Encounters & Dreams

On the thirteenth of August this year, I had a close encounter of an enchanting kind. Nightfall was just starting to set in, which means around 9:00 p.m. during Pacific Northwest late summers (and much later in late spring). I was out front of my home setting up the sprinkler when a flying object from the west caught my eye. It was large and gray with an enormous wingspan. The specter made a sudden two-point landing on the electrical service line across the lawn from where I was standing.

My sense was to remain still. I didn't want to startle this amazing creature. Or perhaps it was me preferring to not be startled by this amazing creature. My next inclination was to have my husband see it. On rare occasions in the middle of the night we hear owls calling out from the woods behind our home. We've never actually seen one incarnate.

I slowly reached for the phone in my front pocket. As I started to dial the owl leaped from its perch and swooped down onto the lawn where it stood about eight feet from me, wings partially extended at its sides. I couldn't believe it. Indeed it was an owl, a very big owl, about the size of a human toddler.

My husband answered just as the owl took flight again. I could make out even in the darkness it landed in one of the two trees at the end of our front walk. In a whispered voice I told my husband about the owl and to come join me for viewing. Moments later he was gingerly opening our front door and sat beside me on our front stoop. I explained where I had last seen the owl. Suddenly the silhouette of a youngster riding a bike appeared on the street at the end of our driveway, not something we usually see at night. The bicyclist turned around and then vanished down the street. Just as they were turning around, the owl once more leaped out from its perch. We both watched as it flew from the tree over our carport before it, too, disappeared between ours and the neighbor's house to the north.

My only other close encounter with an owl was in Texas. My dad, mom and I were driving home one night. We were about a quarter mile or so from our street when the loudest sounding collision you could imagine struck our windshield, shattering the center third of it. We hit an owl or an owl hit us. The three of us screamed. I believe we were all of course scared out of our wits because of the sudden violence and on a deeper level because it was an owl.

The ancient Greeks revered the goddess Athena, who was supposed to be the goddess of wisdom and guardian of the Acropolis. Her symbol was the owl, so the bird became a symbol of higher wisdom. The owl was a bird of prophecy and wisdom in many ancient cultures.

I like to think my owl encounter is a good omen.

On Sun. 8/27 I dreamed I had a very odd looking spider on my right shoulder. It was elongated, kind of like an ant, but it was definitely an eight-legged spider. A black one. It bore into my skin with its legs. In my dream I don't know how long it had been on/in me. I flicked it off and once it was free from my flesh I noticed it had left behind crimson marks in the shape of a dog bite.

The next morning after I awoke, I was rinsing dishes and loading them in the dishwasher. I pulled the cutting board from the sink to give it a scrub and suddenly noticed a big, black spider at the base of my left thumb. I threw the cutting board and shook my hand. It fell to the floor and disappeared. I was almost more startled because my dream from the night before was still fresh in my mind.

Dream interpretation: To dream of a spider denotes that you will be careful and energetic in your labors, and fortune will be amassed to pleasing proportions. If one bites you, you will be the victim of unfaithfulness and will suffer from enemies in your business.

Another suggests little annoying or irritating things that are left undone. Can be a fear of gossipy things said about you - or the consequences of gossip you engaged in regarding someone else.

Yet another suggests it can symbolize feeling trapped in a stale or unsatisfying relationship. To dream that you are bitten by a spider represents conflict with your mother or some dominant female figure in your life.

Still another suggests it indicates that you are feeling like an outsider in some situation. Or that you may want to keep your distance and stay away from an alluring and tempting situation. The spider is also symbolic of feminine power. The dream may be a metaphor for a devouring mother or the feminine power to possess and entrap. Perhaps you are feeling trapped by some relationship. Alternately, a spider may refer to a powerful force protecting you against your self-destructive behavior. Spiders are a symbol of creativity due to the intricate webs they spin. On a negative note, spiders indicate a feeling of being entangled or trapped in a sticky or clingy relationship. It represents some ensnaring and controlling force. You may feel that someone or some situation is sucking the life right out of you.

On Mon. 8/28 I had a dream with raccoons in it. I'm foggy on the details. After I awoke the first text I received was from my bestie, who sent me a picture of a raccoon at her bedroom window and a note declaring this guy and his friends kept her up until 3:00 a.m. 

Dream interpretation: To dream of a raccoon denotes you are being deceived by the friendly appearance of enemies. Also, the raccoon has stood for deception and mischief, and thievery down through the ages because of his mask and his nocturnal ways. It shows that people are presenting false faces to you in your everyday life.

Remnants

Only since 2000 have I known my biological half brother. He and his family came out for their inaugural visit to Seattle from D.C. this month and left early this week. My heart is full. And as I see traces of their time here; small handprints on windows, the end half of a broken blue crayon, an adult ticket for a roundtrip ride on the monorail, the hoola-hoop I promised to (and will) mail to my niece ... I am reminded of their presence still in my life despite the many hundreds of miles between us.

If I'm dreaming please wake me ...

So China says to the US, "Heyyy, gurl, I know you ain't sayin' I've got problems with human rights" as she tosses her hair back, gives a snap of her fingers with her other hand firmly on her hip and then gives a side-to-side head bob.

Essentially that's the jist of an article my friend Zarina posted to her Facebook page to which she further remarked: "If this trend continues the US will be in deep doo-doo."

My response: "The US already is in deep doo-doo. We have an impotent congress latched tightly onto the teat of corporate greed and corruption. We have two loathed POTUS candidates, one the lesser of two evils. We have deep-rooted racism and classism. We have a wide and rapidly more widening gap between the haves and the have nots. We have a culture whereas the populous is nearly evenly divided between those who care about the needs of their fellow man and those concerned only with their own needs (the majority of the latter often ignorantly voting against their own self interests). Divided we fall ...

I recently met a lovely young woman from Nigeria who has traveled the globe and lived in countries on several continents. She said she's never seen poverty like she has here in the US. I know too well what she's taking about. Just take an Amtrak ride through the NE corridor. Between the gleaming downtowns of our major cities it looks like the war-torn ruins of some third world country.

In her native country, people commonly ask one another if they've eaten, and they feed one another if they have not. That kind of communal culture is rare to find in the US.

She's working with one of our local county council members on a project around our state prison system. In liberal Seattle, Washington, where about three percent of our population is black, at least 70 percent of our prison population also is. And the majority of crimes that demographic are convicted of are minor, non-violent offenses. Something is very wrong with that picture."

I think on the horrible acts of police violence we've been seeing in recent weeks and days against black men. Then of recent horrible violence against police. I take comfort in a quote I saw circulating social media this past week:

I think on our current male, nay white male-dominated paradigm, and I am delighted to see more female world leaders. Yet I'm a bit disturbed by the new UK prime minister's recent remarks:

“We will do everything we can to give you more control over your lives. When we take the big calls, we will think not of the powerful, but you. When we pass new laws, we will listen not to the mighty, but to you. When it comes to taxes, we will prioritise not the wealthy, but you.”

Perhaps I'm being overly sensitive here. Was Theresa May actually insinuating the common people are NOT powerful? NOT mighty? NOT wealthy? Her remarks really and truly gives a sense the common people ought to have reason to be grateful to their lawmakers. What a back-asswards concept. Public servants ought to be humbly grateful for the esteemed honor of representing their constituents. When is that ever the case in this day and age? OK, Bernie Sanders is the exception, far from the rule.

What a peculiar place, this modern world ...

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 ...

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.

The Honourable Jean-Marie de Montague

Rhododendron^{[pronunciation?]} (from Ancient Greek ῥρόδον rhódon "rose" and δέντρο déndro "tree")^[3][4] is a genus of 1,024 species of woody plants in the heath family (Ericaceae), either evergreen or deciduous, and found mainly in Asia, although it is also widespread throughout the Southern Highlands of the Appalachian Mountains of North America. It is the national flower of Nepal. Most species have showy flowers which bloom from late winter through to early summer.

Thanks, Wikipedia!

The Coast Rhododendron is Washington's official state flower. Archibald Menzies discovered the Coast Rhododendron in 1792 when he and George Vancouver landed near present day Port Discovery.

Why am I writing about Rhododendron's? They're just about everywhere I look, they're starting to really blossom and I love it! Springtime in Western Washington is one of the most beautiful seasons and places to enjoy it. My yard has at least a dozen or so well established Rhododendrons, as does my neighbors' right across the street.

Tedd was out tending to his yard when I arrived home a short while ago. He was pruning back a yucca, which I don't understand why one would have such a plant in the Pacific Northwest. Anyway, Tedd is a character. Very bright, from an engineering background. Long story short, his family were some of the early settlers and founders of our town. He and his wife Vickie have lived in that house for about 30 years, maybe more. They are such lovely people.

When it comes to plans, Tedd is a veritable encyclopedia. He seems to know about every species of Rhododendron. Today I admired his giant red one at the very peak of its bloom. He told me it is called The Honourable Jean-Marie de Montague, which I had to say repeatedly in my head and then a couple times out loud to Tedd before I could remember it.

I wanted more info. on this specie, so I did some online research:

This cultivar's long name, 'The Honorable Jean Marie de Montague,' is generally shortened to 'Jean Marie de Montague' or simply 'Jean Marie' for sake of practicality or affection. But it is charming to find it not only listed in such important overviews as Greer's Guide to Available Rhododendrons by its fuller name, but actually alphabetized under the word "The."

Developed in Holland by C. B. van Nes & Sons about 1901 (though not in general production until the 1930s) 'Jean Marie' was for decades regarded as the best of all red rhododendrons. When the buds have matured, there is no more perfect red in existance. The flowers open to a slightly paler red, with faint freckles on the inner uppmost petal.
There you have it! And here's a photo:

Remembering the 2001 Nisqually Quake

Sunday morning I'm reminded of the big Nisqually earthquake in 2001 from a Facebook post by Vintage King County. They posted the following news link: http://komonews.com/news/local/look-back-nisqually-quake-15-years-later

I remember this quake well. I was on the ground floor of the Banner Building in Seattle's Belltown neighborhood, on the phone with a contractor who was across the lake in Bellevue. I was facing out our large, near floor-to-ceiling windows, looking out at what is now the Vine Bldg. Then the land had just been scraped in preparation for construction. I saw a backhoe raise up and down, followed by a mound of dirt raising up and down and another backhoe raised up and down. Western Avenue rippled with a huge wave, like surf rolling in. I thought for a split moment I may have been hallucinating, it just looked so surreal. Then the reality dawned on me. No sooner had I said to the contractor I had on the phone "I think we're having an earthquake," the wave rolled into my office. The solid concrete floor I stood upon began to warp and wave like JELL-O. I asked the contractor (who mind you was less than eight miles away) to hold, and placed the call on park. Just then my office manager ran up to me in hysterics asking me repeatedly whether to stay inside or go outside. Realizing we had many stories of glass facing looming over us, I urged her not to go outside. She bolted out the door. I then staggered to the back of our office see how my other three colleagues were faring. They were huddled under their desks. To lighten the mood I placed my hand against a concrete pillar, supporting the thick, solid concrete loft platform directly above us and said "I'm going to stand below the most fabulous beam in all of ArtSource." Just then the upper floors really began to creak and groan loudly. Suddenly my heart went from light to heavy with a surge of panic. And just as quickly the ground movement ceased. My colleagues came out from their desks. Our office manager came back inside unscathed. Come to find out, the contractor I placed on hold had held the line and we resumed our conversation. Had the quake's epicenter been closer to the surface, we may have had a very different outcome that day. Grateful the impact spared us. Tagged: Kelly, Nantini, Sam, Tina

The Curse of Chief Seattle

According to my 'This Day in History' widget, in 1773 Captain James Cook crossed the Antarctic Circle. Something I find oddly synchronistic about this. Just yesterday I stumbled across a news story about Antarctica possibly containing the world's deepest canyons below the ice. My curiosity lead me to further research the content. Did you know there's nearly two kilometers of ice covering the land on Antarctica and the continental interior is known to be the driest place on Earth? It's considered to be a desert. Only the coastal areas get a little annual precipitation. I digress ...

Captain Cook has a profound tie to the Pacific Northwest of the U.S. In fact he was one of the very first explorers to sail into the Puget Sound. His crew included George Vancouver, who later named every island, mountain, waterway, and point of land in sight, including previously recorded Spanish landmarks.  Puget Sound itself is named for his lieutenant Peter Puget. His predecessor Captain Cook was one of the first "palefaces" the area natives ever encountered.

Also in the news this week, Seattle's boondoggle of a "Big Dig" project hit another big snag. Washington State Governor Inslee put a stop to the world's largest-ever tunnel boring machine Bertha: http://www.geekwire.com/2016/governor-stops-berth-tunnel-machine/

First Bertha hit a mysterious object, which turned out to be a pipe that had been called out in the tunnel schematics.

Then Bertha broke down.

After that, Bertha was rescued and repaired at considerable risk and cost.

Next came a barge that hit an adjacent pier, potentially creating more risk. Oops.

Finally, a sinkhole has opened up.

Nearly 162 years ago to the day, great Chief Seattle, who had foretold the "palefaces" would one day have longhouses that stood on their sides and reached to the sky, expressed the following at the Treaty of Point Elliott signing:

"Every part of this soil is sacred in the estimation of my people ... And when the last red man shall have perished-and the memory of my tribe is but a myth among white men-these shores will swarm with the invisible dead of my tribe ... At night-when the streets of your cities and villages are deserted-they will throng with the returning hosts that once filled them and still love this beautiful land ... The white man will never be alone!"

Just for fun, I'm proclaiming the great chief and his people are not only opponents of the 99 Viaduct replacement tunnel, they have vengefully cursed it.

The tribe has spoken ...

Orcas Island Beachwalk

A Daschund and I strolled down to the shore

Her friendship, the sea, the sun’s warmth I adore

She tromped and pranced upon the green grass

And barked whenever a squirrel ran past

 

Upon black pebbles her paws did aflutter

By small overturned boats without a rudder

She sniffed the ground then frozen she stood

We found a child’s fort made of driftwood

 

We ventured in the silvered wooden mound

Inside were small windows with views of the sound

Openings allowed seabreeze to blow through

With one place to sit, my hind felt askew

 

Alas we left the fort on the beach

As high tide obeyed supermoon’s sullen beseech

Two otters swam by, child and mother

By small overturned boats without a rudder

 

We returned to lush land without reproach

Between two apples a young buck approached

Upon sighting us slower he crept

On a short leash the Daschund was kept

 

We all locked eyes, no one withdrew

He watched and waited to see what we’d do

Slowly he dropped his head toward the grass

Then up he’d raise, letting no action pass
 

I held out a camera to capture the moment

Our souls stood curious, no one in torment

The buck seemed eager on the grass to feed

He slowly crept behind an apple tree

 

Then down from the tree a squirrel emerged

The buck turned tail and sprang toward his herd

At the squirrel the dog barked fierce as can be

Tranquility shattered, juxtaposed by the sea

 

Back toward the house the Daschund and I wandered

Was the buck fond to see us my mind had pondered

Near ahead strolled my husband and friend

Toward us and the shore their walk did extend

 

On the Brink

We live just outside Seattle in the fifteenth year of the new millennium. Ours is now one of the most prosperous and most well educated cities on Earth. Even so this comes at a great cost. Housing is in high demand and short supply. The haves have more wealth than is fathomable by most. The have nots grow in exponentially disproportionate numbers daily. Seattle outgrew its transportation infrastructure in the middle of last century.

Our climate appears to be rapidly changing. We just had the driest, warmest winter I can remember since 1981. More so, we just had the hottest, driest June and July months in our recorded history and the state's largest-ever wildfire. I look out at our hazy skies and remember a time when they were so clear and blue they almost resembled some brilliant fantasy illusion. Now the illusion is people’s understanding our natural environment is healthy and we can continue living out our current “civilized” course in perpetuity.

As sons and daughters of the Great Depression, our grandparents’ generation wanted to give our parents everything they never had and more, much more. After their second attempt to destroy Earth by means of war, they set out to conquer our world another way and serve it up to our parents on a fine crafted platter forged from Mexican mined silver. And so began the dawn of the modern, atomic and automated age …

The path to hell is paved with good intentions. I have to wonder whether our grandparents’ generation was that naïve to squander our world’s resources without pondering the consequence of their actions. Or did they have more intention behind their actions than we may now realize?

Our parents gladly accepted the gifts their parents gave them. For a time we gladly accepted the gifts our parents gave us. Some time along the way we began to see the signs of our misguided path. Illnesses; marred landscapes; loss of species. The list goes on.

With all of our wizardrous advancements in knowledge and technology, one would think we could once and for all solve the greatest problems in our world. And what if one day all of us suddenly awakened to the fact we are our own greatest problem? What then? How do we solve ourselves?

Those who lead us tell us they care about us and our interests. They are divided into two camps. The first camp insists we stay the course of resource squandering. They act to further divide the masses with in fighting about the ways in which we are different and they most ironically refer to themselves as conservatives.

The second camp understands as well as attempts in some ways to resolve our adverse impact on our world. They perpetuate the “us vs. them” in fighting among the masses through attempts to legislate basic human decency and they are called liberals. Both camps are manipulated by the most egregious of our world’s offenders, mega corporations, and both camps kneel to these entities in the name of their own self-interests, which are opposed to the Earth’s as well as the masses’.

To be clear, Earth is a perfectly designed, complex network of interdependent organisms which cohabitate in a delicate balance both at the benefit and detriment of one another. For life to flourish, death must initiate a new cycle.

Our world is wonderous, miraculous and spectacular. Humans are as well, to a point, perfect as their deepest flaw. We humans play upon this Earth like toddlers in a sandbox, digging around carelessly as if the box could never empty of sand while we build and destroy to our heart’s content. And when the sands run out, so too shall we.

OFF ICE

Do you ever look at words and wonder about their root or true meanings? I was sitting out front of a FedEx Office on Lower Queen Anne the other day. The word "office" signaling to me like a beacon. I still have and occasionally work in an office environment. Even so, the word kind of repels me.

First, divide the word in half. Off. Ice. Hmmm ... Here's the Merriam Webster's definitions:
: a building or room in which people work at desks doing business or professional activities
: a room with a desk where a particular person works

: a building or room where a doctor, lawyer, etc., works and meets with patients or clients

:  a special duty, charge, or position conferred by an exercise of governmental authority and for a public purpose
:  a position of authority to exercise a public function and to receive whatever emoluments may belong to it

Here's the word's origin:

The Latin root opus sure sounds very similar to middle and modern English word office. Let's go back to dividing the word in two. Off ice. Off as in to turn off, and ice is either frozen water or slang for methamphetamine.

For those who work in an office, when you are at work, do you feel and act fully self expressed? When we're at work, we're expected to be productive. So in a very real and of course metaphoric sense we're actually putting ourselves "on ice." Though when doing so it's probably a good idea to stay off the drug "ice."

Lastly I was listening to BBC World the other day on SiriusXM. They had a fascinating segment on the evolution of artificial intelligence (AI) and robots. We can now only theorize about such applications and how they will affect future (or even present) humanity. It could go one of two ways. Perhaps robots will take on the mundane tasks none of us really enjoy doing, allowing us to fulfill our wildest dreams. Perhaps robots will take away our livelihood, leaving many of us little if any purpose. Utopia or dystopia. Either way will it be up to humans do choose our fate? Whether we can or we can't we are ultimately going to be correct.

Bestie Phone Chatter

Bestie: OH MY GOD, did you see the video of your nephew Missy posted?

Me: I haven't, your text mentioned a certain narrator. Let me guess, it sounded something like "Heigh budgh-dee ..." Not to offend those who may have extra chromosome, that kid's dad sounds like a retard when he baby talks.

Bestie: He sounds like he's deaf. I just about died listening to him talk like that. It's horrible. Jace is really cute though.

Me: So hubby broke silence this morning. It's so silly. I mean, we're laying there in bed. At one point I was spooning him, and put my arm over him so I could pet the dog. A while later we turn and face the other way. He purposefully left space between us. So I say, "Be careful not to accidentally cuddle me. We wouldn't want that now would we. Maybe we should place some pillows between us." And he says maybe we should. So that's when I ask him why he's being a boob. He tells me he's not. Then says it's because I yelled at him the past two nights.

Bestie: And why did you yell at him?

Me: I yelled at him because he doused me, and my food, with Windex. Despite what you may have seen in the movies about fat Greeks getting hitched, Windex is a potentially harmful chemical. He says it's been around for 50 years. I told him so has he.

Bestie: OK, there's something going on below the surface of Windex.

Me: So I ask him how he's feeling. He tells me he's neither engaged nor disengaged as a coping mechanism. I say if he's not engaged than he's disengaged, then ask what he's coping with. He didn't want to tell me because he said I would just get pissed off. So I told him his husband would like to know and promised to listen. He then shared that he's tired of feeling like he doesn't have a voice. That I call all the shots down to what we eat. That I criticize him for eating things not on my list. One time that happened. He was eating KFC, I rolled my eyes and shook my head. A bit judgie, yes, it was KF-fucking-C.

Bestie: Yeah, my fiancé thought KFC was an acceptable thing to bring to a pool party in the hills. Um, no. That's the kind of food you bring home to eat in private and throw immediately away.

Me: No, that's the kind of food you eat in the privacy of your own car in the dark of night and immediately incinerate the evidence before returning home. He left those containers in the refrigerator for over a week!

Bestie: (sigh) Our bathroom hadn't been cleaned for three weeks. It was disgusting. The last time my parents were here, my mom wouldn't even step foot in the bathroom until she gave it a thorough cleaning from top to bottom. So part of Jordan and my counseling agreement is if he is going to do something, and he hasn't done it, he has to tell me when he's going to do it. So last week he tells me he's going to do it this weekend.

Me: And he finally got around to it?

Bestie: After I started pulling things like mats out of the bathroom. He more than got the hint and was a little upset. He expects me to be all nice about it. I was nice when we talked about it three weeks ago. Last week I started losing my nice. And this week between that and his empty water jug hoarding on the front stoop I just wasn't havin' it. Hello, if you don't want to be bossed around get off your ass and get shit done. I need a vacation. I want to go to Hawaii for maybe a long weekend when Gia's six months. Do you have any interest in going to Hawaii?

Me: Well ...

Bestie: I know, it's totally boring there.

Me: Boring can be interesting, I don't mind boring. I'd rather go to Sedona. You've been to Hawaii. Didn't you and your sister ride mountain bikes down the side of a volcano?

Bestie: Yeah, that's right, and I gave the only wedding toast for this couple who are friends of my sister. They stayed in this house they really couldn't afford. They had a bologna tray. Other than that there was no food, no beer or wine. It was a total joke, a really bad one. Like I was looking around for hidden cameras thinking we're being punked. Then they took us to this restaurant and we all had to pay our own way.

Me: How gracious?

Bestie: I know, right. Maybe I'll plan and surprise Jordan with a trip to Hawaii. So where did you leave things with Terry?

Me: That's just it, it's kind of nebulous. He apparently took issue with me moving money from my business into our joint account and paying off his car loan with it. We discussed and jointly agreed to do that. So I say, you're welcome. He says there's nothing to be grateful for. Really?!

Bestie: Wow, he sounds a lot like your mom, kind of entitled. Just expects things to be a certain way. How entitled.

Me: So then I ask him more about this last weekend and his feeling of being detached from his emotions. He said he has felt this way for a long time about me calling the shots. He said he wants to experience more joy and feels like he doesn't have a life outside of us. Those last two things have very little if anything to do with me. I also found it odd on Saturday we were essentially doing the same thing, working our asses off to clear space for finishing up our basement. He had a miserable day. I had a wonderful day. I was so happy I was able to do as much, that I had the stamina and endurance which has evaded me for the past few years. I felt so grateful. Then he tells me he was in a bad mood Saturday because he woke up cranky for me having yelled at him the night before. So we're back to his KFC containers in the refrigerator for more than a week, crowding out the real food in there. It's silly, I know, and I told him I'm not proud of either of my knee-jerk reactions over the weekend.

Bestie: He has the job he wanted and loves. He has a very nice car, which he loves. You guys have a beautiful home that has lovely furnishings. What doesn't he have? Someone like him would really benefit from having a daily gratitude journal.

Me: As hard as it was to listen to him criticize me, I did it with some degree of restraint. I even offered to work on my "control" issues. Then I said to him experiencing more joy is a very vague, broad concept and asked if he could let me know more about what that looks like. He said he doesn't know how to explain what that looks like. I let him know that along with him having a life outside of us is entirely up to him to change if he chooses. Then he clams up. I asked him to share with me what his ideas are for moving forward. He didn't utter a word for a while. Then he tells me he's tired. Yet I reminded him he woke us up at 6:00 a.m. watching TV on his phone. He said it was YouTube and Facebook. Video then, whatever, what's the difference? He woke us up and now he's conveniently tired because he's being questioned.

Bestie: You've done a lot. Whether he appreciates it is another thing. Kind of bratty if you ask me. He'll come around.

Me: So what will you do one day when I call and just want to talk with Gia?

Bestie: You can call her on her phone.

Me: She'll be too young to have a phone of her own for many years.

Bestie: Well then if you want to talk to her you can just buy her a God damn phone, and then you can fucking call her on it. How about that?

Me: Ed? Ed Montoya? Is that you? You're so your father's daughter.

Voyager's Gold Record

The Golden Record consists of 115 analog-encoded photographs, greetings in 55 languages, a 12-minute montage of sounds on Earth and 90 minutes of music. (J Marshall - Tribaleye Images / Alamy)

- Smithsonian Magazine

Apparently NASA has uploaded to the web the entire contents of the infamous gold record sent into deep space inside of the Voyager 1 spacecraft. Even though the media reported the spacecraft to have left our solar system in 2013, I heard or read somewhere it could take as long as 20,000 years if you include the comet belt surrounding it. The spacecraft travels at a rate of one million miles a day.

So the craft is now on a diplomatic mission as a representative of Planet Earth. Someday it may be intercepted by some intelligent extraterrestrial specie with billions more years of evolution on us, and one of the songs they include is Johnny B. Goode? Really? I'm a more than a little embarrassed. How about some sounds of the 70s, like Donna Summer. That would have been super groovy. Seriously, John Lennon's Imagine absolutely should have been on the play list. I call a do over.

You can learn more about the gold record contents through Smithsonian Magazine.

Quote of the Day

"You are being shagged by a rare parrot." - BBC Nature Show Host

News In Brief

This week's world headlines:

• American dentist trades soul for lion trophy
• Zimbabwe hunts lion killers
• Ebola suppressed, remarkable vaccine announced
• Iranians roasted alive, cooked to 165F
• Israeli Jewish suspect(s) incinerates 18 month old Palestinian
• Israeli Jew stabs Israeli gay party goers
• Jet incinerates members of Saudi's Bin Laden family in England
• Brazil readies Olympic facilities with raw sewage for 2016 summer games
• China 3D prints winter Olympic readiness
• Escalator eats Chinese mother
• Reunion receives suspected piece of missing MH370, Malaysia continues Indian Ocean plane hunt
• Central European bank cartel robs Greece
• American presidential candidate vows to end U.S. Federal Reserve cartel, J.F.K. last American president intend similar

Today's Gift

For no particular occasion or reason, my husband gave me a gift today:

These gilded words embossed on fine paper are words SCOTUS' majority ruling justices ascribed to the sanctity of marriage equality. These words now hang just outside our bedroom. They will greet us each night as we retire to our quarters as well as each morning when we part ways to go about our daily business.

#LoveWins

Intersecting Events

What do Bastille Day, Pluto, San Francisco, Seattle and Teatro ZinZanni all have in common? July 14, 2015. Permit me to explain ...

The Reader's Digest version of the story: I returned home to Seattle yesterday from my San Francisco visit with my bestie and God daughter. Yesterday saw the intersection of several events including Bastille Day, New Horizons' close pass of Pluto (nine years in the making) and an acquaintance's memorial service at Seattle's Teatro ZinZanni.

The full version of the story: I no longer look forward to traveling. There, I admitted it, as much as I hate to. Maybe it was just being twenty- or thirty-something, having the ability to just throw some shit in a bag last minute and be on my way to wherever. Now there's prep involved. Meds and supplements, feverishly tying up loose ends with work (only to have them unravel while away). Making sure I have some healthy "snacks" just in case I get low on energy. Often it ends up feeling like a part time job just getting everything together just to step outside the front door and be away a while. I guess that comes with age, responsibility, oh, and chronic illness.

Before I get to sounding too much like Debbie Downer, I want to acknowledge what an amazing life I have. One of the most honorable titles has been bestowed upon me; Godfather. When my nearest and dearest friend had her first child, a girl named Gia, I flew to San Francisco on a moment's notice to greet her. It will have been two months since she first came into the world. Time goes by and they grow up so fast. If I didn't get to see her now, my next opportunity isn't likely until the Christening in Denver late August. That's far too long.

Meanwhile I just got a strange bite on my arm last the weekend before leaving for San Francisco. The bite had a distinct bullseye with bruising surrounding it. Within a day I was having challenges regulating body temperature, energy and having headaches. So my prep going into my trip also included blood draw and a last minute acupuncture treatment.

At the same time we're playing host to my Husband's bestie, who, as lovely as she is, suffers from anxiety and depression. On the morning of my most recent departure to San Francisco, hubby's BFF also was leaving us and preparing to embark upon her several day drive back to California. The same morning my long time friend was flying out to L.A. on the same airline I was booked on and at the same time as my flight to San Francisco. He lives in Town and no longer has secure parking, so he likes to leave his car at my house (in a very quiet suburban neighborhood close to the airport). My long time friend also suffers from anxiety. Since my health went sideways, I too suffer from anxiety. This is going to sound a bit flakey, I have also learned how sensitive I am to other people's energy, and my anxiety can easily be fueled by others'.

Like any morning of departure, it's rush, rush, rush to get ready and out the door. I wasn't feeling particularly well. Some lingering symptoms from my peculiar bite perhaps. General malaise, my stomach was burning a bit (that's new). In fact, in the 17 years I've known my good friend, for the very first time he asked "are you OK" while we were in the car driving to the airport. I've never known him to sound so concerned. He said it was because I was being so calm and quiet (which I try to have as my default when I'm feeling "off").

It's after the long July 4 holiday weekend, so airport security checkpoints are choked. My friend has TSA pre, so he could practically walk directly into the terminal. He chose instead to escort me through security, despite my insistence that he take advantage of his travel perk. It was very kind of him to see me through, and when we cleared security I was grateful to have him watch my bags while I had to urgently expel my bowels. Something was not right with me. The moment I sat down in the stall, the podium put out an APB fore me. Apparently my flight had already boarded and they were in the process of closing the doors.

I finished as quickly as I could. My friend also informed me about the loudspeaker announcement. So we hastily said goodbye and off I ran down C Concourse to catch my flight before it left without me. When I reached the gate, the agent greeted me and I explained my holdup in security, which was mostly true. The gate agent was kind, seemed understanding and went directly to the keypad to reopen the jetway door. Then off I went.

The plane door was still open. It looked as if everyone was seated and I was the very last person to board. Thankfully had an aisle seat, so no one had to get up to accommodate me. Except there was no overhead bin space. The flight was jam-packed. The head purser wasn't very helpful, insisting they would have to check my bag. After pleading for closet space, another, kinder flight attendant made it happen. I finally sat down and was getting situated when I noticed how incredibly hot I felt. I wasn't sure if it was the plane or just me that was so stifling and stuffy. I wasn't breaking a sweat and yet I still felt incredibly hot, like I've never felt before. My insides were burning. I suddenly felt dry and dehydrated. Then I remembered in my rush to the plane I didn't fill my water bottle. I could feel the blood drain from my head and my vision started to blur. Then I felt like I was on the verge of passing out.

My awareness was around needing water. I didn't have any. Then my second thought was around whether this condition might worsen. The prior few days I had been "off," and here we are confined to this metal tube for a couple hours. I didn't know what was worse, the woosey, too hot feeling overwhelming me or the fact that once the doors closed my fate would be sealed. Suddenly one last person boarded and I stood up to tell the nice flight attendant I wasn't well enough to fly today. I've never done that before and honestly didn't think I was. So she thanked me for letting her know and retrieved my bag. The not-so-nice flight attendant also thanked me for letting them know I wasn't well enough to fly, and she actually displayed compassion. As did the gentleman at the gate podium, who came back over to me when I was on the phone to my bestie letting her know I disembarked the plane prior to take off and offered to assist me with re-booking sans change fee. Quite kind.

Not just anyone gets the title of bestie. Mine was beyond understanding, compassionate and kind. My husband on the other hand freaked out on me. I had to disconnect our call several times as I literally could not handle his anger toward me. I returned home from the airport, feeling physically and emotionally defeated.

Air travel aside, which I no longer find appealing, I had been looking forward to some additional connections. The night I was to arrive in The City was my friend Andrew's premiere party for his starring role in Bravo's new Million Dollar Listing San Francisco. I know my dear bestie and new mommy would have really appreciated a glamorous night out, and at a day spa on posh Maiden Lane. Can't say there will be another time.

I also missed connecting with a long time friend from college. We worked on the paper together. She's also a bit of a celebrity, though more for her strength fighting for social justice after she was racially profiled by an airline and taken away in cuffs at the Detroit airport. Here's a link to some of her posts and the constitutional protections her case made possible: https://www.aclu.org/bio/shoshana-hebshi

I did manage to visit with another long time college friend of mine. One out of three, yeah that's pretty shabby. I just couldn't fly that day. It was what it was.

Clearly I was meant to depart on the ninth instead of the eighth. Even the day following my last minute aircraft escape I wasn't feeling too well. Mostly had breath shortness and felt fairly weak. As my husband was on his way out the door to head to work, I wrapped myself up in his arms and burst into tears.

Envisioning a repeat of the previous day, the worst thoughts came to my mind. That we'd be thousands of feet above the ground and my body would betray me in some way. It's a really uncomfortable existence when one lives each day wondering whether one's body might suddenly turn on itself. I know, it's completely irrational. And yet my body has done this, on more than one occasion. Yeah, it's fucked up.

Pulling out my woo woo card here. I reached out to my energist and connected with her just before my cab pulled up. She tells me I've ascended to my light self so rapidly my body is having a hard time catching up. I'm not entirely sure what that means, it sounds kind of cool. She said my body's old programming for travel no longer works in this new paradigm, so I have to make changes. Incidentally I had consulted the day previous with the I Ching (the Chinese "Book of Changes"), and everything I was getting revolved around stillness. For me this means inner stillness; Zen.

She suggested I could repack into a different piece of luggage, which wasn't an option at this point. My Uber was on its way. Then she suggested I take with me a couple items that are more representative of the new me. So I put The Dalai Lama's Little Book of Inner Peace in my bag and a small, white origami crane I found on the street one day in my wallet.

At the airport I said a pleasant hello to each of the uniformed TSA staff I encountered. I breezed through security. I don't know what they did to make it so I could walk right up to the podium, show my ticket and ID, then put my belongings right onto the belt and pass through. I thanked a couple of them for their efficiency. One of them said "Don't get used to it." Of course not.

I sat next to two of the most lovely people on the plane. Within the first few minutes of introducing myself to Sorrel and Doug (from Victoria, B.C.), I came to know they, too, were Cal Poly graduates (class of '77 if memory serves). Most surprisingly, they shared with me about their daughter who just transitioned as a female. That's not your typical conversation starter.

Years ago, even before I began practicing journalism, I found I had a knack for getting people to open up. Now this was never really very intentional or pre-meditated. I'm just, clearly, a very open person. Naturally I believe this puts people at ease and allows them to feel comfortable enough sharing their lives with me. It's something I have always thrived on. I love sharing my stories and hearing others'. We all have such unique experiences to share with one another.

Both Sorrel and Doug Marks remarked about how much happier their daughter is now, that she walks with a new air of confidence and a spring in her step. Doug admitted at first he mourned for the loss of his only son. They have three other daughters. And yet seeing how happy she is now, getting to know this bright spirit, they both couldn't be more supportive.

The way they beamed with love when sharing with me about this experience, my eyes welled with tears. I told them how very lucky their daughter is to have them as parents. Truly.

As we descended into San Francisco, I felt utterly relieved to be greeted by cool, grey, overcast skies. Seattle has been a sweatbox, an unusually prematurely sweltering and dry one at that. My first night in The City, the moment I got into bed it began to rain. It's a sound I'm fond of and have ironically missed living in Seattle.

While I had a wonderful visit with my bestie and God daughter, it took a lot out of me. Late-ish to bed, early to rise, being out of routine. I feel like some geriatric eighty-something to admit it doesn't take much to throw my body for a loop. Historically, delicate isn't a word I would have ever used to describe my adult self. Now however ... Shit.

I had cut my trip a day short so my husband and I could attend the memorial service for an acquaintance. It was really more to support some of his survivors who have been close friends of ours. In fact, two in particular were his closest of friends. They were there with him his very last week on earth, tending to him in nearly every way imaginable.

His name was Mark Noyes. He died at age 50. A link to his obituary: http://www.legacy.com/obituaries/daily-times/obituary.aspx?n=mark-lee-noyes&pid=174987223&

Apparently he had been battling liver disease for the past seven years. The disease was not enough to illicit any changes in Mark's drinking habits. In fact, no one even knew of his severe liver illness until a few weeks prior to his death. He kept it a closely guarded secret. It was only after his mother was given power of attorney and she looked through his medical records. She discovered he had been admitted to hospitals on several occasions to be treated for liver disease. Alas, when someone continues to use, the medical community forbids live saving procedures such as liver transplants. Such services are reserved for those who chose to play an active role in supporting their own health.

I see my mom struggle with cancer. Other than her western treatments, she does little if anything to take charge of and support her own wellness. Her bestie Sally, who underwent a double lung transplant this past year, she actually further injured her health by not following regimens and eating junk food. Post surgery she immediately developed type two diabetes.

Please don't misinterpret these statements as judgments. I'm only stating the facts. I just find it fascinating how people can get so in the way of their own wellness. For Mark he yielded to his addiction. That's powerful. And he was a good human, a very good human at that. While I've known him, and spent time with him, I didn't get to really know him until the night of July 14th, 2015.

The venue for Mark's Seattle memorial service set quite the tone. It was held under the big top at Teatro ZinZanni. Mark worked there for a time, and was ironically fired from there. He still had family there though. I don't mean the family you're born into. I mean the family you create through the sheer magic of touching their lives.

At first it was almost like a reunion of sorts. Attendees shuffled in sporadically, mixing and mingling. It was quite festive. The perimeter of the room was outlined in some of Mark's artwork, which included some modernesque paintings and a lamp he had made out of our friend's dress. If Mark were wealthy you could call him eccentric. He was definitely creative, and he lived enviably out loud.

One of Mark's nearest, his ex and our dog's uncle (he watches her while we're away) Chip, called the program to order. Another of our friends read her beautiful euology. Then a really nicely executed slideshow to music followed by a couple of Mark's former ZinZanni colleagues playing a song MTV Unplugged style. The rest was open mic night. So many people bravely went up to the podium and bared their souls. Tears were shed, great stories were told and often times laughter filled the tent.

Our dear friend Rhoda, who was one of the two with him in his final moments, started back at the beginning of their story. They first met when she was only 17 (and married) at a Marie Calendar's in Farmington, New Mexico. It was her first day on the job, and she was (barely) carrying a tray with four glasses of water. Mark whizzes by her carrying two trays full of plates and such on each arm. As he passes by, he looks her up and down and says, "good luck!"

She also offered up some of their final moments together. I have heard about pre-death dementia. And the story she shared seems in some ways like this, and in another way nothing like it at all. Apparently Mark's body had deteriorated to the point he was unable to get out of bed on his own. He kept asking his two bosom buddies to leave the room so he could get up on his own.

Rhoda wanted him to rest, and asked if he could just lay with her and nap. He asked her if all the travel arrangements had been made. She played along and said yes. He asked if he had given her money. She said he had and again begged him to just rest with her a while. He said he needed to get going, that she and Chip could rest and join him when they're ready. To me, that was rather spooky.

Rhoda adorned in a Hedwig wig paying her last respects to Mark.

Chip shared about first meeting Mark. He was at a party with some guy when he first laid eyes on Mark. He was instantly attracted. Apparently so too was the guy Chip brought with him, so he said he had to do a lot of cock blocking that night.

Our friend Laurie told of Mark's promise of spring. Seattle winters can be dark and dreary. So he encouraged her to look for the first flowers that bloom. To me that's always the cherry blossom, and pink looks divine against a dark grey sky. She mentioned it was Forsythia but I think she may be confusing it with Scotch broom. Either way, she went to Mark's one day feeling a little blue. He had a fresh arrangement of these golden flowers in a vase, and showed her he had picked them behind his building. For Laurie, it was a beacon of hope, an incentive to look for what's blooming all around you. Such beauty may be much closer than one expects when one looks for it.

Then this guy gets up to the mic. Clearly straighter than an arrow. Mark was a drinking buddy of his as well as a co-worker at ZinZanni. They would drive up to Snoqualmie Pass together with bottles of wine, hike up a mountain until they fell back into the snow and that's where they would drink their wine. One night they were up on his building's rooftop, drinking. At one point Mark leaned over and tried to kiss him. The guy socked him in the stomach. He thinks to this day Mark told people they got to second base, which this guy doesn't know what that would be and of course denies. From what I recall when I was a younger, more active gay man, I think it might be a finger up the ass. Not sure. I digress ...

Another of Mark's gal pals, Holly, shared of the dreams where he came to visit her in recent weeks. He told her he was going down the middle road to find enlightenment and wanted to know if he was scaring her.

An artist once remarked about the people in our lives all being part of our collective conscious. Mark's is an amazing one at that, clearly having touched so many others' lives profoundly.

My husband watched as bottles of booze were passed under the table in front of us. A handful of people excessively imbibed. Is getting drunk at a memorial for a guy who accumulatively killed himself with alcohol appropriate? Is it ironic? I personally think Mark would have wanted everyone to enjoy themselves and live it up. He certainly made no bones about that for his own life.

Part of me reflects on Mark's memorial and wonders if it could be transformed into a musical or an inde flick. Would that be the ultimate remembrance? The people who shared and what they imparted was like performance art, an impromptu show. It was raw, real, unrehearsed and mostly unscripted. In that way it was touching, moving and quite inspiring. And isn't that what life is all about anyway? Touching lives.

A long time college friend in California recently wrote this piece, which I find dark and beautiful, entitled Dying Meat: https://readpaintwrite.wordpress.com/2015/07/22/dying-meat/

Jolting is more the word than moving. Her piece begs one to question purpose.

After the myriad of people shared their stories of Mark, we gathered New Orleans funeral procession style and paraded ourselves down to International Fountain at Seattle Center in the shadow of the Space Needle. We wore beads, played with lit sparklers and had a really great time!

We didn't really observe Bastille Day. I had to throw that in there if for no other reason than to add to the intersection of events in a single day. Of course, I have been keenly interested in the Pluto mission. That's history in the making. Exploring worlds so far beyond ours rivets me. Fact, if the New Horizons spacecraft were travelling at the highway speed of an automobile, it would take 6,000 years to reach Pluto. Here's one final link before I put this post to bed: http://www.nasa.gov/image-feature/nasa-celebrates-new-horizons-closest-approach-to-pluto