this moribund frame

Heather gray sweatshirt sleeves dab hot tears, the most I've cried in awhile. I'm watching Le Scaphandre et le Papillon, the Diving Bell and the Butterfly, about the French editor of Elle who suffered a brainstem stroke, rendering him able to communicate only by blinking his left eye. So eloquent, so beautifully envisioned, the book, dictated by that eye, recalls his life replete with trips he took, women he loved and couldn't love, his vibrant children, literary works he recalls with peerless detail and with which he weighs against his current and ultimate lot in life. The film, vivid, perfectly portrayed, brings the most rudimentary of daily tasks alive: a humiliating dunk in the bathtub, the complete frustration of life in that body, unable to yell at a man who turns off the TV at the culmination of an important soccer match, unable to soothe his elderly father who cries on the unanswered end of the phone. Still, and I think this was Jean-Dominique Bauby's intention, I am reminded of the resolute power of memory, of passion, of imagination, of human relationships, of physical touch, of what being present means, and this is something to incorporate into my job, where locked-in syndrome isn't uncommon, every day.

Anna, my coworker, opened a padded envelope at work yesterday. In it were two small 2011 calendars, one of songbirds and one of World Wonders or something, and imprinted on them was the name of an adult family home. Ironic and sad, I took the latter of the two as a sign of places to visit, to imprint pictures and videos of life in my memory, before I am stuck in a home or stuck in this body. Stonehenge and the Colosseum (check!) and the Taj Mahal and Machu Picchu and the Great Wall of China and the CN Tower and the Chichen Itza and the Great Barrier Reef (will check in March!) and the Pyramids of Egypt and the Northern Lights (check!) and Angel Falls. And of course you'll use what's there, way back there in your mind; the sound of your mom whistling her way into the house, the smell of a Beacon apple pie baking, the burn of your fingers after splitting wood on a frigid day, the way it feels to be enveloped in someone's arms, the way it feels to hold your child.

There's a lot to be thankful for. There's a lot of life to live.

"Today is Father's Day. Until my stroke, we had felt no need to fit this made-up holiday into our emotional calendar. But today we spend the whole of the symbolic day together, affirming that even a rough sketch, a shadow, a tiny fragment of a dad is still a dad".

*this is why

I live here. For now, I mean. It was so good being home at Christmas and so hard to leave; I cried when I left my mom this time. But it's nice to have this to come back to. And to try my hand at Tom Douglas' Triple Coconut Cream pie (which in this picture totally looks "boughten" as Minnesotans would say:), that would have been so much easier and much cheaper!) I can already tell I am going to use my All Clad saucier and stainless steel mixing bowls I got for Christmas to death!

It's a New Year and today I started it out by getting my pores cleaned out by Ildiko, the hilarious aesthetician from Budapest that I've loved going to for a facial a couple times a year. You know, for pampering.
Me: "How does everything look?"
Ildiko: "Oh my god, every pore is clogged"...
I: "This is when I torture you" - chemical peel
I: "My friend decided he didn't like lamb shank. He's an idiot."
I: "Thanks God I get to see my son. He lives in London, and when he comes home and we go to a restaurant, he says to the waiter 'cheers' instead of 'thank you'. I tell him 'you sound so gay'".

It's been beautiful and sunny and crisp/clear and today was a perfect picture-takin' day! Mount Rainier was boasting, let's face it. Saturday and Sunday I'm taking my Basic Keelboat sailing class! In the Puget Sound! From Shilshole! Under the shadow of Leif Erikson, my countryman!

Tonight I learned a new song on the cello (after I spent a whopping $6 on rosin while checking out the $7500 cellos at Bischofberger!). It's called Lightly Row and it's 38 seconds long and I'm still intimidated by it and 4 year olds play it better than me.

Blah, blah blog is right.
Happy New Year!