Jane

Below the Paris to Seattle sky bus,

a cloud path seems to lead to Shangri-La,

some impossibly beautiful cloud country only spirits can enter.

And I know she is leaving.

Over there, icebergs

and shipwrecked ocean liners,

giant frogs posing as princes,

a burning arrow of pink-gold cloud, a peony.

     *

Were we close?

Only as close as twins

who do not know where one begins

and the other ends.

Were we close?

Only as close as two fledgling elf owls,

one a little noisier, finding shade in a saguaro

from the Arizona heat.

Were we close?

Only as close as two children of tender natures,

daughters of a Viking mother—

magnificent—but tough.

Were we close?

Close as two girls, one who loved playing with dolls,

the other, playing with characters in books,

both knowing early on which would be a mother.

Were we close?

Close as two swimmers

in red tank suits, passing the baton

in a relay race.

Were we close?

Close as two best friends, 11 and 12,

trying out our first tampons

in the bathroom at midnight.

Were we close?

Close as two Nordic girls

who gravitate to the sea,

high school in La Jolla.

Were we close?

Close as two astonished virgins

discovering sex the same summer,

one in Zurich, one in Paris.

Were we close?

Close as a pair of ears

thrilling to Dylan’s “All Along the Watch Tower”

and “Lay, Lady, Lay.”

Were we close?

Close as Betty’s daughters, raving about the best books,

The Wizard of Oz to Mrs. Dalloway,

In Arabian Nights to Duino Elegies.

Were we close?

Close as two horses nickering,

galloping, freed, ecstatic

in Berkeley in the '60s.

Were we close?

Close as two artists’ models

costumed as the Mad Hatter and the Dormouse

at an art class Tea Party in Kroeber Hall.

Were we close?

Close as two Viking daughters

setting sail for adventures in the ‘70s

on trimaran and schooner.

Were we close?

When one was in trouble in Ecuador,

she didn’t have to say a thing,

the other leaped to go.

Were we close?

Close as two female artists, slowly learning

how to stay devoted to the making, the shaping,

and cheering each other on.

Were we close?

Close as two monks

who value simple food

and silence.

Were we close?

All our lives when the phone rang,

we knew

when it was the other.

Were we close?

Praying for each other to find a worthy mate,

one who’d be there through celebration and suffering,

the failing body, sailing the long distance with us through the end.

Were we close?

Close as daughters of a splendid father,

fighting for him to finish his life as he wished,

exulting with our family when he returned as hawk.

Were we close?

Close as two art lovers,

speechless at Louise Bourgeois at the Pompidou,

a woman telling deep, difficult truth through her art.

Were we close?

Close as two stars

in opposite constellations,

the Centaur and the Twins.

Were we close?

Close as a dreamer

dreaming with Jane through the bardos,

through the long journey home.

Were we close?

Close as two stars in the same immensity,

connected to each other, and you,

through our shining.

     *

Out of thick fog,

two points of a star lit with gold,

or the tail of a fish:

Seattle.

Pine trees, gold

light and sea.

Serenity over all.

Roar of the plane descending.

Race to Swedish Hospital

with Jon and Leatrice. Already there:

Betty, Suki, Ann, Greg,

Bayu, Rachel and Liza.

Jane in bed,

eyes closed, struggling for breath,

beautiful as ever. We hold her hands,

stroke her brow. An hour later, she goes.

Are we close?

Always. 

Adieu to the Lion

 

 

He is old and tired. His right leg drags behind him. His bony skeleton shows pink through the white fur. It is hard for him to jump on the bed or onto a chair beside us.

In May and June, I traveled for a month in the USA, and coming home, wept on seeing our little lion so weak, so sick. You can see it in his eyes, his fur, his slow movement. He has a tumor, inoperable because of his age, and we grind six medications a day into his food. He is 19.

Street art by Miss-Tic (c) 2013 

Richard and I lie on the living room floor, and sing to him. We bring his small statue of Bastet out of her basket, and she blesses him. Marley’s voice is a peep now instead of a roar.

Macho cat, King of the Block, calm, afraid of nothing, no one, resourceful (he adopted us after interviewing everyone on the block), confident, outspoken. He was Richard’s muse and mine, he gave us equal time. He was the familiar of our writing group for six or seven years.

He was seriously pissed at us twice, and both involved moves. Once when we moved from Venice, California a few miles to Playa del Rey. There were so many feral cats in the neighborhood, and he came home beaten up and bitten (and turned into a Cone-head for a few months) that we had to keep him indoors after his years of roaming Venice. (How would you feel? Exactly.) But he did have a sunny inner courtyard all his own in the center of our Spanish-style house.

And then on moving to Paris, because he was ONE pound over the weight limit and so could not ride with us upfront, he was banished into cargo limbo for the plane trip. He hissed at us like a cobra when we picked him up in the fret section of Charles de Gaulle airport. Fret? We did. And later learned it meant freight.  He wouldn’t look at us the whole taxi ride into town.

And then he became a Parisian chat. He learned to modulate his voice, not to be yelling all the time like an American. To trim down. (A friend, Frederic Tuten, tells us that when he lived in Paris, someone told him the only serious crime here is being fat).

Marley learned to be a flâneur. He disguised himself as a fur scarf, and strolled around Paris on Richard’s shoulders, as cool and leisurely as any Parisian cat.

Street art (c) 2013 by C215

In all essential ways, though, he did not change on moving to Paris. He still loved being as close to us as he could get. Either one of us would do, but both of us? Purr-fect.

He was still psychic. When friends Mort and Jeannette were last here, visiting from their houseboat, he sensed Jeannette’s grief at losing their sailor chat, Miranda. In a room full of a dozen people, he stayed close to her, wove around her ankles, comforting her, and who knows, maybe even speaking to Miranda’s spirit. 

Street art (c) 2013 by Fred Le Chevalier

He approved of physical vigor. One morning just a few weeks ago while waiting for my tea water to simmer, I was inventing Hindu ballet moves. Marley nudged my calf and purred. This is more like it, he said. All that sitting around putting marks on paper. Stretch those limbs! Let’s dance!

Today I found him splayed like a frog on the tile near his litter box. I picked him up and placed him on his throne, a big pillow on the floor near the open window he used to jump out of to sun himself on the fifth-floor ledge.

I called to see how late our vet would be there on a Saturday. Till 3:30. I showered. Tried to reach Richard, who was out photographing a parade.

Marley was having trouble breathing. I kept checking as I dressed. He was panting. I lay beside him, talked to him. Tried to give him water. He couldn’t drink. I ran back to the bedroom to grab my purse. Checked again.

Marley was still.

Deeper than words, silence. And tears.

Before I Die...Paris Play #100

 

To celebrate our one-hundredth edition of Paris Play, we've created our third Surrealist Café, our virtual gathering place where readers/friends contribute, and we curate.

Last week, we asked you to fill in the blank: Before I die I want to ______________.

This week, your heartfelt, soul-deep replies; we tried to honor them each with the best illustration that we could create.

Thank you, everyone who played. You make our lives so much richer with your depth, and your willingness to participate in community. When we first arrived in Paris, we worried about isolation from our loved ones. Hah! Not a chance.

May all your dreams come true before you die.

Love,

Kaaren and Richard

Ted Tokio Tanaka

 

Before I die I want to feel comfort to move on to after life.

Porter Scott

Painting by Ku Gao (c) 2012

Before I die, I want to tie the ribbon on my life (or come full circle) by signing all of the paintings of my youth and selecting all of the best photos I’ve taken over the years; thereby leaving my small visual mark on the world as my most satisfying accomplishment!

Gayle

 

Before I die I want to marry someone rich to take care of me.

Anna Waterhouse

  

Before I die I want to see God, preferably in Italy.

Ann Denk

 

Before I die I want to welcome more grandchildren into our family.

Malika Moore

 

Before I die I want to be ready, as in Hamlet's saying, "All is readiness."

Polly Frizzell

 

Before I die I want to see my beloved sisters Kaaren and Jane in the flesh many more times.

Jon Hess

 

Before I die I want to be free to trust in love.

Aline Soules 

 

Before I die, I want to know that I've lived completely.

Suki Edwards

Before I die, I want to explore Scandinavia and New Zealand.

Hope Alvarado

 

Before I die I want to go on an African photo safari.

Sojourner Kincaid Rolle

 

Before I die, I would like to have a poem that I have written acknowledged for its timeless perfection and, as its composer, be recognized in the history of our time as a Poet.

Marguerite Baca

 

Before I die I'd like to develop a green thumb, if that's possible, and grow an abundance of vegetables and herbs to share with friends and loved ones.

Joanne Warfield

 

Before I die, I want to love as I've never loved before with every cell of my being until I turn back into stardust.

Daniel Abdal-Hayy Moore

Street art by Jérôme Mesnager 

Before I die, I want to breathe eternity's air, die before I die in the sweetest sense, and swim in its light.

Larry Colker

Street art by Pole Ka

Before I die, I want to hold my great-grandchild.

Vivian Beban

 

Before I die, I'd just like to host a fantastic party for loved ones and friends, especially those I haven't seen in years, with a live band (my son-in-law Jeff being the leader, of course) and the best caterer money could buy, in a natural setting or a beautiful winery, and I'd want it to go on for a whole day and evening just like in the old movies.

Bayu Laprade

Street art by ME Paris 

Before I die, I want to achieve great joy, success and mastery in a creative realm.

Sab Will

 

Before I die I want to know I made a difference.

Carol Cellucci

 

Before I die I want to stop working and travel.

Craig Fleming

 

Before I die I want to whirl like a dervish on the razor's edge, entranced yet all the while fully awake.

Ebba Brooks

 

Before I die I want to get my novel published.

Kari Denk

 

Before I die, I want to know that my daughter is and will be strong, independent, happy, loyal, charismatic, loving, and an all-around good person.

Bruce Moody

 

Before I die, I want to bring my work before folks on line and clean out my basement so my daughter doesn't have to do it then.

Anonymous

 

Before I die, I want to...document every last piece of urban art in Paris.

John Brunski

 

Before I die, I want to go surfing as much as I did as a kid, or at least as much as my son does now!

Eric Schafer

 

Before I die, I want to have my book published.

Ren Powell

 

Before I die I want to grow very, very old slowly; to pass through my days like an outward-bound trip, seeing the new every moment.

Anne Reese

 

Before I die, I want to walk as I used to, or I want to walk well.

Connie Josefs

Create to create

Before I die, I want to finish and publish my work.

Nancy Zafris

 

Before I die I want to spend an afternoon with the Loch Ness Monster.

Dawna Kemper

Street art by Fred Le Chevalier

Before I die, I want to see a smart, soulful, progressive woman in the White House (as President, not First Lady; we thankfully already have the latter).

Kaaren Kitchell

Before I die I want to bring forth what is in me,
to transpose vision and memory
into literary works of art.

Betty Kitchell

Street art by Sardine Animal

Before I die, I want to do…nothing!  I've done it all!

Surrealist Café Gathering #3: “Before I Die I Want to ______________”

 

“Preparing for death is one of the most empowering things
you can do. Thinking about death clarifies your life.”

                                    —Candy Chang

We are weaving a rich tapestry as we live,
of colors, images and moods.
This week, the black of death,
the turquoise of art,
the red of love and friendship.

I recently saw a Ted Talks video given by performance artist and urban planner, Candy Chang. It is a six-minute meditation on death and what matters in life.  You can watch it here: 

Her voice is low and soulful, full of gravitas. She did a performance piece in New Orleans after a great friend died, a woman who was like a mother to her. She found an abandoned building near where she lives, and put up a giant chalkboard, on which was written many times:

“Before I die I want to __________________,” with a space for people to fill in.

In 24 hours every line on four sides of the building was filled in. One man dressed as a pirate wrote, “I want to be tried for piracy.”

We’d like to celebrate our hundredth post of Paris Play next Saturday by asking you to participate in our third Surrealist Café. Just complete the sentence, “Before I die I want to __________.”

E-mail your completed sentence to us here by midnight, Paris time next Wednesday, September 19, and we will publish your answers on Saturday, September 22, at the Autumn Equinox. You may sign yours, or send it anonymously. But only one sentence, please. Don't post it as a comment to this story; use the mail link here.

The other night at dinner with three visiting friends, we talked of visitations. I told the story of my father’s beautiful death on September 11, 2006. It was beautiful because he fulfilled all his dreams, and was surrounded by people who adore him at the end. He appeared as a hawk the next morning outside my parents’ home, perched in a Palo Verde tree gazing at my mother and three sisters and me.

On September 11 this year, I had the atypical experience of not knowing the date until, after an art opening of the wonderful French journal, Soldes, Richard and I went to dinner with a new friend at an Indian restaurant where you can eat a good meal for five euros. That’s about $6.50. (Thanks, Demian.)

At every table around us were two or three Indian or African men. A French-speaking couple sat at a table near the door, the only other woman in the place. I figured that any Indian man in the neighborhood who was married was probably at home eating a home-cooked meal.

As we scarfed down rice and vegetables (and for the carnivores, lamb), samosas and naan, and brainstormed some new approaches to writing, photography and film, we became aware of a strange repetition of images on the Indian channel on the ceiling-level TV. Osama bin Laden, the twin towers falling, over and over again. I realized at once what day it was.

So many people who died in the falling towers in New York City, and in the United States' retaliatory efforts across the Muslim world since then, did not have a full span of years in which to fulfill their dreams. That is the tragedy.

We wish every one of you 100 years in which to realize your dream.  And tell us, what is that dream?