I swear this will be my last public entry, I’ve got to get back into the swing of the book.  And I was all ready to start the next chapter about Hawaii when I came downstairs this morning to find my notebook in the middle of the floor.  I hadn’t seen it behind the couch.  I had only seen the stick, which was unusually small.  Usually she drags in log-sized pieces.  So I’m holding the stick up — She’s still in her crate (I leave the door open) — and I’m trying to look outraged that she’s brought it in and that’s when I see the notebook.  I rush to pick it up, checking for damage. Dragging her out by the collar I’m sincerely irate.  I swat her on the butt with the notebook — It’s just a small spiral — and lock her outside by closing up the dog door. 

I seem to have the flu but I was at least going to take her to the baseball park where she could run around.  I spent all day in bed yesterday and I know how bored she must have been.  Plus, when I’m upstairs I am with the cat.  The dog is not allowed past the gate in the kitchen.  So the cat and I lounged in bed all day yesterday and when I decided to take my tea out to the front porch this morning the cat was right behind me.  She gave a backwards glance at the clawing on the dog door.

I brought the newspaper and my glasses and put the rocking chair in the shade.  I think part of my headache is that I gave up coffee yesterday.  It’s back to black tea.  I’m not supposed to have dairy and those lattes were too much of a cheat.  Anyway, I set everything but Food Day on the railing and that’s when I notice the cat making shredding noises. 

You know, I thought it was odd that there were teeth marks on the page by the spiral like a failed attempt had been made to rip a section out.  There was enough blurred writing that whoever did it lingered long enough to salivate on the ink.  And come to think of it, there was only one tiny piece of page missing, placed some distance from the notebook.  I’m rocking and watching my evil cat, thinking about my poor misunderstood dog. 

A tube of Neosporin was also on the floor and I distinctly remember that being back by the sink.  No way was that the dog’s fault.  Today, when I feel better I will go buy Bridget a dog toy, maybe a stuffed animal at a garage sale.

I drove back in 100-degree weather to attend Physical Intimacy and Cancer by Les Gallo-Silver, LCSW-R.  I have no idea what the initials stand for.  It was put on by the hospital and my boss said the’d spent a lot of money bringing him from New York.  I was glad to attend, sex being one of my favorite subjects.  I’ve been writing it up, not very wholeheartedly.  When I got back today there was an e-mail from the director of the program, who oversees the newsletter.  It sounded like she might not print my submission this month; some bullshit about confidentiality.  I wrote about the wake and about how doctors and patients approach the subject of death.  She assured me they were arranging for a speaker to come in October “to discuss this very thing.”  I’m getting a little bit tired of being censored all the time.  She has to tip-toe around the doctors.  I’m about ready to start my own damn newsletter.

So I guess it’s good to be back.  I missed you.  But, boy, did I have a great time with Teresa.  We went kayaking yesterday and I took my pad and pen with me, paddling and writing my way down the river.  I’m finding that waiting until after an experience is over is never as ripe as the actual happening.  And who knows when I can stick a day on the river into a story.  For some reason I have been traveling a lot lately, and I don’t remember a time when I’ve felt this attached to the terrain of my state.  The rivers and the mountains and oceans in Oregon, I’ve immersed myself in these favorite places with my favorite people, and I’m renewed.  Renewed’s not the right word.  I’m pumped!  I looked in the mirror when I got back and I even look better.  You take any good time, and then you add pad and pen to it, it only gets better.  I’ve still got all my camping shit in the car, and I don’t seem to want to unpack it.   

I went to my first wake.  My friend died of metastatic breast cancer and the manner in which she left her life and friends was so secretive it seemed like something I might pull.  Her death came as a shock and I decided to write about it for the newsletter.   I know the way we die is very personal but I think the doctors lead you to believe you’re going to get better.  They just want you to go another round.

The woman who called me said my friend had no idea she was dying.  That just seems crazy.  She wouldn’t even have called her mother, who lives in Kansas, if this woman hadn’t insisted.  I can’t quit thinking about how I should have visited her.  But I knew she was not doing well.  And I knew she didn’t want me to see her when she was bad.  And I went along with it.  Linda, the woman who called me, said my friend didn’t want her mother to come because she talked too much and she just didnt have the strength to deal with it.

We have all these classes on birth.  I think I need to take a class on death.  I am almost five years out on my left side and eight years out on my right.  So it’s looking pretty good for me.  But I better get my shit together and figure out how to start being a better friend.  Because there are lots of people who came to my aid when things were bad but we don’t even call each other any more.  I am a bad friend.  I just sit here night after night writing to you guys. 

Tomorrow morning I’m going to Sun River for a few days.  My friend doesn’t have a computer there so any writing will be in my notebook.  I have all these ideas jumbled up in my head that need a closer look. 

Mixed with a lot of sorrow was a quiet joy.  I haven’t camped with the youngest in two years, four years since it was just the two of us.  Her friend couldn’t go at the last minute and I was so happy.  It was intimate.  We even went on a hike, her suggestion.  Traipsing behind her, I couldn’t get over my luck.  I never would have been able to talk her into a hike, even last year.  Hell, last year I couldn’t get her anywhere for a weekend, even with a friend. 

Our campsite was HUGE, and right on the river.  Plus it was on a dead-end, with a path down to the river.  I wowed her with my cooking and I remembered the boom box so she wowed me with her music.  The weather was perfect and I could tell she was having a great time.  On the way home she wanted me to tell her what kind of little kid she was.  It’s like I lost a friend but gained more of my child, which is a hard thing to do when they’re 17.  

See you in a few days.

Look, XXXX, you’re starting to piss me off.  And I was going to do this privately but I didn’t want people getting the wrong impression, since you’ve made it so public. 

There’s a young man on here I discovered recently, jillions of readers and respected by someone whose writing I swoon over.  So, you know, after I was done swooning I started clicking over from his site, checking out this new guy’s stuff.  It was good.  Some of it was over-blown but it was fun to read all his commenters and I left one.  Then I left another, AND THEN I WENT AWAY.  Because he didn’t respond.  And so what?  Who cares?  Maybe he doesn’t care about more readers.  Maybe he doesn’t like my writing.  Maybe he doesn’t like me. 

Since when are we obliged to share our lives with people we don’t feel a connection with?  ESPECIALLY A PROTECTED POST.  I am going out on a skinny limb, sharing work I want to try to publish, BEFORE IT’S EVEN EDITED, JUST RAW.  And it’s probably stupid, I know.  Time and time again I read you guys saying you’d never do that.  But I have created a list of friends, people I trust, people I feel a connection with.  If I am lucky enough to be contacted by someone I’ve never seen around and I go check them out and their writing resonates with me and they are a poet or I don’t think they are likely to write the kind of stuff I do or they just seem to write for fun, then I add them to my protected list because I want their feedback. I am really struggling right now, in way over my head.  I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing.  All I know is when something isn’t right.  And thank God for that, ya know?  I’m just grateful I can tell.  And I’m grateful I have the tenacity to rewrite it as many times as it takes to be good.  And I’m grateful that I have people who know what works and what doesn’t and who will be honest with me.

It’s like I don’t entertain much.  If I have a party, I only invite people I love.  I have no interest in having people in my home who I don’t feel intimate with.  And maybe that’s why I’m lonely.  Because I keep that list small.

Sorry, Brenda, I worded that badly, huh.  I am back.  He said he had a computer so I just assumed he had Internet service.  Wrong.  But  I was glad.  It was nice not to write.  We had a wonderful visit.  How nice it is to spend time with a man you know really well where there is no sexual tension.  I love being with him. 

But now I am home, alone, and it is hot.  I was out in the living room, laying on the couch feeling too alone.  Anthony called but I didn’t pick up.  I must have some residual sadness over him.  When I’m there it’s like being in another world; a perfect world.  He listens to classical music.  He smokes pot.  He eats like I do.  He farted in front of me this morning and after our busy morning out and then to lunch, he fell asleep in his chair, probably exhausted by trying to put on a brave front. 

His back is much better now and the pot is for the pain, instead of taking the pain pills.  That’s what I did during chemo and I highly recommend it. 

I wouldn’t want to be his girlfriend but I sure do love being with him.  And now that I’m not it’s lonely.  I forgot how nice it is to have a partner.  So all you people lucky enough to have one, give them a kiss on the cheek for me.

Why does last night’s work feel flat?  I just read it again and something’s not right.  This illusive “sparkle” as Brenda so kindly put it comes and goes.  Sometimes I’ll forget I’ve already written a scene, either it’s in the notebook or in the file and when I compare the two there is so much difference in the quality.  And I know this is normal ’cause I see it when I read other people, you guys or books, but, man, how frustrating.  And people talk about their muse but I hate to think — Maybe I should make more of a production about calling to the muse before I sit down to write.  I have this whole routine I used to use when I was calling to the Gods, in my circle with the candles and my compass.  I think I am going to write a prayer and pay my respects before I sit down next time. 

I’m going to the beach to visit with Anthony.  He just had back surgery and I don’t think he can stand up long enough to cook anything.  He has a computer so maybe I’ll check in from there.  I love that “maybe”; like there’s any doubt.

 There was so much wrong with this section (see protected) I am reposting part of it using some of your suggestions.  Or at least I hope this is what you had in mind.  Let me know if it still needs work.  

Flamenco Guitar

I had every intention of starting back on the book.  I even wrote the storyline for the post but then I ended up talking to Brenda (wonderful visit).  Maybe some of you have met over the phone, too, those people you’ve come to feel a special connection with.  But it was a first time for me.  I told her I was going to a Flamenco concert tonight, and she asked me to write about it. 

He looked like a difficult young man, moody.  When the guitar was tuned to his satisfaction, and you could tell he was only settling because of time constraints and heat — It must have been 80 degrees but “the air conditioner made too much noise” — the chiseled-faced perfectionist began his fight with the instrument.  He’d left his heart at home.  Without the aid of his foot I’d never have know the beat, for he adroitly raced around the rhythms; fingers flying, lips pursing, puckering and disappearing.  In an especially dicey section he would curl them in like a little boy.  Once through the rough spot, keen, blue eyes would fix on the audience, and his lips would be revealed again:  flushed and pleased. 

Dark hair was back in a ponytail, long sideburns the only facial hair outlining alabaster skin.  I say “difficult” because he probably never measured up to his own expectations.  The only time he shared that orthodontically correct, glistening white smile was when he said the song reminded him of horses.

Several times he found his way in and out of beauty, losing himself momentarily in the power and ease of the chords.  Young and frenetic, he needed something to wrap his brain around, dismissing the obvious, easier harmonies.  This was not music to dance to.

She was everything he was not, and he introduced her as one of the few Flamenco singers in Portland.  Clap, clap, clap, her cupped hands went, red nails against a black dress.  She clapped one rhythm, tapping another with her high heel, and when she let out a wail, it was a deep alto; warm.  Using her voice as the chord he never played, she sang what his heart couldn’t.  Each accompanied the other with care and respect, and, as he found his stride, there mounted a passion between them that was safe. 

© 2005 pd Brown 

Got this from oniongirl :

Copy the whole list into your blog.

Bold the things that are true about you.
Add something that is true about you.

I miss somebody right now. 
I don’t watch much TV these days.
I love olives.  
I own lots of books. 
I wear glasses or contact lenses.  Edited to add: to read.
I love to play video games. 
I’ve tried marijuana. 
I’ve watched porn movies. 
I have been in a threesome.    
 this is not true: have been the psycho-ex in a past relationship.  
I believe honesty is usually the best policy. 
I curse sometimes.  
I have changed a lot mentally over the last year. 
I carry my knife/razor everywhere with me.
I’m TOTALLY smart. 
I’ve never broken someone’s bones.  
I have a secret that I am ashamed to reveal. 
I hate the rain.  
I’m paranoid at times.  
I would get plastic surgery if it were 100% safe, free of cost, and scar-free.   Why does the above stay bold?
I need money right now.  
I love sushi.  
I talk really, really fast. 
I have fresh breath in the morning.  
I have long hair.   
I have lost money in Las Vegas  
I have at least one brother and/or one sister.  
I was born in a country outside of the U.S.   (I AM CANADIAN. )
I have worn fake hair/fingernails/eyelashes in the past. 
I couldn’t survive without Caller I.D.   (I do survive without caller ID)
I like the way that I look.  
I have lied to a good friend in the last 6 months.   (When I lie to good friends it’s usually to protect myself against interogation regarding my well-being. )
I know how to cornrow. 
I am usually pessimistic.  
I have a lot of mood swings.  
I think prostitution should be legalized.  
I think Brittney Spears is pretty.    
Slept with a Suitemate.   
I have a hidden talent
I’m always hyper no matter how much sugar I have.   
I have a lot of friends. (I have a few good friends) 
I am currently single.
I have pecked someone of the same sex.   
I enjoy talking on the phone. (I mostly hate talking on the phone)
This is not true:  I practically live in sweatpants or PJ pants.  
I love to shop.    
I would rather shop than eat. 
I would classify myself as ghetto. (WTF is ‘ghetto’?)
I’m bourgie and have worn a sweater tied around my shoulders. (WTF is ’bourgie’?)  
I’m obsessed with my Xanga.
I don’t hate anyone
I’m a pretty good dancer. (I mostly feel like a dork when I attempt to dance)
I’m completely embarrassed to be seen with my mother.   (I haven’t been seen with my mother in – oh – fifteen years)
I have a cell phone. 
I believe in God.   (Or something!)
I watch MTV on a daily basis.   
I have passed out drunk in the past 6 months.  
I’ve rejected someone before.   
I currently like someone.  
I have no idea what I want to do for the rest of my life.   
I want to have children in the future.  
I have changed a diaper before.  
I’ve called the cops on a friend before.   (try this: I’ve called the cops on my beligerent adolescent before!)
I am a member of the Tom Green fan club.  
I’m not allergic to anything.  
I have a lot to learn.  
I have been with someone at least 10 years older or younger.  
I am shy around the opposite sex.  
I have tried alcohol or drugs before.   
I have made a move on a friend’s significant other or crush in the past.  
I own the “South Park” movie.  
I have avoided assignments at work/school to be on Xanga or Livejournal.  
When I was a kid I played “the birds and the bees” with a neighbor or chum. 
I enjoy some country music. 
I would die for my best friend.
I watch soap operas whenever I can. 
I’m obsessive, and often a perfectionist.    
I have used my sexuality to advance my career.   
I love Michael Jackson, scandals and all.
Halloween is awesome because you get free candy.
I watched Spongebob Squarepants and I liked it. 
I have dated a close friend’s ex.
I like surveys/memes. 
I am happy at this moment.
I’m obsessed with guys.  
I am bisexual.  
Democrat. 
Conservative Republican. 
I am punk rockish. 
I am preppy. 
I go for older guys/girls, not younger.
I study for tests most of the time. (I never studied for a test.  Not once.)
I tie my shoelaces differently from anyone I’ve ever met.  
I can work on a car.
I love my job.   
I am comfortable with who I am right now.  
I have more than just my ears pierced.
I walk barefoot wherever I can. 
I have jumped off a bridge. 
I love sea turtles. (I’m pretty ambivalent toward sea turtles)
I spend ridiculous amounts of money on makeup. 
I believe in prophetic dreams.
I plan on achieving a major goal/dream.  
I am proficient on a musical instrument.   
I worked at McDonald’s restaurant.
I hate office jobs.
I love sci-fi movies.
I think water rules.
I am going to college out of state.
I am adopted. 
I like sausage.
I am a pyro
I love the Red Sox
Not True:  I have thrown up from crying too much.  
I have been intentionally hurt by people that I loved.  
I love kisses. 
I fall for the worst people and have been hurt every time. 
I can’t live without black eyeliner.   
I think school is awesome.   
I don’t know why the hell I just did this stupid thing.
I think John Cusack is adorable. 
I f**king hate chain theme restaurants like Applebees and TGIFridays.
I watch Food Network way too much. 
I love coaching youth sports
I can’t whistle
I can pick up things with my toes.
I can move my tongue in waves, much like a snakes’ slither.
I have ridden/owned a horse.
I still have every journal I’ve written in.
Not True:  I can’t stick to a diet.   
I talk in my sleep. 
I’ve often thought that I was born in the wrong century.  
I try to forget things by drowning them out with loads of distractions.
Climbing trees is a brilliant pass-time.
I have jazz in my blood
I love electronic gadgets.
I have to pee right now.
I always volunteer for charity work.
I’ve dyed my hair so much I can’t remember my natural hair colour.

I’m going to do sit-ups every day.

Well, that was a total waste of time.

I’m not sure how it finally happened but I started dancing again.  I took a friend to a beginning belly-dance class and this morning I woke up feeling ten years younger.  It helped that I was wearing a tank top my daughter talked me into buying.  Blue sky with a nice breeze and round and round I went at the ball park while my dog chased those birds that glint silver as they turn on a dime.  Nothing but a little bit of rubber between the freshly-mowed grass and my toes which skimmed over the tops of daisies, still damp.  The bird and I soured along in the sun.

© 2005 pd Brown