un Cicada morte

Un Cicada morte
lying on the pavement
among the leaves and petals.

The silver corpse, not grotesque,
only sad,
melancholy in the newly fall air.

etc.

Crickets in the evening after storm, after work, are calming. Reminds me that there is something more to this day.

Goddess practice: Poemlets IV

Cold moon
White and Blue it stares
through empty sky,
Shines at wet grass
in too-cool-for-August air.
Deigns to ignore that
thuderstorms and tumult reigned
only hours before.

Americana

There are other Americas. Existing next to mine. They are there, sometimes blatant, sometimes occult. They weave in and out and touch the edges of my America. But I can't get to them.

Someone told me once that Seattle is a small city. And it is true. I always run into people I know, people who know other people I know. People who went to school with friends I know. We all know the same restaurants and bars, frequent the same neighborhoods. I said as much to a friend of mine and he said it was because all people of a certain age group were interested in the same things, restaurants, bars, sports. I don't think so though. I think there are a thousand Seattle's circling in and out of each other. And I can't reach the other ones anymore than they reach mine.

Even less can I reach the other Americas. The realities wrought by geography, society, money, politics, religion, hobbies. I am trapped in my tea shops and cafes, in safe apartments, in secure jobs and nice upper middle class friends, pseudo-intellectuals, people bound to succeed. And so we can't and we don't reach those other Americas. Even I wanted to, how would I ride the rails, attend the most elite of parties? How would I know how to go to other Americas, who would let me in?

and the banal

Dryer sheets. So what, really, is the fucking point? Purportedly they keep your clothes from wrinkling or collecting static. Mainly they serve to lend a chemical stink your clothing. Personally I think they are another brilliant marketing scheme. I mean, everyone goes out and spends money on these little sheets of paper and sticks them in the dryer and......well then you get chemically smelling soft clothes.

Needless to say, I don't use them, but I share s dryer with everyone else in the laundromat and the dryer sheets always end up in my laundry. Inevitably Annabel finds them and shreds them and I have a stinky shredded paper mess to clean up.

Careers

Probably, I should have been a moon goddess. I wonder if it is too late to change careers.

(Smug moon, Proud moon, Lumiary lune) Poemlets III

One gold-orange cresent of a moon
crowns my violet skies,
Tempts the silloutte of trees
to hum in inky green.

Travel Poemlets II: Myrtle Beach, SC in May

Late at night
when the sunbathers and children have gone home,
When, at last, the spring break and wedding revels have ceased.

The beach now dark,
quiet and deserted
but for the ocean, still there,
sending the surf to shore in solemn waves.

Travel Poemlets I: NC, Late June

Night,
Cooler now in a deep
violet hue.
Flicked with
stars and fireflies,
Blinks silver
Blinks golden-green
And dark.

Snapshot

My new neighbor is the Queen of onsies, the queen of adult onsies at least. Since she has moved in I think I have seen her once in a two piece outfit. When I first met her she was gardening in a romper and today she was wearing overalls again, yesterday a coverall. I have never seen so many one piece outfits in my life.

She rides a little red Honda motorcycle and spends her time off gardening, paining on old windows and chasing her large English bull dog around. She speaks in a low voice, and she already seems to know everyone in the neighborhood and everything about everything going on from the farmers market to the bar owners.

Tea Time in the Green

Due to the lovely weather on Saturday Priscilla and I were able to finish our tree house. It is not much of a tree house, more of a raised platform of old wood with a slanted roof and some slots and shelves. All of the sides but one are open to the air and we have procured some transparent tarp for rain days. To consecrate our new artist space i.e. secret hideout I got an old china tea set from goodwill and we had a tea party with a thermos of hot water and some shortbread cookies. I allowed Anabel who came with us some tuna. Scott insisted on pouring brandy in his tea.

On Tuesday I will make good use of the tea set again because we have a tea planned with Garrett. Garrett is a man who lives in a tent shelter not far from our hideout. He has his lean-to fairly near to the path that has been worn through the bushes. Most days he sits out front of the tent on a log reading old paperbacks so we got to know him on our treks through the brush and he became curious about the scraps of boards that we were carting by. Garrett is about 50 (maybe) and actively chose to go live in the in between space to "get away from it" as he says.

Green Space: liminal in the city limits

Despite the fact that it is 47 degrees and cloudy today, I started a spring building project. An outdoor spring building project. Some of you may be wrinkling your brows in confusion. Yes, I still do live in the upstairs portion of an apartment complex with no yard or garage. I am also singularly inept when it comes to building and tools in general.

This morning, however, saw me wielding a power drill and hammer that I borrowed from Priscilla. (I also borrowed Priscilla to help me with the building project).If you were not the all omniscient aforementioned morning you might have been hard-pressed to actually SEE me.

Lately I have taken to exploring the green spaces within the city of Seattle and it is in one of these spaces that I have decided to build a tree house. It is (or will be) a fairly low to the ground tree house. It will mainly consist of a low platform and some shelves and it is where we plan to write (me) and paint (Priscilla). (It may also include general loafing around punctuated by drinking and smoking on the part of Priscilla's boyfriend).

We found the prefect spot last Saturday by following the trails worn through the city greenspaces. I think the trails are made by homeless and transient people who sometimes set up tents and blankets in the underbrush.

I really like these spaces and the idea of people living here because despite being in the center of the city these spaces, like freeway underpasses and sides of railway tracks, are somehow liminal to the bulk of city life.

We live so much of our lives next to these spaces. Driving over and by. Houses, playgrounds and shops just a few blocks away. And yet for most of us these spaces don't exist. They are in-between spaces existing within but not as part of the cityscape.
The people who inhabit these spaces are also liminal, living in but not as a part of normal city life.

So, Pricilla and I have decided to base our creative space in the in-between space. Also, I have always wanted a secret tree fort since I was a little girl.

If you had thought I was going to disclose the location of our hideaway you were mistaken. It is somewhere Other and close by. It will suffice to say it is well hidden in the branches and far away from the trail and clandestine tent encampments. After all we are the strangers in this neighborhood.

There is a demon in my television and at times I posses it

As many of you know, for the most part I am a mild mannered and one might even say genteel individual. I believe in the importance of being polite and I frown upon excessive swearing or "cussing" without due cause. However, sometimes the television.....

This didn't happen until Fiona moved out. The madness started to creep in afterwards. It is like the television could see that I was alone in the house, alone but for a white fluffy cat, and then it attempted to creep insidiously into the corners of my mind.

The other night I came home from a long office day and turned on the aforementioned television. I was sitting there watching ancient reruns of "Friends", half asleep on the couch with Anabel purring on my lap.

Then it happened. The demon I mean, I could feel it reaching its sinuous tentacles out attempting possession, attempting to brainwash me. I am not sure how long it was there staring at me before I noticed it, but notice it I did. Because in the middle of a shampoo commercial in which a sultry European voice promises strong, soft and shining hair. I found myself sitting bolt upright on the couch yelling "SHUT THE FUCK UP, SHUT UP!". The demon thus exorcised, I turned off the TV. I had visions of smashing the entire box Office Space style, but instead I coaxed Annabel out from behind a bookshelf and went up to bed with a novel.

It is true, I may be going mad. And you may pretend not to know me when you see me ripping out pages from the grocery store magazine rack or cursing the Stella Artois advertisements at the Landmark Theatres. But Reader, beware the demon that lurks within the network cables and sprawls on glossy print. She is waiting for you to let down your guard. She will coax you, amuse you, seduce you, annoy you. But if you let her in she will steal your soul and sell it for a premium.


I mean, really, just shut the fuck up.

Roma, still

My hotel room faces inward, looking down on the small courtyard and across to buildings that are not the hotel. From my window I can just see the corner of a room in a house or apartment across the courtyard. It seems to be a library or study since the wall is covered in messy overstuffed bookshelves. In front of the books there is a desk. When evening comes someone in the house turns on the green bankers lamp on the desk and sits working. From my angle I cannot see the person in the desk. I see only a hand that holds a cigarette and the smoke that curls in front of the shadows on the wall. The hand pauses to turn the page in a book and then returns to hold the glowing stick. Who is this who sits late at night as the smoke curls into the air?

Rome, Alone

In Rome it rains every afternoon. The mornings are clear, blue skies and warm, but every afternoon when I am done with work I am hit by a squall that quickly dissipates and returns to sunshine. I have learned by the 3rd day to carry an umbrella. My hotel, near the Vatican, is in a small alley of a street. An unassuming building but comfortable inside. I had stayed here once before with friends but this time I am on my own. Every morning I come down to the dining room and eat the bread, Nutella, and arrangement of chocolaty pastries served. The dining room and lobby are permeated with the smell of strong, rich coffee but, still, I take tea. This is not the first time I have come to Rome by myself it is in parts fabulous and lonely to wander the streets by yourself.

Airport

This is me at a cafe in the Frankfurt airport drinking a cappuccino and eating a sandwich.
What? You ask, am I not supposed to be in Italy, perhaps already arrived in my Roman hotel? Well, yes, but somehow the flight was overbooked and I decided 400 Euro was worth a day of napping and drinking coffee in the airport.

Germany is grey and flat today. I watch the jets lift and land as rain comes in over the low trees. For a moment a rainbow touches the runway and then the rain is here, splattering on window and drumming on roof.

I am writing to you the old fashioned way- on cocktail napkins. My computer has died and the converter inadvertently checked. Perhaps it is in Rome by now without me.

The rain is done now leaving behind high fanciful clouds and the palest of bluish-white sky. My coffee is gone but for a trace of foam and busy travelers rush to gates and awaiting planes. I wait.

on the 2 stuck behind the 36 trolley

On a cold, cold night the bus has come free from the electric cable. The drivers swing the wide poles back to the wire. The connection sparks causing a flash of blue flame into the bitter air. It is a magical moment. Then it is over and the drivers laugh, return to their respective buses, traffic moves, we all go our ways.

Snow Day

A pack of children walks down the sidewalk through the flurrying snow. They are about 30 in number, 4th graders perhaps, flanked by 4 or 5 adults. They walk, dance, skip and sing down the sidewalk, nothing like Madeline style. There are no two straight lines, but instead a bevy of boisterous children swinging their swim bags, seemingly oblivious to the cold and snowflakes. Probably more like my namesake in spirit if not in form.

Last night they dreamed of a day off from school, mounds of white fluff, snow men and sledding. This morning they awoke to disappointment and only a smattering of snow. Now, though, their disappointment is forgotten and they are happy to plot with their classmates, traverse to the local pool through the still falling snow.

Antacid

Jennifer Claire eats antacid tablets when she is sad. Not stressed or angry or upset, but when she is lonely and sad and maybe a little depressed. In the old days she used to eat food when she was sad. Fabulous mashed potatoes and gravy, chocolate mousse piled with whipping cream. McDonald's French fries, or a handful of M&M's that always sat on the receptionist's desk at her office. (Back when she used to be the receptionist, now she strides by without a second glance).

Jennifer Claire used to be fat, not horribly so, but just enough. She used to eat antacids then too, but back then it was for the heartburn and indigestion caused by so much food.

Now that she is thin she eats antacids instead of food. It is not so much the act of chewing on a minty disk that cheers her up. It is the chalky aftertaste that comforts her and gives her hope that everything bad can be neutralized into bland perfection.

Dream

“And as he fell asleep, he who had been a man comprised of head and fingers, penis, capillaries and lungs, thoughts and excitement, dwindled and became only ear. Bit by bit until he was only one enormous ear.” And the woman curled up beside him told him stories, whispered in his ear. She told him stories of her dreams until the stories became his dreams. “Once upon a time there was a tree, a green green tree on a hill blowing in the wind. But the leaves were stylized like painted floating dots and they scattered from the tree in the wind. The tree was painted on a blue, blue background and the trunk of the tree was thick and brown and gnarled.” (The painting was hung on the wall in the basement bathroom above the water heater on the farm).“And in the next panel there was a painting of the branches of a Japanese tree in Autumn. These leaves were stylized too and were orange with white splotches. There was a large goldfish that swam between the branches of the tree. If you looked very closely you could see the faint outline of a goldfish bowl around the fish as he swam through the air.” And then they were no longer voice and ear or sleeping lovers, but only dreams.

A supervillan(ess) is born

Somewhere between watching Spanish television and "chatting" with customer service online*, I came to the realization that I was going to make a career change.

I am going to go into marketing. (It is true, I have quit the non-profit and have accepted a position with a marketing firm).

Not because of the age old adage if you can't beat them, join them. Well, maybe because of this. But also because of the fact that I have secretly always wanted to be a supervillan. Make that supervillaness with a velvet cape, a mask, and maybe some patent leather stiletto heels...

But, Anyway I am looking forward to forming your physche and selling it to you.

As everyone knows it is important to start by advertising to the very young. In this way you can more easily shape what your victims, I mean target audience, thinks they should believe, think, act like, sound like, dress like, speak like.

My aspiration is to get so good at this that I will be able to shape my vict...target audience's method of rebellion and counter culture. Then, when I have formed the aesthetics, tenants, vocal intonation, and catch phrases of this new culture-counter I am going to sell back to you. Just like the White Stripes song. I guess hipster culture already did this. But originality is not a pre-requisite for selling stuff (or for evil).

Due to a potential conflict of interest with my sometimes-anarchist hobbies AND because, by convention supervillains are normally the alter ego of a mild mannered nerd (or is that super hero convention?), I am going to work on developing my super villainess persona.

In fact, due to a intellectual property and non-compete clause in the contract for my new firm I have invested in a new license, passport, social security number, references, and a silver 2008 Lexus. (I still can't afford this year's model of car). I am hoping to rent a highrise apartment in Belltown to use as my super villain lair.

I think I may have to forgo the cape and mask except in the privacy of my lair. Instead I will be outfitting my closet with business casual, khaki trousers and tight suits from Express. Unless the contract calls for a more hip appearance. For this I will have a collection of vintage inspired designer clothes. I will keep the patent leather stiletto heels.

With out further ado, may I introduce you to 'Jennifer Claire Schaefer'. Super villain by day, mild-mannered author by night.







*you know that stock photo of a smiling Asian woman with perfect teeth is NOT actually your customer service representative, and contrary to what he types he is not delighted to assist you. In fact he become quite petulant and insistent when you tell him you don't want to hear what amazing offers his company has tailored for you.

Spiders

There is one spider clinging to the side of my apartment building. I can't say it makes me happy, but nevertheless, I admire it every time I walk under the web where it is hanging. (I cringe and side step too). In autumn Seattle becomes a mass of spiders, casting their webs on ever corner, bush, tree and railing. I don't know why, but I certainly do shudder internally when I look at their fat, fat, frog like bodies and excessive pointy legs. Perhaps it is because they move so unpredictably, or because they look so alien. Or, because they bite. I tell myself that they are good for insect control and that most spiders found in Seattle are not poisonous in a lethal sort of way. Still, the older I get the less I like them.

This lone spider has somehow survived winter. Or it was hatched too early and now it struggles in a February world where there is a paucity of insects and frequent rain and wind. I admire you little spider, but please stay far from me.

tchka taka tcka tak

That is the sound of the kitty cat clock on the mantle of our (artificial) fireplace. Annabel is poised on a nearby bookshelf wishing she were close enough to take a swipe at the swinging pendulum tails. She is ignoring the chaos strewn around the room behind her. Fiona is moving out and boxes, clothing, books and the occasional dish litter the living room. I have not even dared to peek at the state of her bedroom.

After four years as my roommate she is moving out and moving in with her boyfriend, Terrance. I wish them the best, but I will miss our late night chats in the kitchen coming home from the bar and the constant companionship. I might even miss coming home to their daily after work video game sessions (maybe, but probably not).

Sarah and her dog from downstairs have come up to "help" with the move and have some of Fiona's Spanish drinking chocolate. At least she will still just be a staircase away.

The dog has weaseled his way onto the couch on top of the DVDs that Terrance is sorting and Annabel has now disappeared somewhere akin to the back of my closet.

solo perche solo piu verde del verde II: distraction

In which there is an unsolved mystery, a pencil shortage and a dog.

After the bathroom incident (and a small eclair) I did manage to get a little work done. Then, because the cafe was full, I opened up my table to a nanny and a 6 or 7 year old boy. The nanny said " I should warn you, he likes to talk". This was true. I stopped getting much work done. But I did learn about 1st grade homework and dinosaurs.

Next a father, daughter, and French bull dog* came in. They let it wander around the cafe and it frequented my feet and the croissant crumbs from the small boy next to me.
Most cafes would frown on canine customers running free. Not here. The baristsas love this dog. He is a regular. He must be hunted down, kissed, and bestowed with great praise by the new barista who is just coming on shift.

Then the barristas run off for a smoke break outside, the one who has been working all morning is brimming with the urge to tell the second barista about some other incident that happened in the bathroom. The men's bathroom. This incident has nothing to do with me or the photo in the women's bathroom, mind you. The girl begins the story in an animated tone. I want to know what has happened, what was so extraordinarily disgusting? But they slip outside where it is no longer raining, and I cannot hear the rest.

More children come in with parents and nannies afterschool to do work. Today There seems to be a shortage of pencils. The nanny and boy sitting at my table were the first to suffer from the shortage. The boy cuts in line and asks the barista if they have any pencils. No, only pens. So the nanny went to the market across the street to buy pencils while the boy told me that the ham was the most edible part of a ham and cheese croissant. Next the father of the girl with the dog mentions that they don't seem to have a pencil and he must go across the street, luckily the nice nanny intervenes and gives the girls the red mechanical pencil. Twenty minutes later a familiar looking mother comes in with her son and daughter. They had no pencils either. Nice Nanny to the rescue again.

Everyone does their schoolwork and politely give back the borrowed pencils. I decide it is time for me to go as well. I say good bye to the nanny and the boy, leave the baristas gossiping behind the counter, and head home. On the way out I see the sign on the men's bathroom door stating that it is closed until further notice.

Why? What horror of bodily function has occurred here?


* French Bulldogs are one of the uglier species of dogs. This is why people think they are so cute. Additionally, they can't swim. Their heads are too big and they will drown. This pathetic trait, the product of human breeding also serves to make the dog more cute. Really.

Raven, revisited

I took the bus today, same as everyday. I was looking out the window when we pulled up to a bus stop next to a covered overhang or flat roofed awning. As you may recall, today has been the fourth day of amazingly brilliant sunny weather for Seattle. However, I noticed that as people started filing onto the bus and stepping out from the overhang they were each doused with a spray or a splash of water. I wondered if something was leaking and, looking up, to my surprise saw a big fat crow playing in the gutter. He was doing it intentionally. Landing in the gutter and flapping just as each passenger stepped on the bus. They couldn't see the bird but I could. Then the fat bird cocked his head, looked down at me, and winked. I couldn't help but smile back as the bus drove away.

so much for broken promises

I wandered away from the beach and ended up lost on a snow field. Despite my vow to blog every day, I found it difficult to type when my fingers were like ice. A golden retriever (accompanied by a nice man) led me back to the trail and I made it back home eventually. Needless to say I didn't blog.

However, I do have a date for coffee on Thursday.

solo perche solo piu verde del verde

In which I go shopping in a public restroom.

I arrived at the cafe in the middle of a hail storm. It had been sunny when I left home, but now I dashed in the door wet and pelted by tiny pieces of ice.

I had decided to spend the morning in the coffee shop"working". Midway through my latte, a couple of blogs, and a few facebook perusals later I needed to use the restroom.
The restroom is a shade of pale green and has the words "solo perche solo piu verde del verde" painted on the wall. I do not know what this means exactly. I put it into an online translator and it came out with: 'only because it's only green of the green' I think some meaning and all of the poetry must be missing in the translation.

Which reminds me of a certain house I discovered on Queen Anne. The turret of the house, yes turret is inscribed with the latin phrase: 'quo amplius eo amplius' which never quite translates very well for me.

You can find some photos of the house on line at
http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Amplius_Eo_03.jpg and http://www.43places.com/places/view/794003/2018-nob-hill-ave-n-queen-anne-seattle

I first encountered this house late on a moonlight night, but that is another story....

Back in the bathroom, as I sat on the toilet, I noticed that the artwork on the wall had a small tag below it that stated the the photograph was for sale and if one wished to buy it one should write a check, take the artwork off the wall and pay for it at the front counter. (It probably should have said something about washing one's hands first) I was not at that time in a position to write a check, so when finished I wandered back out to my table/workstation and looked up the artist on the internet. The photo in the bathroom was a pleasant close up of a rhododendron. The photos on the artist's website, RJB photography were, all women posing in retro pin-up fashion, lounging on motorcycles or muscle cars. I wondered how he had ended up with the flower shot. I decided to buy the idiosyncratic photograph on a whim and that is where the trouble began.

Firstly, I had difficulty removing the photograph from the wall. The wire in the back seemed to be caught on the nail and I could not manage to untangle it even when I stood on the toilet lid. I looked around for something to pry the wire loose to no avail. Then I had a stroke of genius, I opened the tank on the back of the toilet and removed the long skinny wire that connects the flush lever on the outside of the toilet to the actual flushing mechanism at the bottom of the tank. (The flushing mechanism is called a "flush valve flapper". I know this because my mother's youngest sister was a plumber for awhile after she divorced her millionaire husband and before she went off to be a stock broker on wall street.)

With the wire "chain" I managed to reach the painting wire and un-stick it from the mounting on the wall. Unfortunately, the photograph came loose so quickly that it flew into the water tank. The photograph was undamaged but a significant amount of water was displaced. Due to this unfortunate principle of physics I had to spend quite a bit of time with paper towels in the bathroom. When I was finished (and had washed my hands) I opened the door to see a line of 3 people waiting anxiously to use the restroom. With a red face I exited the restroom and carried my photograph to the counter. (Only later did it occur to me to wonder why there had been a guy waiting in the women's restroom line).

In the end I decided that the photograph was really only mediocre and I hung it in my bathroom at home- NOT over the toilet however.

February, but we have faith that someday the sun will return.

I looked out my window this afternoon to see the large winter tree blooming in song birds. Little bitty grey-brown personages flitting from branch to branch, hanging upside down and filling the tree with life normally reserved for another season. The tree reaches up high above the neighbors two story house and every part of it is full of these small chirpers. I don't know why they have decided to congregate in this particular tree, but here they are.

In the tea shop

I come here to work on grey days in part for the community in part for the voyeurism. The peculiar older man who is always here asks me what I am reading currently. He has started an informal book club with some of the women and another man who frequents the shop. At the table next to me a couple chats almost imperceptibly bickering. She is playing a game on her cell phone the entire time they are having tea. Their conversation in friendly, natural but suddenly rises into tension and then disperses. She wants to buy a tea cup like the one in the shop. He thinks they should use what they have rather than buying new stuff. She thinks the problem is the lack of storage. He doesn't like the new storage rack she wants to put in. She thinks his idea would be bad because of the cat. Mundane. But laced with irritability.

Paranoia

That bird is back. It is dark out side, but when I went out to empty the trash there was a raven in the bare tree across the street. Still, roosting perhaps, but one eye open. Watching me. I could swear he was smirking at me.