Bright, sunny, breezy day. Today was the bedding. Sheets and pillowcases and blanket and comforter cover washed. Pillows and mattress cover washed and dried. Mattress rotated. Everything hung out in the sun to get blasted by the sun and put back on the bed where it awaits the arrival of herself.

(While I was doing all that laundry I got out the chrome polish and polished the washer and dryer and microwave and then I waxed them with Turtle Wax™and buffed them out with a towel. Mental Illness sneaks up on some people, but on me you could see it coming from outer space.)

I’m making Pho again. Today I’m doing the broth, simmering chicken stock with charred onions and ginger and star anise and cloves and peppercorns in the big le cruset pot the woman got us at the thrift store in the Mission for six bucks. I’ve got the fresh basil and green onions and mint and cilantro; the pork (only for mine, the woman gets the veggie version) is marinating in agave and lime and garlic.

It’s a four hour drive back from the airport, so when we get home I can just heat up the broth and do the rice noodles and chop up the veggies and by the time she gets out of the shower I’ll have a big old spread set out.

We can eat ourselves into a coma and talk story and look into each others eyes for the first time in two weeks.


I will spend the next twenty two hours on pins and needles. I am a nervous little poodle.


I’m listening to Lucinda Williams. She’s so damn corny, but I got it bad for her. Her daddy was a poet so it’s no wonder she’s all fucked up. You know how poets are.


I’d like to say thank you to everyone that’s been coming by and saying such nice things.

“Thank you.”


In no particular order:

The films of Wes Anderson.
The films of Terrence Malick, especially Badlands and Days of Heaven.
The flims of Werner Herzog, especially Fitzcarraldo and Little Deiter Needs to Fly.

Everything Joseph Campbell said, wrote, or lectured on.

Mark Bittman for no-nonsense, reliable, trustworthy recipes in “How To Cook Everything” and his blog on the NYT.

The New Yorker.

Cormac McCarthy
Jack Gilbert
Kathy Bates
Elvis Costello
Daniel Johnson
Betty Butterfield

Smart phones
The intertubes

The sea.
Sexual Intercourse.



Last night I was half hung over and sick to my stomach and having a hot flash and I got up at about two and laid out on the back deck in my altogether and the cold of the deck against my burning flesh, and the cold air in my lungs and wafting invisibly over my cooked skin and high above me in the silent vault of heaven a riot of stars shot through with blinking satellites and meteorites and I thought that was just about the best thing that had ever happened. Lying out there in the cold dark of night like a wounded animal.

After an hour I was shivering and clear headed and wrung out and I went back to bed and slept like a saint bernard.


Jane’s Addiction.