Some time later

When I'm in the kitchen I remember late nights measuring out pills, and later, syringes of meds to keep on the four-hour cycles. Afraid of being alone with you. Afraid it would be beyond me to keep you safe. Every time you attempted to pull yourself out of bed when your legs could no longer bear you up. And later when you slept all the time, wishing I had real conversations with you and not just fighting with you to make you understand you could no longer walk. That you were already home. That you didn't need to take care of anything at 3 in the morning.

I remember how you wanted to wash dishes as a way to contribute when your world had shrunk. How I snuck into the kitchen and rewashed then because they were never quite clean.

On the Amtrak I saw your birds and thought to tell you they haven't flown north yet for the year. Remembered the fields where they were flocking, to tell you. On the day before your funeral driving up in between squalls I saw a rainbow, and then on the side of the highway the  end of the rainbow bent into someone's front yard.  So mundane, and somehow appropriate. How an eagle circled the funeral home before the service. How it snowed after. How the deer visited every night and stood out the window, and on a night before you passed on, when we looked back after you received last rites the does were standing there watching, feet away, as if they wanted to bear witness to your leaving, too.

I'm sitting on the couch where I kept myself awake half of every night, wondering how long we could go on like this and knowing there was no other choice. Finding it within ourselves to carry on, knowing that's how we love.

Tired

Spent a long time this morning slow-reading the Frankie monologue.  Still need to get the Emilia down, but it's interesting if I do it one word at a time, how much I actually remember, and how much time I have to think about why I'm saying what I'm saying.  It's an exercise you usually would do with a scene partner as you start working on a scene, you'd sit across a table, or just facing each other, and read each word at a time.  (It can be slightly uncomfortable to do, releasing a lot of nervousness, or maybe that's just because I've always worked on those in front of other people.)  I don't know how it'll affect the delivery tomorrow, but it helped today.  Still not solid on the driving action, not with either of them.

Had a memorial service to sing at, and then had meant to walk with the other monologue, but took a nap instead, and then it was dark out, so tried to read it sorta' quietly on the bus until someone sat next to me.

Rushed to a dance performance, David Rousève/REALITY "Stardust," at Meany.  All I knew about it beforehand was that he used a Twitter feed in the background, and that it was partially to be annoying, to make a statement about how much we check our phones and email and Facebook even when we are with someone else, because perhaps we fear we might miss something important, and because I had heard that, I wasn't reading them all initially and was trying to watch the dancers.  But...they were important.  The whole thing was the story of a teenage boy, African American, gay, who initially lived with his grandfather, and then went into foster care.  And all he wanted was to be loved.  (And that story was told in the Twitter feed.)

It destroyed me.  I had my hand clamped over my mouth by the end to keep myself from sobbing, and it's the first show in a while that I jumped up for a standing ovation for.  Just powerful.  I felt myself alternating between heartbreak and anger, that there's that spark of humanity in all of us, and that anyone would snuff that out of someone else.  What right do you have?  That you would never know that because you need to have power over someone else to feel good about yourself...what effing right do you have???  That this kid looked at Van Gogh and got it.  Heard Nat King Cole and found a kindred soul.  Thought of pigeons as ghetto angels...and then how someone could take advantage of him, kill his soul that was just starting to find itself.  (Was he a saint? No, but none of us are, we all deserve to find our way in the world, or reason for being, should such a thing exist.)  Sure...it's "fiction" for the stage, but it's happening somewhere for real right now.  Someone takes someone else's power away, or slaps a label on someone and decides they know all they need to know about them.  They know nothing, and the label builds a wall, prevents them from seeing a human being, or learning anything.

Even when you know someone well, there are secrets you never reach, what makes anyone think they can know a stranger on a snap judgment?  They don't.  We don't.  We make up stories to keep ourselves separate, to justify our actions, our discrimination, our fears.

The labels we choose to put on someone else tell more about our own prejudices than they do about whomever we choose to label.

There are too many bullies in the world.  Open your heart.  Become more human.

Saturday

Decided to check out the new(ish) neighborhood park this morning.  Walked through with my camera but the light was wrong and I was cold so went to get some coffee and to finish reading the Esper book.  When I find an empty seat, the man across asks about my camera and if I love it.  Somehow the conversation gets to his idea that the world is here for him (and by extension, everyone else) to learn and grow from our interactions and experiences within it.  I commented how this was different from narcissism where one would believe that you are the center of the world and it is here to serve you alone.  The first being more egalitarian and compassionate.  It was a cool conversation, but really short, and we both got back to what we were doing: me, reading; he, writing.  Hello, Saturday morning!

Later I went back to the park and walked this circular track.  At the far end there is an overlook to the east.  It's high enough, and the day clear and bright enough that you could see the entire Cascade Range and all the foothills. You could see the lake and both bridges crossing it.  Ridiculous.  This area had been closed to the public for years.  Very cool.

Went to the library to drop off the Esper book and pick up an Estonian movie.  On the way back home, stopped by an art gallery that I hadn't been to in a while, and found out that the artist had died last February.  There was a room dedicated to his life.  Yesterday, I learned that a friend was in a coma in the hospital after suffering a severe asthma attack, and while I prayed for her, and sent good thoughts her way, I couldn't feel anything.  Standing in this room, I started crying for someone I'd only ever met twice in my life.  I don't know why.  The first time I met him, I cried when I walked away.  He was doing a book signing at an exhibit and I was wandering around on a break and came across him and decided to stand in line and meet him.  When I think about it now, the word that springs to mind is "delight."  There was a childlike quality in him, he was very present and exuded unconditional love.  But I felt a delight in him when he met me, and I guess I was lacking that in my life, so it really touched me. (He was also a Zen priest.)  My only other encounter with him was several years later and more mundane.

I had plans to visit the friend this morning, but she was transferred to a different hospital, and I had trouble figuring out how to meet up with my ride there.  Hopefully later on in the week.  I did find out that the coma was induced because she was placed on a ventilator.  She's young.  She's supposed to get married this month, and she seemed really happy with her life last time I saw her.

Again, don't wait.  We only have now.

For Sale, Jan 4/L Herlevi 2014

Side of Building, Jan 4/L Herlevi 2014

Better than words, Jan 4/L Herlevi 2014