mom died. so hard, the process. from confronting the truth, having a conversation about it, moving it forward and backward. moving it. and then the zone where nothing makes sense and everything is so hard to accomplish. not to mention that thing called reality. reality, no matter how real it is, becomes so unreal, surreal, even scientific. this + that - this = maintenance.  that - this = that + this = decline. the monitor. the readings. the oxygen, her respiration, her heart rate, her blood pressure, her pulse, her temperature. the morphine, dose after dose, never enough. with a total saturation of ativan, we couldn't make it happen, mom. your heart was beating like a marathon runner when the angel walked in, a hospice nurse turned CIUC nurse, who asked, "do you want me to remove the oxygen?"  the very thought of this with your struggle to breathe, the choking, the 30% lung capacity, scary. but she reassured us the sedation made you comfortable enough. your respiration zero. the oxygen in your blood, zero. your heart, beat, beat, beat more slowly. three hours later, we said goodbye.  we hope it was soon enough, painless enough, transcendent. we hope it was all you wanted it to be, for as much as you could acknowledge or want. but then how can you be a part of it? how can you not?

to the end. we love you.

no work, no play. bedtime at 2 in the afternoon
with that book I wanted to read (even if it's
disappointing) but for the sweetness in
my arms, my birdy, and my lover so close...
there is no room for us now and
this is disturbing. parent, pet, work, life. why the
challenge of leading it, not letting it lead us. i want to close
my eyes, not to escape but to be conscious in
a mindful way. i want to wrap my arms around
my lover and say, how did you ever come to me?
how was this possible? i want to wrap my
arms around my mother and say, I give up. I want to
give her relief, give her a way out.

"What catches his eye are dogs in various stages of dress, a Chihuahua with a  baseball cap, a poodle with thigh high leather fringe, a mutt in a pair of Sponge Bob slippers and a pit bull with lots of piercings. They seem to pause when they pass as if taking the turn on a runway. Thoughts of nabbing a pet can’t be suppressed but he isn’t so interested in the fashion victims but the homeless ones who seem naked and confused, hungry and without hope and who nervously plow through piles of garbage precariously strewn curbside. Their pace is faster and they zigzag back and forth, taking life on the diagonal unlike their entitled counterparts who walk with dignity, bodies erect while they slowly savor the decay of the street as would their owners at the sight of a plate of Bélon oysters and glass of Taittinger’s Champagne."

Submerging Artists