Pirate Fish Bones

Both Friday and this morning I ended up behind the same driver on my way to work, at the exact same spot -- a young woman driving a red four-door with very-cool artwork put onto her trunk. One looked like a swarm of sharks or a mating of ninja throwing stars, all merged and blended and hooked together into a giant sphere of pointy perfection. The other piece of metallic art was a skeleton of a fish, and he was wearing a bandana and black pirate eye-patch. This was just the first of many such little things over the last week or so that've helped remind me that everything happens for a reason, at the right time even, though we often have a huge "HUH?" on our soul. (At least I know I do.)....I've just heard songs that have gone together to bring up memories for me....Had conversations that feel like dreams I've had....Beautiful and strange things going on in my dreams and in my writing....

Got to meet Scotty, Ben's best friend, this weekend. Scotty is just a doll, and we all had so much fun eatin', drinkin', and laughin'. Had the chance to meet his family yesterday, and he also got the chance to know Jan over the weekend. It's nice to see a slice of Ben's pre-Portland life and to be let into that area of his being. Ben and I also attended a brunch at Karen's yesterday. Karen is a friend of Christina, and she held a brunch in honor of Christina's cat, Raz, who recently passed away from cancer. Karen is a lovely soul, and I look forward to getting to know her better.

Lots of sadness, tragedies, over the past week. Some of my coworkers have lost loved ones, other coworkers have found out they may be sick. These threads have gotten carried over into my personal life, too. And the saddest, most visceral part: Ben and I were driving back from Washington, and on a side road adjacent to the highway there were two cars, and a bike on the asphalt, and I thought the man crouching down--talking on his cellphone--was checking something on his jeep. There was a group of huddled people, presumably from both vehicles. Then I glimpsed the boy on the ground, by the bike. He must have been about seven years old, and he had dark hair and an orange shirt and shorts on, and I think--but I'm really hoping not--that I even saw his eyes open, not blinking, as we passed. We contemplated going back, but after talking about it--people there already, cellphones in use, people looking after the boy--we determined we might be more of a hindrance than a help. We kept driving, toward home, into the sunset.