Just

What is it about the word “just” that adds an emphasis of sincerity that it seems to not deserve? Just is a word that nearly denounces, as if it happened already, yet when my Grandma says, “ I just love you so much”. It melts me.
The nurses at the ICU refer to Maggie as “Miracle Maggie”.
She is living with her boyfriend and goes to physical therapy two times a week. I JUST can’t believe life. Two weeks ago we were given two likely worst-case scenarios. An amazing gift she has given me, she doesn’t even know it yet.

I have humbly taken up oil pastel drawing. I bought the poster boards for the purpose of doing a “vision” board collage and was suddenly inspired to draw as my dear friend Pete played acoustic guitar for me in my sunny backyard. We lived together in SF 17 years ago. Here is an excerpt of my writing about that time…

“I was living in San Francisco with ten long haired, heavy metal, east coast intellectuals, hoping to make it big, guys in a two story Victorian across the street from the projects. We all have at least one “shot at” story. We were having the time of our lives though. Most of us only now know that though. Yeah, being broke sucked and we were all desperately confused about our place and meaning but it was fun. Has anything changed? Now we are just confused alone, not as a group. Height Street in the early nineties was something to behold. It had all the elements that make up a nineties version of a sixties phenomenon. People were still entertaining to look at and everything had an edge. Now it just looks like good shopping and no one I know now can really afford to live there. I had nicer flats then and that was 17 years ago.”

Pete now lives 10 blocks from me in Santa Monica. We just look at each other and know. We know about pain and disappointment but we mostly know about the importance of love and how loving ones self can guide us more softly through the paths of aging. Art and song, the love of friends, truly nothing else matters. My dear friend Mike and the singer/guitar player/ creator of the band just finished the 6Th CD in the studio while simultaneously completing his thesis and thus getting his masters in philosophy. He only operates at this level. Idle time does not suit Mike.
So, now I have colored my way through this Memorial Day weekend. I’m reflecting upon last year. Titled “best summer ever”. Braden was my gift from Stinson heaven and then came Hawaii and all the closure and pleasure that trip brought to me. I met Dr. B and he re-ignited my desire to write poetry. He wrote the nicest words about me in a poem I have ever read. Our time was short as friends and I’m not sure why except that some stories are short and they still sell pleasure. Pete is a novel; Braden is a work in progress. He is hand written.
I met Toad at the end of that summer. That story is written in the ether's. Reporters from other dimensions are constantly collecting our information. We meet in the zero point. Where all that is, is. Here in this one I walk forward and away. He runs. I can’t stop him from ahead. It just doesn’t work that way. So I draw my amateur ways and bless his talents.