In the dream last night I was in an airport with J. We were catching an international flight, and as we wove through the concrete and open air check-in area of the airport, I had trouble pulling my suitcase and juggling my bags. When we got to the gate, I realized I didn't have my passport and J said not to worry about it and that she would get me in. The way in was red carpeted and sort of curved like walking into a large silver snail shell. Just as I was about to enter the silver tunnel, my bag spilled and all of these objects -- tiny things that I'd collected over the years -- scattered onto the floor. I tried to gather them up, but I knew the gates were closing. I kept wondering if I should continue to collect everything or leave some of it behind so I could get on the plane. I didn't have time to sort the objects or to make decisions about what I would keep and what I might throw away, so I kept picking things up and trying to get it all in the bag. J came out of the plane, which was like a large living room with curved couches and red carpet, and said c'mon we are leaving. And so I stood up and to enter and then the silver door closed and through a window I could see J in front of another closed silver door. We were both on the outside. J banged on the door to let us in but nobody heard her. I felt bad; not only had I missed the plane, but I'd caused J to miss it too.

Equinox

sun paths






















map of military spending

Winter Soldier

Five Years

Pro Nails

Basically the best thing since lil' mama's lip gloss

escape

Last night I dreamed that K and I were walking through a garden. It was lovely. When I went outside today, the sun was beaming and there was a sheer cool wind. I noticed the tops of the trees blowing as I drove down the highway. The ocean was etched with whitecaps. At the bird center, all was quiet when I arrived. The dogs were still inside. In the little weathered wood shed, which is sort of like a little bird hospital, there were two grebes. They make a noise that reminds me of the "beep-beep" the roadrunner makes. Also, there was a dead cormorant. Later, J told me that a couple from the university brought it in. They reported that boys -- not little boys, but college students -- were throwing rocks at it.

There are times when I am acutely aware of the potential for violence that young men possess. I live on the edge of Isla Vista, and on Friday nights when I ride my bike back from the beach and through the dusky neighborhood, I can't help but imagine the insides of the houses where all the windows are lined with bottles -- trophies of alcohol consumption. The smell of beer is thick, and in the yards, young boys without shorts catcall the ponytailed joggers and cyclists. I imagine these are the same boys who, at the end of the year, throw their sofas and trash in the ocean. These boys make me feel worried about sexual assault.

The cormorant was green and brown and iridescent. I touched the feathers before I went to the pond. I usually tend to the aviaries first, and today I seeded and watered all four stalls before beginning to wash the area down. I had the hose in my hand when I noticed, on the flagstone bordering the aviaries, four white doves. The door had been blown open by the wind. The aviary holds about twenty birds, so I was relieved that I only had to recover four. Two were easily herded back in, but I had to chase the other two. When I finally caught the last one, she cooed and cooed. I could feel the vibration in her chest -- the coos and the flicker of her heart -- in my hand. It was as though the sudden expanse of the outdoors had frightened her. I stroked her feathers and put her back inside.

Later, after almost all the chores were done, I noticed that the gray and white bunnies had wandered out of their enclosure. Their gate had blown open also. I dropped the fish I was carrying and hurried; an escaped rabbit is difficult to catch. I reached them quickly enough to herd them back into the pen. When I closed the gate, they sniffed it and pawed at the ground beneath it. Last year, one of J's bunnies escaped and became a "wild" bunny, but he still lived in the yard. J still fed him and occasionally we would catch sight of him in the bushes. But then a hawk tried to lift him out of the field adjacent to J's. The hawk dropped the bunny, and when the bunny fell he injured his spine. For two weeks, his neck was twisted and he barely moved. I thought he would have to euthanized. But he recovered. Now he lives in a hutch again, but he hops and nibbles and is safe from hawks.

Last night I dreamed that a new friend gave me a beautiful sweater. It was very colorful and very fuzzy and very warm. I think the point of this dream is to be aware of comfort -- to be aware that even in the midst of loss, there is the miracle that someone will try and will be able to offer comfort.

Fever Break

A yellow beak curving away
from a bright plastic body, orange
and clean, gleaming as a clock's
arms ticking. The twisted sheets
for another day go unwashed.
My skin winking, my lashes
I can feel them against my cheek
and the body's sweet sinking
it remains, chiming as if to press
the point that loss goes on living.
I can't bear to see your things
again, not without you with them.

It isn't a dream but it feels like one. Halfway through the birds it started to rain. A drop here and there. J gets a phone call. My sleeves are wet from cleaning the filter in the pond, a process that requires me to crouch at the slate egde and reach my hand deep into the cold water to withdraw the feathers and leaves that gather in the filter's pores. There are always clumps of feathers, mostly the small feathers from when the birds preen. J says "wait" to the person on the phone and asks if I can go out to the lagoon to fetch an oiled grebe. I say okay. I was going to take an injured seagull to be euthanized, and it is a better errand to try and rescue a live bird. I am handed the phone and given a series of detailed but complicated directions. I try to listen, but in between visualizing the lagoon and the paths and the dunes, my attention scatters to the way rain is beginning to fall more steadily on the red slate rocks of J's patio. Then I leave and drive my car, which for some reason feels impossibly small, to the edge of the beach facing southwest. Because of the curved land, some of the beaches face southish here. I park and make my way with the blue plastic carrier past the shaggy south edge of the beach where the water is whipped white by the rain and wind and there are piles of large sad rocks. I traverse the large dune which is like a forehead and is vaguely ben bulbenesque. I hang onto my hat. The dune is muddy and criss-crossed with tire tracks where the ice plant has been cut away by bikes and hikers. I walk and look over the edge of the cliff where there is no beach, only the slapping surf. The dunes are large, and there are moments where there is nothing but white sky in sight. And then the dune slopes north and west and the green lagoon rises alongside. And then on the other side a thin taper of beach that curls and widens to a sort of half-moon swath of sand cluttered with bits of driftwood -- laurel and cypress and eucalyptus. The little beach is like a pile of sticks, a pile of matches. I am looking as the lady on the phone instructed -- looking amidst the grayish bits of matchstick wood for a long white neck. I am looking and looking for white. There is sea-spray in the air and it smells good. There is also the smell of oil, which is why I must find the grebe. The woman on the phone warned me that there were two dead birds near the live one, but I do not see them. Suddenly, I see a thin strip of white bending up and down almost like it is being blown by the wind but it is moving as a living thing moves. And the thin white strip is the thin white neck of the grebe and then I see the yellow beak and up closer the bright red-orange eyes. I put the blue plastic carrier on the sticks and approach the bird from the back. It's feathered body is like a raft adrift the sticks. I have a towel that I softly toss over its head as it begins to squawk. I gently grab the neck and scoop up the bird and, like always, I am surprised by it's lightness. The bones and feathers and wet. And the sticky oil underneath. I put the bird in the blue plastic carrier. It is only when I shut the gate and lean down to peer into its shadows that I am aware of the warm life inside the carrier, the sheltered quiet of the blue plastic as the waves and winds and sticks and oil shudder. And I feel the familiar relief of discovering that something is still alive. And is safe. And is still alive, still living.

a dream that isn't mine

the dream is my grandmother's. she is sleeping and sleeping and she does not want to wake up. In the dream the radio alarm is going off and she hits the off button repeatedly but the music keeps playing. she wants to stay in bed all day. then she hears a voice that is like her father's and it says: "I___, you have to wake up now." She looks up and there is a man who is her father but he does not look like him. "You have to get up," her father says again, sternly. I___ looks up at him. He is holding two white robes. One is lacy and fancy and one is plain white cotton. "Which robe do you want?" he asks, holding them out to her. I___ looks at both robes and answers, "I'll take the plain one; I don't need that fancy thing," gesturing to the lacy white robe. "Okay," says her father, and he hands her the plain white cotton robe. She takes it just before she wakes up.

When I'm driving, I often mistake things near the side of the road for animals. There is a small hydrant of sorts on Mesa, and as I drive over the little hill towards home, I often mistake it for a small brown rabbit. It looks like a rabbit that has risen from nibbling the grass to stand at attention-- quite still, it's ears alert. And there are bits of black plastic (I think they are from black garbage bags) tangled in the thorns of the curled barbed wire that trims the chain link fence that runs along los carneros. I often mistake these bits of black plastic for crows. The plastic looks like crows that are cawing, tails fanned, necks outstretched.

I often do see animals near the roadside, especially close to home. Sometimes a Great Blue Heron will be right at the side of the road. I assume that it is hunting ground squirrels. And there are often ground squirrels; the field near the parking lot is a virtual city of squirrels. When it rained I worried about them. I wonder if they dig deep deep down or if they vacate the boroughs. I am still wondering about this even thought I've been seeing them again. I often see animals on the walk from the parking lot to the door. Several times I've seen a skunk. I have a fondness for skunks. I think they are beautiful and vulnerable. But I only see skunks at night. During the day, I sometimes see a hawk. And lately the trees are flooded with blackbirds. It seems they are never in numbers fewer than 100.