Never-not-walking the three-mile loop around Seattle’s Green Lake. It’s where some of my ashes are; are they not? Then stepping over to Marymoor Park as a 1000 dogs turd the wetlands. Playing at the velodrome and climbing walls. Adventuring south to camp with mongrels both two-legged and four, under the stars and in the trees. Those not-so-distant-mountains echoing a chorus of coyotes.

And more dogs.

Pre-flight, the sprinkler goes ratchety-ratchety-ratchety on the rooftop to cool the house in unbearable summer heat. As I sit back, head-in-hands : reflecting on the porch.

Smelling the earth after rain.

Viva La Cascadia!

Ms. M used to read aloud long excerpts from “Ecotopia” when we were road-tripping California and Oregon and Washington and Canada. The reports and notes of Ernest Callenbach’s William Weston were intriguing and insightful; timeless concepts making us carefully ponder, really think. And wish.

Could one of you gentlemen please point us north?

Like rodents on a wheel we sped! until slipping into the perfect park. Discovering encaustic paintings in the lobby Modera. Pan-fried oysters at Higgins. The flan. Plated-perfection, not-one-evening-but-two. Blustery and balmy. Noses pressed to glass. Overdressing. Gloved-hands-and-a-magical-mattress. The trolley to Lovejoy. The bakery and The New Male. The weirdo in the haberdashery with children we felt sorry. Day passes! Scouting, scurrying once again. Drawings, paintings and a panel discussion in the Pearl on art-making; yawn, take-me-away-as-soon-as-we-can.

The bus ride to the Aladdin Theater : Eric D. Johnson’s Fruit Bats.

Returning to a familiar present I reflected upon the essential alignment of our being. Of our own, private Utopia. And as my insides began trembling, I gasped for air and forced myself to keep breathing. And then I heard …

… unprotected : upon piecing together intention/motivation, I aborted the upcoming rendezvous so that she might curate a more receptive, ongoing resource that would accommodate the specifics of her etched-in-stone criteria; which was something I’d thought we were meeting to jointly determine. I came to realize that the counterpart she was truly desiring could be played by most anyone; therefore, my stepping aside. I had no intention of engaging, once again, as collaborator inside the dynamics/mechanics of that form of triadic interplay.

Similarities; synchronicities.

Time to “lawyer-up”.

Sunday’s Brunch

After we wake, leisurely, and bathe and share our morning hike, we’ll take a convertible ride down La Cañada to Historic Fourth Avenue to BOCA Tacos Y Tequila where they offer morning coffees and mimosas? and chavelas. The kind of place where your tummy growls in anticipation of what’s-to-come. We’ll place fresh, original and unique salsas over our calabacitas tacos strategically, methodically, just as we often dribble icings over our pastries and cakes. Banana and raspberry salsas : muy sabrosas! We’ll have servers who always wanted to be servers, so everyone will be pleased and joyous and we’ll leave a generous tip and say “muchas gracias!” like they’ve never heard it before.



“Yo lei' tu mensaje y no veo problemas. Si necessitas mi ayuda mas, escribame otra vez. No cuesta nada para usted. J”


The footage of film will often flash by when I am present but not really here.

I often return to my body acutely aware of consciousness, but not of self. Like being very much awake without knowing who I am. Or where. There is a bliss, not only in the confusion of return : reassembly : reorientation : reconfiguration, but in the anonymity of the entanglement that exists outside personal identification. Perspective-and-understanding-is-each-time-altered-and-memorably-changed. It is delicious there. It is indescribably fun. It has no sense; it is realized without sense(s). And it is there I am intimately blessed to know as I create and play, coming and going. Where I will stay when I soon pass.

The listenings. The hush. The knowings.

“Say more.”

Structurally hidden, these beams of faith. Cascading beneath a ceiling on fire as I drown in words and streaks of paint; living undercover.


Obvious these efforts to hide and reappear. Clamoring to the simple and formless, not only there, but also down here.


Elephant’s coffee in sunshine with kids in the pool. Lower-back-tatts-and-bangers, too. Aging hands traipsing through long(ing) shadows against stone walls, watching the marina glisten as we pull up chairs. Horseradish on fish; harborside. Reading our books and then taking a ride. Up high. Viewing mountains; the French school on Hood Avenue. Where volleyball was played in knee pads both black and blue. Memorable clips; most of them brittle, so fragile now. Others, blurred. Nebulous phrasings by multiple tongues, resting upon a cluster of hardwood benches …

… lonely and barraged by the soothing? banter and penetrating chatter and shrieks! of giddy children heard?

Along the round fountain in the heart of the square.

Shape Of My Heart

He deals the cards as a meditation
And those he plays never suspect
He doesn't play for the money he wins
He don't play for respect

He deals the cards to find the answer
The sacred geometry of chance
The hidden law of a probable outcome
The numbers lead a dance

I know that the spades are the swords of a soldier
I know that the clubs are weapons of war
I know that diamonds mean money for this art
But that's not the shape of my heart

He may play the jack of diamonds
He may lay the queen of spades
He may conceal a king in his hand
While the memory of it fades

I know that the spades are the swords of a soldier
I know that the clubs are weapons of war
I know that diamonds mean money for this art
But that's not the shape of my heart
That's not the shape
The shape of my heart

If I told her that I loved you
You'd maybe think there's something wrong
I'm not a man of too many faces
The mask I wear is one

But those who speak know nothing
And find out to their cost
Like those who curse their luck in too many places
And those who fear are lost

I know that the spades are the swords of a soldier
I know that the clubs are weapons of war
I know that diamonds mean money for this art
But that's not the shape of my heart
That's not the shape of my heart
That's not the shape
The shape of my heart

Songwriters : Dominic Miller : Gordon Sumner