my occasional musings on life, love, art, perfume ... what else is there?


A True Ghost Story ... for Halloween

In the early 70s I was a college student at the University of Washington. I was attending class during summer term, I was living in a small ground-floor studio apartment in Seattle near Portage Bay on Lake Union, and it was hot that night.

I was sewing curtains, I think -- the windows were bare and open, I remember. It was probably midnight -- I was still a night owl then and I would be active until maybe 1 or 2 in the morning when I didn't have to be at class early the next day. My next door neighbor was either gone or asleep.

It was warm enough that I had cut-off jeans on, and a t-shirt. My hair was short which, weirdly, I have come to think was very important. I was absorbed in what I was doing until I was distracted by a noise outside.

When I went to the window, the porch light revealed a man outside, who apparently had just stepped away from peering in my window, but who was still facing me head on. I could clearly see his face, and the fact that in the July heat he had on a long, dark trench coat. One of his arms was through the sleeve, but the other arm was hidden within the coat, as if he had a sling on it.

I ran to the door and locked it -- it had been ajar. And then I looked out the window again.

The man was still there. He grinned at me. And slowly turned and walked away.

I called the police, who dutifully showed up, took my report and told me to keep my door locked and my blinds drawn. I had been thoroughly scared ... and the creepy event stayed dormant in my memory for years.

Until the day I saw a picture in a magazine of the man who had stood outside my apartment that night.

His name was Ted Bundy.


The Right Gauge

The strangest things remind me of my mother. (I am a knit blog addict and everytime I see something particularly fine, I think of her.)

She was an exceptional knitter ... of the most complicated, most finely wrought knit goods. I still have sweaters she knit for herself, each stitch perfectly shaped and each stitch perfectly proportioned (I think knitters call this knitting to gauge).

Really, this said a lot about how disciplined she was ... these perfect artifacts reflected her perfectionism, her sense of color, her appreciation of good design.

I loved her. And now, though I knit myself, I'll never be able to match her.

Maybe her knitting was the gauge of her person. Contained, beautifully crafted, unique.

I miss her.

Painting by Adrienne Hauch


The Avoidant Personality

Sometimes I wince at things I see in books and on TV. I will walk out of the room if a show about dog abuse is advertised. I am no fan of war movies, of the TV show 24, or shows with vivid depiction of poverty.

(I admit a perverse attraction to the old COPS show, especially if it involves car chases or police running through the bushes chasing a hairy guy in a wifebeater tshirt who grows marijuana in his backyard.)

I don't like mordant displays of emotionalism, I don't like it when other people's emotion pulls emotion out of me. Do that and I will close the gate and pull up the drawbridge against you.

So, does this qualify as an avoidant personality?

Probably not ,according to DSM-IV-TR, whose definition deals heavily in inability to navigate the real world.

Hey, I can navigate the real world. It's just, in a lot of cases, I choose not to.

photo: a castle in Kansas, a WPA project circa 1936, Coronado Heights, KS.


My Back Hurts

Yes, this looks like my spine. But I have SIX screws (*preen*) and I've sprained my spine below them. It hurts and I'm crabby. Wish me well, ok? I will be very grateful to you. xoxo

Aaaand, Rabbit, Rabbit!