Mick Jagger in Bainbridge

                                                          
You eat ham and lettuce sandwiches for eleven nights in a row.  You get to know your son  after twenty years.  Really, there are no words for this. Really, one can not quantify.  You enter a poetry contest and you win. Again. You entered three poems. You hate the poem they chose.  It is possible to be too literal minded about this.

You are always in pain. And isn't everybody else?  What does being human mean?  Who cares?  The Coroner's office calls for a client's notes. Here you go. Doesn't this information  look like everybody else's? Oh, shut up.

My deceased husband turns up in my dreams every single night. Alive. He is alive. It's been three weeks now. He's alive, but he's dying, once again. I am so glad to see him, to touch him, but so sorry to know he must die again. He, himself, he does not seem to mind. Whatever. He stands, he sits, he lies down. But this: I am so glad to see him, to touch him.

For a long time I told myself I didn't miss him, I dated men, I watched TV, reread Collete and Simone de Beauvoir, I sang badly at open mikes. This is what you do. You entertain yourself. Or others. You do something. Or something else.

What did Dickens say? "It was the best of times. It was the worst of times."  Okay: You fuck yourself up. You fuck other people up. What do you think you do, after forty-three years?

Have you seen Mick Jagger lately? What do you do with that image?

Somebody said something to me today about how important it is to find love, because death will  find you, no matter what. As I write this, I think: So What, or: Sure, or: Who Doesn't Know That?  I notice I am very, very cynical. Where did I obtain my cynical nature?   What good does it do me?

He sits there and rarely speaks. When he does speak, it is nonsensical, but, inside the dream, it makes total sense.  Inside the dream, I tell myself, Here you are, close to him. Make the most of it. Touch him. Run your hands over his shoulders. His arms. His head. Love him. Touch, lovingly. Take care of him. Take in his odor. That's it. Revel in his aliveness. This is real. Surely, surely, this is real.

In my dreams, other people, people I know and respect in real life, people Jim and I have known for over thirty or forty years,  marvel at this phenomenon.  Jim died and was cremated - - and then came back to life - - and is now dying again!! It's a miracle!! It is horrible and beautiful! It is beautiful and horrible!  Surely, I must make the most of it by loving him!  How blessed, how cursed,this entire situation is!

I have probably read every book on grief written in the past twenty years.  It's all based on personality. Relationship. Culture. Belief system. Point of view. Perspective.  It is individual and cultural and that's it. I have treated it many times, now. Treating it before going through it   - - and treating it after - - two different things. Even so, even so. It's like childhood.  Well, I mean, grief can be as harsh as lamenting an entire childhood.

Have you seen Mick Jagger lately?

Recently, my Grandson has been bullied. Viciously. I have spent a lot of time with his school, talking to the school's director.  I have gone from being livid to being gentle, interested, "part of the team".  They know who I am.  They know who I have said I am. Is it an impasse?  Not exactly.  We shall see.  We shall see.  I have  shown

 them who I am.             

Sometimes, I get angry.  Today, having tea with a female friend, I got angry (inside, I kept it inside), upon  hearing what her husband said to her, upon hearing how many thousands of dollars she will have to pay him monthly if they.......but there is no Director to call,  no policeman, no 911, all I can do is remind myself, gently, that life is not fair and nobody said it was supposed to be.

I can't remember, at the moment, how many "egg seeds" each chicken carries.  Enough, though. Plenty. When chickens get to the end of their "egg-seed-life" their eggs become distorted, lumpy, long, odd-looking.  Maybe that's what's happening to my life.  Or, at least, to my point-of-view.  Today, I bought a black dress to wear to my beloved step-daughter, Kelly's, wedding.  It's a gorgeous dress. I'll accessorize it with lime green heels and jewelry.  But still, it's black.  Does this mean I'm getting to the end of my egg-seeds?

Have you seen Mick Jagger lately?

Tomorrow I will finish my taxes.  I won't do a precise enough job. I will forget something.  Receipts will fall onto the floor and I will let them rest there. I will exaggerate something. I will be struck with the memory of..........and..........how could I have possibly spent.........ah, really?............and I thought that would improve my pain, how silly! .........will I be audited!......will I be not?..........There is a man who thinks we should reunite because of how good we would look together in Paris.  This man, he is the best chef I ever met.  How does one know what is the best thing to do in life?

Somebody called me today and said the following: "I have no money, but if I did, I would make an appointment to see you. Never mind. I will call you later when I have something."