of my forty second birthday, after I had clearly indicated what a horrible week I had had and how exhausted I was. Thankfully I caught myself becoming infuriated and quickly brought that conversation to a halt until I had the wherewithal to revisit it.

Yesterday's conversation was a little different. This was more around her health. She goes into Seattle Cancer Care Alliance about every three weeks. They check her vitals, run blood tests, do scans, etc. This time she was shown to once more be anemic, which means she needs to have another blood transfusion today. They also found blood in her stool, so they are sending her to a GI specialist.

Her partner Al was taking a nap, so she thought it was a good time to have a private conversation. He has a hard time holding space for her from what I also gathered. Admittedly so do I. When these other, more minor complications arise, my mom immediately goes to a place of worst possible scenario. Yet she has convinced herself the cancer may just go away. In either case I am almost certain my mom does not accept the reality around her health. To me it seems backward to dismiss the stage four lung cancer and become alarmist about anemia, especially when one is actually feeling pretty well. When we fail to accept something, we are powerless to change it. So my concern here is I see my mom worsening her suffering.

So of course I pointed these things out to her, that the doctors have all been very upfront about her cancer type being incurable. That these other complications may be related but are not a result of the cancer spreading.

No matter what I say, my mom is in the same place; she's scared. She said she just wanted to talk to her little boy. I realize in many ways, even when I was much younger, I always provided strength to my mom. Of course in many more ways, especially when I was much younger, she provided strength to me. Now she is falling short of being able to be strong for herself.

Sometimes I can sense the child inside her crying out for help, and this breaks my heart. My mom is doing quite well, all things considered. She told me she wanted to be like her mother, to live to be very old, to eventually not know what was going on around her and then to pass peacefully.

We must always be mindful what we wish for and desire. My grandma was a very strong woman, who lived the last few decades of her life with a herniated disc in her back. She worked until she was about 85 and died nearly 10 years later. It was only in the last six to nine months of her life she was less aware to unaware of what was going on around her; a mere shell of the wonderful, amazing person loved by so many.

I told my mom I really believe we are not given anything in life we cannot handle. That even the darkest of things we experience contain some light. I told her I can look at my life now and say I've lost a lot of friends. Or I can choose the view that the people in my life who really matter and I'm blessed to have are clearly in full view. I choose the latter.

When we are confronted by our life's imminent conclusion, we naturally grasp for what our life has meant to others. For a time a couple winter holidays ago my mom was really pleasantly surprised by how many people's lives she's touched; how many people expressed their love and support. To me that is getting one's life, realizing purpose. It's beautiful and something I would love to experience.

Through all of my imparting of words to my mom, all she really wants is for someone to just listen. I realized this, and so I did. I was also empathetic, expressing how these past couple years have been so challenging for her. These are supposed to be her golden years. She has friends who are retired and playing golf everyday. It must seem so unfair.

Also unfair is her partner Al is mentally on a downward slope. They were at the cable office the other day paying their bill. Mid conversation he froze and completely lost track of what he'd been saying, was going to say, etc. He became so frustrated and started to cry. My mom was there to help. In fact she had to write the check for him. He was still able to sign it. As a whole he can hardly do for himself. While she could really use someone to care for her, he's let himself go downhill and she's still caring for him. I'm at least grateful to know he is taking care of the majority of their financial obligations and feels good he is able to do that for her.

It's the holding back to hold space I find challenging. I want so badly to make it right, influence, diminish the suffering in some way. I want to find more strength and self discipline to do this.

No one knows for sure whether they will draw their next breath after this one. All our time is limited and a precious gift for us to do with as we choose. Even so, my mom's physical being has a compromised and greatly shorter life expectancy. Like birth, death is a messy, painful business. I'm sure she's incredibly apprehensive of what lies ahead as are we all. When the time comes, I want as much strength, grace, empathy and humility possible. Now is the time to train for the marathon ...

Sidebar: Eerily synchronistic, my "This Day in History" widget has this story today: The Last Supper back on display after two-decade restoration http://encyclopedia.tfd.com/The+Last+Supper+%28Leonardo%29

All Roads Lead Full Circle ...

Today is the only Friday the thirteenth in 2016. Since the high was forecast to be at least 80 degrees Fahrenheit, I thought it would be fun to wear my new sparrow shirt. It's a white, short-sleeve button down with a navy print of small sparrows all over it. From afar they may look like big stars.

According to whats-your-sign.com, life is symbolic and we're to start interpreting. The site lists out a summary of symbolic meanings for this small bird:

• Joy
• Inclusion
• Creativity
• Simplicity
• Protection
• Community
• Productivity
• Friendliness

As of late, the greatest feeling I've had is one of nostalgia. Since early last weekend I've been thinking about people from my life around mid to late high school in Texas and Washington.

Had a regular follow up with my Lyme literate natural doctor (LLND), and I mentioned my feelings and deep sense of nostalgia as of late. She said this may likely be on account of me being in a healing crisis. Her concerns today related to my struggle with balance, or rather the area of my brain that controls balance, as well as my heart. She referred me to a Lyme literate cardiologist, who I may have to wait at least four to five months to get into see.

On my way into my LLND's office today, I bumped into a couple folks I met at my Lyme group a few months ago. The wife is the patient, and she's been severely struggling. My LLND mentioned she's very sick in an indicative way as though I am much less sick than she is. I suppose I take some comfort in that, sort of. The other part of me holds much compassion for my comrade of complex infectious diseases. The struggle is real; deeply injuring body, mind and spirit.

After my follow up visit I needed to have blood drawn, which  I had forgotten to do earlier in the week (Lyme brain), which meant having to go to First Hill on my way home from Sand Point. The most expeditious route to avoid a traffic-choked Interstate 5 is to take Roosevelt to Roanoke to Boylston. This route would take me along the edge of the Eastlake neighborhood.

As I recalled from earlier this week, my office mate just listed a very special condominium unit in Eastlake. Special not because it's the latest and greatest carbon-neutral architectural marvel of modern design. On the contrary, the building is actually pretty dated, constructed in '66. It's called the Maison D'Or, a very ornate sounding name for a fashionless, mid-century condo building.

To me this isn't just another concrete honeycomb of dwellings amid a hodgepodge of non-conforming architectural styles that make up the peculiar patchwork neighborhood assortments comprising Seattle. This was a place where I first ventured into my adulthood and savored my first sips of careless freedom.

My high school friend Anna's dad Paulo owned this condo back in '92. It's a top floor 2 bed/2 bath corner unit with vaulted ceilings and an actual wood-burning fireplace (a rare carbon-abundant feature for today). I mean, what are the chances out of 16,000+ residential brokers in the Puget Sound area that my office mate would be the one to list this place. That's at the very least just a little synchronistic.

I met Anna through our mutual friend Megan, who I met through our mutual friend Sam, who I met through my friend Mitch, who I met through his sister Michelle, who I met in fifth grade. And so our degrees of separation go. Anna was fun, a lot of fun, trouble kind of fun. Earlier today I gave the following description of her to my BFF via text:

"Shit talkin', softball playin', Amazonian princess."

To which she replied:

"You love explosive powerful woman. It's because you are one."

Hmmm ...

Anna's dad Paulo was slightly enigmatic. He's Brazilian, so he has a foreign mystique, which is further punctuated by his Latin flair. You know, he has a certain jeux ne se qua. At the same time he was somewhat soft spoken and reserved, always the calmest person in the room. Then again, he was also at times a little touchy-feely. Perhaps it was a cultural thing? Even so, and even though I was quite closeted during the time we were acquainted, I thought perhaps he may also be attracted to the male of our species. As they say, it takes one to know one.

As I recall Paulo worked for a bank and his work required frequent travel. So when the cat was away, Anna, Megan and I had his condo all to ourselves to play. We mostly just hung out, made food, drank, smoked, made each other laugh, played games; typical teen stuff.

It was strange going there today. I mean, I've passed by the building on a number of occasions between then and now. Actually having the intention to visit someone's old home really brought some things to the surface for me. Just remembering how we'd parallel park on East Lynn Street, the antequated front door call box, the cranky old lady who loved to complain about how noisy we were and I one day scared the living shit out of.

In my defense (not really sure there is one) that incident was totally by mistake. I'm not evil; just at times (especially as a teen), you know, dumb. Anna, Megan and I, like most silly adolescents, would occasionally prank each other. It's a show of affection among friends. Anyway, I don't quite remember all the circumstances other than I was hiding around a dark corner outside the basement parking garage, thinking Megan and Anna were unexpectedly coming my way. I patiently held out for the perfect moment to leap out from the shadows with a loud roar! Oh I got the reaction I wanted alright, and then some, just not from the right people.

"You could have given me a heart attack!" the cranky old lady shouted. "I should call the police and file charges for harassment."

In the background I heard Anna and Megan laughing their fool heads off. After I stumbled all over myself with apologies and the cranky old lady shuffled away, I found the two of them convulsing with laughter, Anna in tears.

"Oh. My. God. Bradley!!" she exclaimed. "That was some mutherfuckin' funny ass shit, but we are SO dead! She's going to tell my father and who knows what else she'll do. But whatever, that bitch totally had it comin'."

Anna had a point. Even so, I felt really bad about that particular incident. The rest of the cranky old lady's previous complaints about us though were pretty lame. Yeah, we drank under age. Who doesn't? Yeah, we were a little rowdy late at night. Our rowdy wasn't fighting or screaming; it was joyful banter and laughter. We were kids, and we certainly weren't all that bad. Naughty sometimes, like when we aided and abetted a friend swiping a half-rack of beer from an East Lake Sammamish Parkway mini mart. That wasn't cool, except being the get-away driver was kind of a thrill. Still, we were no ruthless criminals. We just liked being young, carefree and, of course, to party.

Pulling the keys from the keybox, two appeared to be originals, one of them stamped "Do Not Duplicate."

Suddenly I'm thinking about these keys having been in Paulo's and Anna's hands countless times without them giving a thought to possessing them. I think quite fondly on these objects now, rather artifacts that are a sacred link to another life I once held so dear. It was a similar, sentimental feeling as though you're holding a cherished memento of someone who has passed onto the next world. Yet they're still alive, at least I think they are. Maybe not?

The stark, minimal lobby looked exactly the same except for the brand-new-looking, modern traffic control carpet. The elevator is also a time capsule of dark, faux-wood-paneled walls framed by metal. The elevator controls are far from minimal, small circular buttons that protrude and depress in quite dramatically, like antique light switches. When the elevator reached the top/fourth floor much sooner than expected I remembered the lobby entrance is actually on floor two.

The elevator door slid open and there it was, the door to unit 401, right where I had left it some 23 years ago.

The door still had its original mid-century hardware. The brass knob sporting a simple ribbed design, which had at one point been painted white except the paint had over time been worn off the tops of the ridges. I remember as a late teen thinking of the design both as retro and international. Today it just looks a little dated. Yet I like it if only for the familiarity it now represents. 

Standing at the front door to an empty tomb is much different than returning to visit a long, lost friend at their home. Sure there's some degree of anticipation, albeit quite faint and nothing that stirs the soul like wondering how you'll be received by an actual human being, one you once had much in common with and haven't seen for years vs. being confronted by a random blur of memories aroused by sights and smells.

I slid the key into the hole and turned the knob. Ah, yes, I vaguely remember the feeling of this old hardware turning in my hand. As I walked in, one of the first things I noticed were the ceilings being taller than I remembered, perhaps appearing loftier on account of my ever so humble return.

You would think I were an old man, and with all the meds I'm taking I often do feel like one. I mentioned to my counselor the other day how awful it must feel, physically, to be really old and worn down. She told me a real life anecdote. I guess a younger man asked a 90 year old man how he was feeling. The 90 year old man said, "Well, if I were your age I'd be calling an ambulance." Though the elder man responded with humor, he also meant what he said. He physically suffers and yet it's his normal and the best he can expect to feel at his age.

Today when I mentioned to my LLND I feel like an old man taking all these various meds, she set me straight. "That's an internal conversation you'll want to stop as soon as possible," she said. "Instead, the conversation is 'I'm so grateful there are things I can take to feel better and to heal.'" She admitted she can say such things to me because I'll understand where she's coming from.

I definitely get what my LLND is saying, and I used to naturally live from a place of gratitude. I once enjoyed life, fully, squeezing out each precious drop. I think I see why this healing crisis has me so nostalgic. It may be my body, mind and spirit's way of reminding me who I've always known myself to be, that happy-go-lucky person with a light heart and quick wit, he still exists inside me somewhere, even if just in my fond boyish memories.

One thing I loved most about Paulo's place, other than the company kept there; the magnificent view.

Top floor corner with a panorama of a growing skyline to one side; water and hills and mountains all round, oh my! All this in one of the city's quietest, close-in enclaves.

As I walked in I was immediately drawn to the balcony. What a spectacular, sunny day it was to take in the view. I can't tell you how many late nights Anna, Megan and I spent sitting out there, drinking and smoking. Many a night we watched the renown Space Needle turn out its lights (around 2:00 to 3:00 a.m. if memory serves). I took a couple shots with my phone to capture what's been buried deep in my mind's eye since all those years ago.

Looking north to Gas Works Park and the Wallingford neighborhood, I'm reminded of when you could actually climb up onto the colossal defunct industrial machinery which landmarked the park. Sunbathing at the water's edge with Anna and her then boyfriend Andy, who looked like a hunkier Morrissey (and I'm pretty sure he was super into The Smiths, too). Never did we feel more bourgeois than when we were invited to Sunday brunch at Paulo's girlfriend Mary's Wallingford home. Mary, incidentally, is Andy's godmother and the person who introduced him to Anna. There was quite a bit of drama around that, namely because Anna was at times a naughty, and fun, influence.

Mary lived in the second floor unit of her charming Craftsman-turned-duplex. Her brunches were amazing. She'd have about 15 to 20 gathered on her south-facing deck, which offered jaw-dropping panoramic views of Lake Union, backdropped by the Seattle skyline. She was a whiz at homemade hollandaise sauce, and would fly in fresh-caught lobster from Maine. Of course she'd have bottles of chilled champagne, and I'm pretty sure that's where I enjoyed my first-ever mimosa.

As I walked back inside from the balcony, the sixties-modern stone fireplace, which has since been painted, confronted me.

In most cases I prefer raw stone, even and especially if it has a nice patina. Suddenly in my mind's eye I'm sitting back on the concrete fireplace ledge again with a lit cigarette in hand.

The living room is no longer this plain, safe yellow-beige walled sanitarium with minimal, neutral staged furnishings. Instead it looks warm, worn and well lived in with exotic hand-woven area rugs, shelves of old books and a plethora of unusual indigenous art pieces.

Despite the new hardwood floors and interior paint, the place smells eerily the same. It's a sweet, faintly-musty fragrance somewhat like old leather and tobacco. I feel like a ghost who has come back to haunt. Only I know how much wine (in many cases cheap bottles of Boone's) was poured and drags blown up the fireplace flume in this space.

I made my way into the kitchen, and suddenly I'm once more a silly youth, taste-testing the amateur combination of spices I added to our sizzling breakfast potatoes. Turns out I had luck in my choices, they taste divine. Anna and Megan are amazed as am I. We all wear smiles. We sit to breakfast at the table that morning, entering into our usual brand of banter; light and jovial.

The flashback vanishes and once again I'm middle age, worn down by disease. My lips draw in toward one another, my eyes begin to well up and I take a full breath. In this moment I'm overcome equally by a profound sense of joy and sadness.

Way back when, I lived for fun in all things; it's all I ever did without a care in the world. All those many happy days sailed on by like clouds gathering before a rain storm. And, yes, there's beauty in the rain, too; often a more somber, heavier kind of beauty.

I hastily completed my tour shortly thereafter and hurried off like a guest who overstayed their welcome. I am, after all, part legal intruder. Then I had another text exchange with my bestie to let her know of my discoveries.

She agreed what a small world it is for this residence to be so blatantly called out to me. "I wonder if the place asked you back?" she wrote. "Maybe it's time to reconnect?"

Maybe. I saw Megan's mom Debbie a couple Dia de los Muertoses ago. She still worked at Countryside Floral in my hometown of Issaquah. I stopped in impromptu for a pair of arrangements for my grandparents' graves.

Debbie was surprised, pleasantly it seemed, to see me. She told me Megan is a mom, and has a special needs child. Her younger brother Matt is a team leader for one of my parent company's brokerage offices on the Eastside in Bellevue. Anna is a recent divorcee "on the loose" in Arizona. She was one tough cookie.

I recall things not ending well between us and leaving those relationships in an unresolved fog when I moved to California in the summer of '93.

Something else trivial and silly dawned on me. I remember this really naughty, misogynistic song I sang a Christmas ago to my bestie's nanny in Portugese. She is Brazilian, and I learned this song from Anna's boyfriend (before Andy) Dun Dun and his bestie Penna, who also were Brazilian. I loved those guys! Super fun and spirited. I'll skip past the song for now, it's pretty dirty.

One day all five of us went up skiing. We were drinking whisky in the parking lot before the lifts opened. I'm not sure if those guys had even seen snow before. They were both pretty athletic. We all rented gear, and after about a half hour of giving them all a lesson, we were all skiing intermediate runs. The guys were doing exceptionally well. Sure they'd fall and crash here and there. They'd also get right back up and after a couple hours the falling became less and less. The weather was perfectly sunny, and we all had such a marvelous time. As I take this intermediate run at my health crisis, I wish to be as resilient as my long lost Brazilian pals.

Ah, to be young, wild and carefree. Those were indeed the good old days ...

Who's Who at Knudsen Park

[Written on my iPhone notes app]

Today (5/11/16 2:00 pm) at Knudsen Park I've seen a hunky Latino reading a book on a bench, a couple younger men passing a joint on a bench, an older man in a blue linen blazer measuring the centerpiece tree, a woman enjoying a soda, a man laying on a bench in the shade, a guy with spiked hair and Egyptian looking eye tatts (only the line extensions were drawn downward vs. continued across the sides of the face on the outer eyes) wearing black backpack, red tee, shorts and heavy metal chain as a necklace riding a yellow and orange mountain bike, a woman with a hot pink head scarf wearing a black burka praying toward Mecca, three guys congregating, smoking weed behind me and just heard a woman ask them if they have a lighter (though I did not see her).

The sleeping man just awoke, he's wearing black pants, tee and leather jacket, has longer, shaggy hair and a beard-goatee combo. He's now smoking something and coughing a bit, now making a call and overheard saying something about a housing program. As Carlin says, homes are just places where we store our stuff. A heavy set woman with large breasts wearing long, brown hair, pants and eyewear frames in a tight white top just walked through the corner of the park on her phone. I've been on my phone quite a bit since I've been here, too.

A clean cut man wearing dark shades, a charcoal gray polo and light blue shorts just wandered in with his lunch and sat where the woman had been enjoying her soda. A short, heavyset woman just wandered in with her lunch and sat on the concrete barrier surrounding the base of the centerpiece tree. This park is situated in a circular formation with a ring of well manicured trees and benches surrounding a large, dark red leafed centerpiece tree that's much taller than anything else directly around it. Few places are more well manicured than this. I'd rather be nowhere else right this moment. It's a beautiful, warm, sunny and peaceful day in Seattle ...

As I was leaving a woman in a light blue plaid short sleeve top pushed her two sleeping toddlers in on a stroller toward the three congregated stoners who just disbanded. She is now seated next to the other woman on the centerpiece barrier. All you can hear are the swooshing of cars passing on the adjacent MLK Jr. Way arterial, maybe the occasional car stereo with windows down.

It's quieter in my counselor's waiting room, just the occasional commercial toilet flush or shuffle of feet on carpet along with an oddly low volume digital Emerson alarm clock radio playing Rush's Tom Sawyer with a sticky note next to it asking please not to turn it off. The woman who walked through the corner of the park on her phone just walked slowly through the waiting room reading her phone and quietly entered the door at the other end of the room. The station moved onto The Politics of Dancing and it's time for my appt.