gypsy soul

frankfurt and london before home. i use this term loosely. i dont think i have really had home for some very long years now. but then they say, ‘home is where the heart is’ and i suppose this makes sense. as oversaid and down-right cheesy as it is, i take it literal. my heart beats steadily inside my skeletal structure. therefore, i am my home.

…but i know this is only partially true. i know home to me is ten thousand times too big for me to wrap my head around, or even my heart. and it is non-nuclear. i think i know a bit more about home, but i think in the next weeks i am going to learn a lot more.

so yes, i go to eastern wa to sell a silly house. i go home to boxes of old costumes, sheet music, used scripts, photos, newspaper clippings, tutus, movie projectors, books galore… in three weeks time i will move all my keepings to a 10×10 storage unit. and what of ‘home’ then?

—

it is 2am, i am tired. i sleep in airports and on couches of couchsurfing.com hosts for the next several nights. i walk the streets of cities to get lost and always found again. i write in a new blue journal with my new .5 point pen. i see things i have dreamt long of seeing. i find my way to a community that witnessed my growth. i laugh with people that know my laugh. i swim in the lake that taught me to swim. there are tears with the lord that has given me nothing but his best.

—

haunted or hunted or loved/ going, going, GONE/ %$&*!

274 Quatas St. Manson, WA 98831

‘Home’ to me for as long as I can remember.

Sold.

Will be back August 9th-ish to September 1st-ish.

Great reasons to rejoice!

Maybe I will write about it or tell you in person.

*Maybe you know where I might find a cheap last minute plane ticket?

another room in another house, another day in the same life.

When brushing my teeth I tap my chipped-red fingernails on the sink in time with the made-up song I dare to quietly hum. I am no composer. Left to right, left to right. Circular. Circular. Left to right. Spit. Repeat. From my pj’s I slip into a summer dress, sometimes heels, light lip gloss. And just as I am about to open the door to start a new day, I take what I hope to be a quick look in the mirror. It is never just this. My heart thumps loudly, gypsy eyes begin to water. In its reflection I look past me to see a growing library, photos of loved ones, unsent postcards serving as momentos collected from travels, a wine bottle sprouting a lost feather, a Picasso, a Matisse, plaid pillowcases and the friendly sun peaking in through the backyard apple tree. I smile and shift my eyes slighly left. I am now staring at myself. Water takes form to tears and tears take turns dancing upon my cheeks. They jitterbug their way to a loud kerplunk! as they hit the porcelain bowl. I lick the ones that make their way to my lips. I taste salt and watermelon. I wonder if this is where the silly southern tradition began. Sentimental Southern belles.

I try to shift my eyes to something insignificant, an uncovered nail hole, a wandering moth, a speck of dirt on the ground. It is no use, everything is significant. Everything is loved. I take several attempts to move my heavy legs towards the door, to cut off thoughts, but I am unable. I am paralyzed. Paralyzed by beauty. Tears dance for loves loved, houses homed, travels travelled, songs sung, hopes hoped, prayers prayed, life lived.

This is my Sunday. This is my most days.

Dear So-and-So

Dear ICE #2299:

I arrived on your track, number 5, thirty minutes early. I came dressed in my black dress and red boots, bottle of red wine in one hand and champagne in the other. In the top pocket of my 35L Black Diamond pack was a gift bag filled with some of the finest chocolates. When you arrived I expected two familiar faces to exit your doors. There were to be hugs, toasts, etc…How could you abandon my friends? Leave them deserted in an unknown city? It’s ok, really, I do forgive you. And I promise to use your services shortly.

Dear Frankfurt:

Here’s to the city I didnt even see! For 2 nights you provided shelter, a cute studio with an exquisite library and vintagey knick-knacks. Please dont be mad at me for not getting to know you better. I did enjoy you. It’s just that, I may have enjoyed Franksizka and Renee a bit more. Nonetheless, thank you for supplying us with decent weather, free music in the park and a Norwegian named Felix. Most importantly thank-you for inspiring our new said friend to wear hideous red pants to club, ‘Living XXL’, they provided many jokes and great laughter for the remainder of the weekend. Sidenote: Why in the world do you allow a club to exist with such a pathetic name? It’s a disgrace.

Dear www.amazon.de:

I blame you for my increasing brain size. You have provided me 8 books for 30 Euro. Keep these deals up and I’ll mention you at the Oscars.

Dear Sewing Maching:

I have a massive crush on you!

Dear United Airlines:

You were scheduled to arrive tomorrrow carrying one of my bestest friends. In the weeks leading up to this I have been reminded of the great memories Kt and I have shared over the past years: Moyer day slumber parties, 2 am worship sesh’s in the loop, overnight camping in the loop, last minute Thanksgiving flights to Cali, dairy-free days, Lake Chelan kayaking, Quest mornings and fine Ballard living. I have been reminded of her sincerity, generosity, silly laughter, listening ears and the beautiful way she loves. I have been eagerly anticipating the making of more crazy memories and blessed moments. Though I selfishly wish she were still traveling with you, I understand the circumstances. Thank you for offering wonderful ticket insurance! Hearts may be broken, but banks are not.

Dear Kt:

I love you, love you, love you, love you!

Dear London:

I am headed your way in a few weeks time. Please be ready for me.

To die would be an awfully big adventure

I am wearing my satin green dress. The one that makes me look like Peter Pan. Maybe that’s only my opinion, not everyone agrees. I do think its a bit silly, but its comfortable and for that I love it. So here I am, Peter Pan on a Saturday morning thinking that my blog deserves months worth of updates and wild stories, though I only have time and mind capacity to comment on a few of the events of the last weeks. Enjoy!

*’Hiking’ in the Black Forest:

…does not exist, even though it may be advertised as so. Carefully tended to trails along rolling green hills may make for a German hiking experience, but its nothing like the dirt and dust of mountains ín the Northwest.

*Homemade Chocolate Chip Cookies:

Chocolate Chip cookies, easy right? Not so overseas. Ingredients: brown sugar and baking powder here are quite different than our favorite American thick-fluffy-brown and the classic Rumford brand. Nestle chips, or any chips, too are hard to come by. All in hopes of introducing my host family to the delicious goodies I accepted the challenge and made 2 attempts to perfect the American cookie. Not gonna lie, they were delicious-devoured in minutes, but definately not the real thing. Since then I have now discovered that the asian market holds REAL brown sugar and I hear that the nearest Army base imports American specialities. Attempt number 3 soon to come.

* Eurocup 2008: Deutschland vs. Espana:

20:15- Neighbor Phillipe and side-kick Julian meet at my home. I am told we don’t have much time to make it to our game viewing destination. I don’t know where it is, but I am told that I will finally not be the oldest in the crowd. Julian looks like John Lennon in his shades, his long hair and barefeet. Philipe, well he just looks German.

20:40- Franny, Jana, Max, Katrina and Fritz met us near a U Line-in a new part of Stuttgart, one that had not yet been explored by my feet. The 8 of us, beer and champagne in hand, walked the 20 minutes leisurelly. There was no rush, though we knew the game had started…We made our way through the tall grass, corner gardens and wood piles to our destination: Frannys house. A make-shift projecter screen hanging from a cherry tree! In the background a ping pong table and a green painted out-house. On blankets we sat, bugs nipping at our flesh. By 1/2 time clouds were pink with sunset and smell of BBQ lingered. Germany lost in the end, but the good times with new friends were just beginning. From the after party, to celebrating with Spain fans, to the couple bars we visited until early in the morn., it all made for one very memorable fussball celebration.

And to come?

Today I meet Keefer and Milsow (friends from Mars Hill) at the train station, they have a quick transfer to get to Zurich and I have promised champagne and chocolates for our 30 minute reunion. Upon their departure I shall take the next train to Frankfurt to meet Renee (old 63rd st housemate). A week later Kt arrives. Then its Berlin to celebrate her 25th and to visit our dear friend April.

I am looking forward to great laughter and hearty cathing-ups. I am looking forward to being in the presence of woman! (No stinky, smelly boys) Woman who are fun, honest, real and above all love the Lord.

More to come.

When Your Shoes Are Tired And Worn (pt 2)

The employees of the hospital say they have never had a patient with this many visitors. The people that can’t come send mail and flowers. There are stacks of ‘Get Well Soon’ cards. I read them all. Some of them are funny. Some are too serious. They read like final goodbyes. Some people say they are praying. I think I am also? I want to buy a card. I am better at expressing myself through written words; even though raised an actress, I want to be a writer too. I want to tell Jamma how much she means to me. I go to the gift shop. I give the candy shelves a bad eye remembering what made me ill days earlier, I mutter a cuss word or two. F***ing Snickers. I make my way to the card section. I read atleast 30 and want to call it quites. F***ing Hallmark.

The front of the card that I finally settle on has an illustration of dirty old chuck-like shoes. ‘When your shoes are tired and worn, you can borrow mine.’ I like this. It’s not too cheesy. The shoe thing signifies travel and life lived. And by God, has Leah Sluis lived one hell of a life! Plus there is plenty of room to write on the inside and the back, if I need to- which I am certain I will. There is so much to say. I could write a 200 page book expressing my gratitude, my love, and even then it wouldnt be enough. At the check out stand I notice a sweet little teddy bear with butterfly wings. We are both too old for teddy bears, but this seems appropriate. I buy them both: the card and bear. I go back to my place in the waiting room.

There are more visitors now and fresh flowers have arrived. I will get another chance to see her soon… The hours pass. Dolores stands to sing an operatic piece. Its one I have heard several times before, but never can remember the name. Her voice is incredible, I always get shivers when she sings. She is rehearsing for an upcoming production. Can’t remember which one, maybe Teatro Zinzanni. To my left is the Lester’s telling stories of road trips and wild adventures we have shared. To my right sits Lauri Aleona, or MMMM as we call her (Methodist Minister Motorcyle Mama), she recalls the last show Jamma performed. It was just weeks before, at the methodist church-a set of negro spirituals. Of the hundreds she had performed, it is this that is her last. Swing Low Sweet Chariot, Down By The River Side, Amazing Grace, Peace In The Valley, Steal Away…

Aunt Sarah calls my name, I can go finally go in. I have been in her room much since her stay. I convince myself its getting easier. It’s not. Though she isnt blue any more, she is now pale and ghostly. She can no longer talk. There are tubes and masks, machines that make awful noises. I am nervous this time. I can’t speak. I sit and force an awkward braces-filled smile. She laughs, beckons me near, places her hand on mine and begins to tap a song with her warm fingers. I guess the tune correctly. She smiles. A greek goddess smile! I want to look at her, to take her in slowly. But it’s hard for me to stay in the present, it’s better to remember the past where health and joy abound. I find happiness in those memories… train rides to New York, saturday night PBS movie specials, records playing by candlelight, impromptu show- tunes jam sessions, sewing lessons, thanksgiving dinners, dance recitals, Dorothy Parker and Wordsworth readings, kitchen dancing, backyard grape leaves and homemade dolmas, our dog charlie, poker for money, gardening, springtime lilacs, dress-up parties, dutch lessons…

It is getting late now. My sweet memories and the tapping of comforting fingers are forced to a halt. It is time to leave the hospital. I give her the teddy bear, but not the card- I will write it tonight.. She smiles, hugs the bear and kisses me. Goodnight.

I stay this night with a friend, Brooke. My best friend Murial is still at summer camp and I want to be with her more than anything. But Brooke’s family is sweet and we always laugh (and they eat chips and pizza). I don’t remember what we do this night. I know I want to write my card, but I haven’t really slept in days. I will sleep now and finish it in the morning. I will give it to her tomorrow afternoon when I see her next. Brooke and I sleep, a deep sleep. Interrupted by a knocking at the bedroom door. Is it still dark outside? Mrs. Simmons peeps her head in, phone in hand… Are those tears in her eyes? I don’t know this woman that well. It’s a shame that she has to be a bearer of bad news.

It is so. It happened early morning in her sleep. It was peaceful. She is at rest.

-I am a mess.

A week or so later there is a memorial service in the city park. There are hundreds of people that gather. Someone head counts over 300, someone much more. Its all numbers, I look at faces. I know names and remember stories. I know Jamma has a memory, a significant moment with all of these. She, in her divine way, has influenced each and every soul. By wit, by laughter, by song, by art, by hospitality, by care and kindness, by efforts to fight for those less fortunate. Present at the service are the children from Kids Fest (the childrens theatre group she created) and members of CVP (the community theatre group she too created) there are the teachers from the local school districts, the workers of Safeway grocery and Bear Foods, city council members, local business owners, farmers, lawyers, artists, playwrights, journalists, pastors, jewelers, migrant workers, dr.’s. From near and a far. Healthy, deaf, handicap. Grandparents, parents, children.

The service is simple. There is no coffin, she is creamated. No photo slideshow. No pastor to officiate a formal funeral service. There are only words amounting to beautiful stories and precious memories shared by the community of individuals gathered. Her friends, her family. My friends, my family.

————–

I want to say that June 26th, marks ten years of her passing, But to be quite honest, I cant remember if its ten or nine. Earlier last week I was certain it ten, now I believe it to be less. My journals, which know my life best, are thousands of miles away in dusty old boxes next to a certain unwritten card. It is impossible now to consult them, and maybe it doesnt matter all that much. It’s just numbers. I know a name and remember stories.

When Your Shoes Are Tired And Worn (pt 1)

‘When your shoes are tired and worn, You may borrow mine’ read the get well card I bought for my Jamma during her short stay at the Wenatchee Valley Medical Center. It was day 5 of her visit. By this time she had transferred hospitals, units and now resided in Oncology. The possibility of Pneumonia in the midst of summer was ruled out. The ‘Get Well Soon’ cards and flowers began to pour in. Visits from dear friends had gained momentum. It took a few days and several tests to confirm that it was Cancer. And a few more tests to suspect that it had started in the pancreas and then rapidly spread through her entire upper body.

I remember the day. June 19th at home. Lazy summer afternoon. Friend Maggie and Mother came over for a voice lesson and some lunch. We never got to either. Shortness of breath and a blue face required a trip to the ER. Hurriedly the three of us packed into the Maher’s blue Ford Explorer, while my Jamma took her time claiming everything was ‘just fine’. After the voice lesson and lunch, she would see how she felt and then maybe a visit to the Dr. could be agreed upon. She was always like that: Art first, others second, Amelia Sluis last. Somehow we finally did convince her stubborn self, I think it must have been the fear that she saw in my eyes. A blue Grandmother! No lunch. No lesson.

The eight mile trip to the hospital lacked gloomy worry. Jamma cracked jokes. We laughed. Probably sang a little. My attention automatically drawn to her silliness, her ability to always make me smile.
Mile 7: the adults decide it best that Mags and I wait in town rather than at the hospital. ‘It’ll be real quick’, Jamma promises. We are dropped off at Lakeview Drive-In. Given money for ice cream. As the blue beast drives away eye contact is made. There is fear in her big brown peepers as well. We wave. We smile. Whisper I love Yous and I love You Mores. Our ritual.

Hours later Mags and I are picked back up. Taken to the hospital. There she lay in an oxygen mask, hooked to an IV. There are now tears in her big browns. My Aunt is on her way from Seattle. There are plans to be rushed to the nearest city hospital. She can’t be treated here. I am scared, no terrified. (Is there a word for fear that is stronger than that?) Whatever it is, I am that. I can’t breathe. They order me to sit down. They hand me water. There are hugs from strangers, Dr.’s and Nurses who think they know what it feels like to see your only guardian, your saviour strapped to a white board that they call a bed. Unable to speak. Unable to breathe. And what is wrong? What is wrong with her? Why is she still so damn blue?

The next days are a blur. This hospital is much nicer. It smells better. There is a cute Dr. The gift store sells candy, I am allowed to buy some. Jamma never let me eat candy. I eat a little and I feel sick. I want that salad she made, the one we didnt eat because she changed colors. Someone takes me shopping. I buy 2 dresses. My Aunt and I visit a nursing home, ‘We have to think of the future.’ This is impossible. We stay in a fancy hotel. I haven’t been home in days. I see Geoffrey, my father, walking towards me in the halls of the Oncology unit. He is walking in, I am walking out. He has longer hair than me and still looks like a rock star. This is the first time I have seen him in ten years. We recognize each other by our shared blue eyes. He says ‘Hello, Rachel’, shakily and begins to say something more. I am scared and confused. I dont say anything. I walk away. Half way out the door I think of turning around and running after to hug him. To tell him I love him. I forgive him and mom. I don’t though. I can’t. I can’t breathe. Again they order me to sit down. They hand me water. More hugs from strangers, Dr.’s and Nurses, but this time also family and friends. But still they think they know what it feels like to see your only father for the first time in years. To know the stories of his talent. To hear his music. Unable to fight off drugs. Unable to get life together. And what is wrong? Why couldnt he love me? Why is he still so damn beautiful?

I learn there is a little church in the hospital where you can go and pray, but I dont go in. I want to. But I am afraid of men in robes who may reside. I close my eyes in my stiff leather waiting room chair and I attempt some sort of prayer. I’ve never really done this before. The room is too cold. I am wearing my new green plaid dress, I want to be outside. Thats when I feel most spiritual. I leave the waiting room. I walk. I ‘pray’. I feel something. Its the same something I felt the day before this all happened, when I heard that voice…I was in my room, thinking as I often did. Feeling pre-teenage frustration and being overly dramatic as girls that age are prone to be. But for me maybe it was different. I had reason to feel pain. My parents abandoned me as a baby. I was raised by my Grandmother, my Jamma. It was an eerie stillness-that something that I felt. And then a calm and gentle voice ‘You are taken care of.’.. I hadn’t thought much of that voice and those words when I heard them. That was the 18th of June. Now its the 24th? 25th? Now I am walking outside of the hospital where my Jamma lay. We have learned there is no hope for radiation or chemo, the cancer is far too advanced. It is a wonder that she has made it thus far. I walk and I remember those words from my room just days before and again I feel that eerie stillness….Later on I learn this is peace.

thanksgiving feast:i shall nourish

i am like a young turkey. lived among the coop wire and stale feed. even though i was born a bird, i never could fly.i have scuttled my way through shit. the shit of my brothers and sisters. those who shared the same pen. i have entertained myself in the rain. ran around in circles endless. then i was chosen. butchered. slaughtered. my bloodied wounds have stained mans hands. in time it will wash away, but maybe they wont forget me. i have been taken home. i have been gutted. washed clean. smothered with butter and herbs, injected with hearty goodness.
i am now in the oven. 320 degrees. i have been in here awhile now. a slow roast. good turkey takes time. when it is decided that my time is up, i will arise from the depths of the heat. my aroma will fill the air. my skin will be a perfect goldeny brown. my meat; juicy, tender, succulent…there are mouths to feed.

dear john: sing me to sleep

there is a park a 5 minute walk from my home. it’s not just any park. höhenpark. its incredible! its in a string of others that form a ‘u’ shape. you can start from one end and make it nearly all the way around the city. perhaps the greatest feature of höhenpark is not the kleinbahn (little train) that takes you amidst the beautiful gardens, or the little zoo that serves as home to a clan of sheep and a hand full of alpacas…nope its got to be the freilichtbuhne. the tiny ass stage that hosts a few shows in the summer. i’m not sure who books these shows. or how the hell these artists would find themselves playing in such a random ‘arena’. so here it is the list of coming attractions for june and july:

joan baez
the b-52’s
buena vista social club (i would fork up the 30 euro to see this)
jethro tull

and tonight, my friends, as i write to you in my room with the window open and the summer sun setting-the lovely….john fogerty is singing sweetly in my ear!

germany= the land of opportunity.

Forget the sun a shinin’

Its the first week of June and I have been instructed to wear a scarf at all times of the day. Dana Schlund, my Russian doctor, says it necessary to keep my throat covered and warm. Atleast thats what I think she was trying to tell me. Either that or she was giving me much needed fashion advice. So here I am in my little corner of Germany with my prescribed throat, sinus and immunity medicines, with my 3 different kinds of cough drops (I prefer Zitrone), my throat spray, my vitamin c, my liter of o.j., my neverending mug of nettle tea and my thinnest-least itchy-black scarf…And then there’s my beautiful tomato colored face and severe sunglasses outline from a poorly misjudged sunscreen-free day. I am a sight to see! And just to let you know how my week is going I will tell of the humbug clerk at the post office whom, when hearing that I did not speak German she thought it best to yell at me louder and more aggresively in her native tongue. I don’t quite understand her method. Maybe it worked for some other poor foreigner. Then there was yesterday, when I locked myself out of the house. A wee tear snuck its way out of the corner of my left, with my dirty paw I squished the little bugger and began to laugh.
Maybe people will take me a bit more seriously when I lose the scarf, the wretched cough, the imprinted glasses and when I learn to say more than ‘hallo’ and ‘danke’. I await the day. But for now I will keep laughing.