Ode to Pat: 

producer of the greatest honey pots in all of BYU's generations

Last night, as we drove home from our friend's house, where we'd had Christmas dinner, my sister and I sat nestled in the back seat of the car staring up at the night sky.  The great thing about Powell River is it's blackness - there's no light to dull the brilliance of the starry sky.  It's sprinkled in iridescent dust - every star is clear. Last night, for the first time (now, maybe I've never really looked before, but just the same - ) I saw Orion in his magnificent entirety.

Is it bad to eat in the bathtub?

Because that's what I did. My apartment was freezing, so I just filled that puppy up with hot water, loaded myself into it, and proceeded with my evening's activities. I wasn't about to go hungry, so I ate dinner while soaking as well.

time slowed

when you left

and the season

does not change

for me

though despair

has altered

and a seed is fixed

that will grow

when time again

rolls

Another dream.  It’s cathartic writing; don’t feel obligated to read.

I’m at work, and we admit a new lady into a room that there’s still a dead gal in.  I guess we’re wheeling the bed with the dead patient out, as we’re wheeling the bed with the new woman in.  She gives me a startled look, and I say – don’t worry, the room was cleaned, and she died of natural causes (whatever that means – my dream self is apparently not as smart as my real self), not infectious disease.  “Hmm,” she says, and she seems to relax a little.  But this is not okay, we can’t admit patients into rooms that we’re rolling dead bodies out of.  I try to talk to the charge nurse, but she doesn’t care.  She seems to think this is perfectly normal.  And I start to feel ashamed, like I shouldn’t have annoyed anyone about the situation.

For the rest of the night I take care of this old Russian guy, who can’t pee. We speak in short sentences to each other, and he is very kind to me.  But I can’t ever seem to leave his room, it’s like I’m stuck in there, and I don’t know if there’s something else I’m supposed to be doing. There’s a man dressed in black, standing in the shadow of the room, he must have appeared suddenly, but it’s like he’s always been there. He keeps talking in a low muted voice. At first I think that he’s talking to the patient, but then I realize he’s talking to me – he’s telling me that this is going to be really hard, and he’s pointing out little details about where I’m falling short– but my actual experience with the patient so far has been pleasant, and not at all like he’s describing, so I don’t know what this mystery man is going on about, but his presence is making me feel dull inside.

I leave work, and it’s dark, there are two ladies crouched side by side in the middle of the street, someone points them out, and I think, “Huh. Weird.” We keep walking, and pay them no mind.

Then I’m watching this movie, and it’s not a good one.  I feel like I should get up and leave. It’s this scandalous movie about a brothel.  There’s one girl who doesn’t want to sell her body anymore, so she packs her bags and puts on some 1940’s garb, and runs off to be married – and the whole party starts to break up, I follow a group of scantily clad women out of the brothel (apparently I’m not watching a movie anymore), and we head out to get some breakfast.  It’s light now, and we walk into a little diner, Keoka – from work – is there, and she takes everyone’s cell phones and hooks them to these weird charging devices.  The inside is dark, and made of wood.  My brothel pals sit down at the bar and order a drink from the guy behind the counter.  They seem to be familiar with the place, but I feel lost.  I walk out a side door, and into what looks like a backyard, with a bunch of little round white lattice tables.  I sit down and order some tea.  And then I overhear my friend Sarah (who I grew up with) talking about her grandmother.  I can’t see her face – she’s sitting under this awning that has ivy growing all over it, and she’s sipping on some kind of specialty drink, and talking to a man, that I assume she’s been seeing for quite sometime.  They seem very happy, and I’m sad that we’re not friends anymore.  And then she’s peeks around the corner, and says, “You remember my Grandmother…” and we say “Elsie” at the same time, and then we both laugh – the gay laughter of old friends and shared secrets.

I get home.  But it’s a new home.  I have roommates.  Ann Marie is my roommate again, and she’s left a note that says I can borrow her computer if I like.  Oh good.  I’m so happy to be living with someone I know and like.  It will be nice to have Ann Marie around again.  I help myself to her computer, which is actually a giant flat -screen TV, hooked up to a keyboard.  The LDS website is up on the screen.  As I sit down and start typing some girl in a grey sweater comes into the room and stares at me.  She must live here too.  Another roommate, I’m so happy.  But she seems disappointed in me.  What did I do?  If it’s because I’m using Ann Marie’s computer – it’s okay, because she said I could… I want to tell her, but she leaves, and I follow so I can explain who I am, and what I’m doing here.  We walk into another room.  This one is lighter, and now the girl is wearing a chocolate brown sweater.  I like this room – it’s mine.  And, apparently, it’s this girl’s too, because all her stuff is in it.

I’m standing against the back wall of the room and Mike comes in.  My heart sinks. He doesn’t notice me – he just starts flirting with my new, chocolate brown sweater-wearing roommate.  They’re talking about return sister missionaries and laughing.  And he just keeps getting closer and closer to her.  I feel uncomfortable.  And sad.

And then he’s gone.  And so is she.  And it’s a new day entirely.  There’s a little box on her bed, on the top is scrawled, “You choose…” I open the box, and there’re 2 movie tickets inside.  There are also measuring cups, and the ingredients to make chocolate chip cookies.  I snort, and think, “Nice Mike – way to get a girl to make some cookies for you.  Not exactly the most romantic gesture.”  But my heart is hollow, because somehow it is a romantic.  Like he’s just provided some very sensitive additions to an earlier conversation they’d been having.  And she’ll be touched, and happy, and they’ll go out and have a great time, and afterwards they’ll eat chocolate chip cookies.

It's two-thirty in the morning, and I can't sleep. The bane of being a nightshift worker.

Also:
I had a really bad dream
I'm waiting for something to come in the mail - and I'm freaking out about it
I still feel loss over something gone
I had an overwhelmingly emotionally and tiring day of work last night
- that could possibly end in litigation - thanks to a crazy-head wife

I wish that I had some great and tragic love story. Perhaps a lover who had been ripped from me by society's rigid circles of class and wealth; that I, a lowly writer, with a devout love of nature and quick wit, had attracted a gentleman of good fortune. But his belligerent grandmother would never approve of such a match, and so we were forced to meet in secret under the solitude of the night’s sky, to clasp palms and whisper dreams... But alas, mine is a story of the 21^st century, one of timidly bread men, ill equipped to commit.

You know, maybe that’s what it is, maybe it’s that love no longer has to develop in the face of hardship.  Maybe our lives are too easy, and thus love evades us.  If I were an undiscovered milkmaid living out my life in a quiet country vale, or a tragically oppressed maiden locked in a menacing castle tower – than I’d have something to work with.  But instead I’m just a registered nurse, with a college degree and a retirement savings plan.  Nothing tragic here.  And clearly, nothing worth fighting for.  Maybe if I had to be cut free, or kissed awake, or pulled from some burning abbey - some man would find heroism in his unimpassioned heart, and step up to the challenge.  But, why would anyone go out of his way to save me from a life of success and happiness?  

“2 o’clock!” I snap up right, and grab my phone. One missed call. “Oh no!” I catapult out of bed, and pull on some clothes from off the floor. What have I done? No time to berate myself now. I pull my hair into a ponytail, push my feet into my shoes, and fly down the five flights of stairs to my car. Traffic always seems to be in the way, when I’m in a rush – all other drivers seem to be ignorant, slow, and selfish – I refrain from honking my horn, and drive carefully, because I know that’s what she’d want.

Twenty minutes later I pull up to the LDS temple in Bellevue - and there she is. Sitting poised, on a cold hard bench, in the rain, with her bags at her feet. I groan - as I realize, for the 67^th time since I woke up this morning, that I am the world’s most neglectful and selfish daughter. How could I have slept through picking up my Mom? And she’s come all this way to visit.

When she sees me, she smiles, picks up her bags, and greets me enthusiastically. She’s not angry. She figured I was probably asleep – especially after having worked hard all night. It would be very difficult to respond to an alarm when your body’s so exhausted. And that’s my Mom – why worry about herself, when she can worry about me?

I’m such a disgrace.

I mean, what happens to forgotten mothers, is it the same as for lost children? If I’d never shown, would someone have tried to help her find my house? Would a nice police officer have taken her to the precinct, and let her draw pictures until they got wind of someone searching for her? Poor Mom. Left to fend for herself in cold, wet Seattle.

Here's my dream from last night:

I'm running through empty city streets trying to find the train/bus so I can get home.  Suddenly there are more people, and they're all heading into a shopping mall.  Of course!  The station will be under the mall, but I can't find the station, mostly because I keep getting distracted.  I run into a group of three young girls who are looking at diamonds and talking about sex; they're discussing how parents and teachers don't know anything, and I can't help myself I interject and say that I wish I'd had more respect for adults and their opinions when I was their age – especially my parents' – because now that I'm older I realize that they're full of experience and wisdom, and they really do have all the answers. I realize that one of the girls is listening, I tell her she should talk to her mom, and I seem to get through to her, I hope I've saved her from getting involved in something she's too young for.  

Now, If only I could get home.  Hunger is my next distraction. I end up at a fast food joint at the far end of the food court, they have loads of delicious smelling cuisine – however, I don't order any food at all, instead I barter for 2 packs of sweethearts (those tasty candies from childhood) and a bizarre swirling-colored stone necklace.  I pay the stooped salesman for my goods, he passes me the candy and I turn around to grab my necklace, but it's being carved by a machine, so I'll have to wait.  I wait and I wait.  What is taking so long?  The man comes over to have a look, the machine appears to be broken – my necklace is only half way done.  He pulls it out and tries to give it to me – but I don't want some partial product - and then I realize that I'm disappointed that a machine's even involved – it starts to look like a carnival prize, and not something that I'd ever want.

I'm on roller skates, in China (maybe I was always in China), and I'm trying to get across these boards and stones that are forming a bridge, high above the empty pit of a construction site.  I have to get down on my hands and knees because it isn't safe, and I don't want to fall.  I don't remember it being this dangerous when I left home this morning, or I would've never worn my skates. My hands are getting really dirty – muddy even, stuff is caked to them, and I'm really worried about it, I'm almost to the other side, I'm almost home, but I start slipping.  Some young rocker dude, jumps over me and continues on his way, he's listening to an ipod, and doesn't seem to even notice me.  Then suddenly I slip through the floor, and wake up.

I'm actually kind of disturbed by it.  It had a nightmarish, save the world, kind of intensity.

I often walk home from work, and when I do, I walk through this really great neighborhood.  It's an older area of Seattle, and it has lots of great architecture, brick, old dark, leafy trees, beautiful flowers, quaint little shops.  It smells of green woods, and international cuisine. The trees seem to block out the city noise, so it's quiet.  But, I inevitably pass through this enchanting neighborhood, and to the giant freeway overpass, that I have to cross to get back to my side of the I-5.  Whizzing cars, engine breaks, horns.  Loud, drunk men.  My side has lots of cement, no trees, and the distinct smell of urine.  So, everytime I walk home from work, I get a bit melancholy and wonder, why can't I live there instead of here?

Is this blasted thing worth it?

This is what I really needed to know, as I contemplated running my little car off the road and over a cliff today.  And no, these are not thoughts of suicide – just of destruction.  You see, I got the car fixed a week ago, and it cost me a small fortune – so when I came out of General Conference, put my key in the ignition, and discovered that it wouldn't start – I lost it.  I threw my head back, and called out: "You've got to be kidding me."  Then I broke into that dizzying, insane-type laughter, that only comes when you're dangling by a thread.  Sister Cook was nice enough to give me a jump.  Two ladies, in their Sunday best, and 5 little kids – all peering under the hood.  It worked.  I drove all the way home, left my engine running for the required 45 minutes (no small feat of will power, considering gas prices these days), and then turned it off.  Sighed.  And tried to start it back up again.  Nothing.  Great.  Does this mean it's my alternator?  My Dad gives me some helpful advice, but I put it on the back burner, because I just left Conference, and it's Sunday, and I'm feeling pretty good about life, so I don't want to focus on this stupid little hang up.  I take the bus to work.  This is normal, because parking at the UW Medical Center costs $95 a month – and that's ridiculous.  I'll spend $1.75 on the bus thank-you very much.   But now, today is Tuesday, and I don't work on Tuesday, so I figured I'd spend the day wisely and figure out what's wrong with my car.  Sure it's sunny, and yeah, I'd rather go running, explore a city park or two, or make my way down to the harbor, but instead, I don a pair of grubby scrub bottoms, and an old t-shirt and head down to the office of my apartment building to see if they have one of those self-contained battery packs with built in jumper cables.  Some twelve-year-old kid in official maintenance garb comes down to help me.  He says that his machine told him, that my alternator is definitely broken, and that my battery is just fine.  Well, that's good news. Thanks. He also says it should cost about $300 to fix.  I groan.  I don't want to spend any more money.  There's something very special that I'm saving up for, and I don't want to be throwing cash around willy-nilly.  He tells me to take it to a place on Denny Way and have it fixed.  I end up driving halfway to Canada on Aurora, because I couldn't find the place on Denny. This is dumb.  I try a random car place that offers to fix my car for $600. Yeah right! I call the guys that fixed my car last week out in Eastern Washington.  They give me a number of some car place here in Seattle, I call them, get a quote and directions, and start my journey – but apparently in the wrong direction. I get lost several times, and make quite a few foolish phone calls back to the car place, to meekly inquire as to their whereabouts – yet again. Yikes.  I'm on the verge of tears.  Why does Seattle hate me?  Why is my car broken, yet again? And why am I always lost? I finally find the place.  It's way heck and gone, nestled between dumpy old houses, next to some railroad tracks.  Nice.  I hand 'em my keys and wait for the diagnosis.  I sit outside and twiddle my thumbs - not a natural born worrier, I don't take to it too well.  I don't like caring about things like cars and money.  I like having these things, and not having to worry about them.  What will I do if he tells me it's going to cost umpteen dollars to fix?  I see him pull my car back around front. I timidly make my way to the desk, and ask about the damage.  He tosses a little piece of metal into the air and says, "That there's your problem." Your car's running just find now.  Ta-da!  It's just a corroded piece of metal on my battery.  Phew.  A half hour and a handful of cash later, I'm heading back toward my downtown apartment.  See – that wasn't so bad, now, was it?  Too bad it took me all day to find the place.

I tried to google my future today. 

That's right - I just typed in "What should Bonnie Corbett do with her life?" 

And... Voila!

I landed myself on a web page all about backpacking through Scottish Moors.

I can live with that.

This is Mike.

I like him a lot.

I like him because once - in college - he took me on a motorbike ride - and got us stranded, without gas, between Provo and Spanish Fork. And, I like him because when I invited him to tag along to my brother's crazy wedding in Canada, he said yes, hopped on a Greyhound, and made himself at home.

Things you should know about Mike:

1. He moves super slow - you can get twice as much done in half the time
2. He likes soy milk and pistachios
3. He's really good at subduing someone else's anger
4. He's learning to play the drums
5. He makes you feel important - like everything you say and think matters
6. He's in love with a little dog named Ellie
7. He might not show up if you make him dinner
8. He'll break everything of any importance if you let him into your house
9. He is very, VERY funny
10. He can break dance
11. People love him
12. He has an amazingly attractive voice
13. His upper arms are super white because they never see the sun
14. If you ask him for something, he'll give it to you
15. He takes pictures of everything - especially himself

The drive back from the wedding was hot and muggy. Mike and I couldn't take it any longer, so we pulled over, made our way through some brush, and deposited ourselves in the water of a cool river.

We stopped at this little road side diner, ate the most delicious soup known to mankind, and scribbled our names on the wall.

Hiking Trip with Berkley and David

August 2008

Will you heave a sigh for me
- strength
and move

your embankment
knows my journey
all to well
familiar stones that grate
my soul
and chant my requiem

crumpled
I tread in immolation

Will you heave a sigh for me
- strength
and move

Vladamir gave me flowers today.

Today, I ventured on busy streets, through antiques, and flowers, carvings, and sketches. I smelled donoughts and thought of Janna. I smelled the sea, and thought of home. I bought books and looked at tea cups. At one point I stood against the protection of a building, map unfolded, looking like a tourist, willing not to be seen. A gentleman tapped my shoulder, "Excuse me, could I help you find something?" Gulp. I'd been caught. Embarassed I submitted to his inquiry. His finger led the way across my map. I didn't look up until I thanked him, and then the color in my cheeks deepened - he was a handsome stranger, whose face looked expectant. I lost my words, and walked away.

Weird Dream -

I'm walking down the street, quickly, I'm maybe on my way home from work or school, but it feels more like I'm on my way home from some sort of pause in life – anyway, I pass a very large bus stop that is crowded with people, and I know they've been waiting there forever, because I somehow also know that the buses are very, very slow today. I see a gentleman in his early forties, he's wearing a red shirt and jeans, he took the bus from wherever I came from, and now he's waiting at the station to transfer. I feel sorry for him, because he seems to be very discouraged about the rate at which he's getting home, and I am happy for myself, because I'm walking, and I know that I'll be home long before he is.

I cross the street and wade through the crowd of folk at the bus stop, and then I come out on the other side to a welcoming sidewalk with trees and flowers growing down either side. And then I am in a deep forest, and it's dark, there's a cabin up behind me, with a porch light on, but it's too late to knock on the door. Good thing I have my sleeping bag. I lay it out on the soft dirt covered in pine needles, and climb in, nice and snuggly. I wake to my phone ringing. It's early dawn, just barely light, and there's now a message on my phone from Pat Mosbacker (good friend from college), he says to hurry up and come in the house when I wake up, because we're going hiking (incidentally, Pat and I used to hike a lot in college).

The cabin is Pat and his wife Shauna's. I go inside. Everything's still and it seems that no one is awake. Steve (a friend from China) is fast asleep on the couch. Oh good, he's going hiking too, that makes me so happy, I really like him. I go into the bathroom to get ready, but it's all steamy in there – someone must have just taken a shower, I keep wiping the mirror, but I can't get the fog to go away. I can hear Pat in the other room leaving a message on my phone, and I can actually see him standing there, next to the bed, while Shauna is sleeping. I brush my teeth. And then, I leave the bathroom to find someone, I don't really know who, but I'm full of purpose. I walk back past Steve, and he stirs a little as I pass. If everyone's still sleeping, then I probably have time to take a little nap too. I start looking for Jake (another friend from China). I poke my head into a room all full of light, and there he is, sleeping in a queen size bed next to Dave. Hmm, no room for me. I find another room a little ways down a hall to the left, this one is very dark, and my sister is sleeping in the bed, I tiptoe through the room, and then ease into the bed at the side of her. She says "Hey Bon," in a sleepy voice. And I feel happy, and drift to sleep.

Then I'm hiking along a ridge with a whole slough of people. My brother Jonathan, his fiancée Nina, all of his kids, my sister Louise, Jake, Dave, Steve, Dr. Kenley, and some other people too. Suddenly, my nephew Bailey starts rolling down the hill, Nina runs after him (acting promptly like a pro), and I run too. He rolls, and rolls, and rolls, we're both yelling at him to stop (like he has a choice). And then he does stop, magically, in a bunch of tree roots. Nina had kind of run past him, to head him off, so she starts working her way back up the hill, and I run to Bay, pick him up and give him a big hug. Phew, he's safe.

Then there's suddenly a big crowd around me. Jayme's there (another friend from college) and Rita, Pat Hull, people from Powell River, who I grew up with. They're all very concerned, and now I'm holding a baby in my arms. I can see some sort of lynx (large hungry feline), stalking through the plant life in the distance. It gets closer and closer, and then it's face to face with me. The funny thing is, that as it has come closer, it hasn't really gotten any bigger. So by the time it arrives, it's about the size of a dog. I say, "Nice try, But we keep our young in the middle." And I tuck the baby, which has now become a stuffed animal, that mostly looks like the scary cat itself, under a bunch of blankets. I know it's safe because the crowd is forming a giant circle, and they're all good people, all willing to fight. But I am going to have to kill this cat myself. It starts making this awful mewing noise. Some kind of war cry. And I rush at it. I grab it by the neck and fling it to the ground. I start growling as I kneel above it, hand firmly around its neck. I'm winning. It turns and bites me. But I still have a hold of its neck. So I start flinging it up and down in the air, with a sharp whip-like motion, until its neck snaps, and then I hurl it at the wall.

I turn around, and there's a room full of people. A tall British lady with a blond/gray hair to her shoulders, and a long, sharp, crooked nose, is speaking with the Chief of Police. I am no longer an actual person, just some sort of viewer, it's like I'm watching a movie. But I'm also kind of aware that I'm the British lady, as I watch, and that I'm in charge of a profitable organization that saves animals. The Chief of Police is laughing really hard at a letter, and I want to know what's so funny. He says it's a bill, and I'll never guess who it's from. The Postman is standing off to the side, and he looks dumbfounded, like he's wondering how one of his letters could have caused such a kerfuffle. There are lots of people standing around, and some reporters too. The British Lady finally manages to get the Chief of Police to tell us all what's going on. Apparently the bill is from Jesus, he wants a percentage of the company's profits, because he's really the one working all the miracles.

We all laugh.

Memories rise behind the surface of their darkness
And I see myself
with all the clarity of yesterday
Things never change
Doors that have been fastened firm for years
suddenly gaping wide

I remember
a day on a boat
with limbs that couldn't fight the tossing waves
so we walked instead
and laughed

Wrapped carefully, in silver twine,
are all our sectets
Dark, swirling ink to paint our story

I put my head against your shoulder
And knew -
but couldn't answer

Feral heart, that couldn't move -
Past all that was unknown

How was I to understand,
that through all my life's excursions...
I'd one day stand on rocking water
And know again
But only smile

We sit in the dark, on blankets, overlooking the ocean - expectant.

"It's dark already, shouldn't they start?"

And then there's a bang or two, followed by a little red star slipping toward the water. Ooh, good, it's started. But this is Powell River, and in Powell River, we do things our own way. There's nothing for about 5 minutes, and then some anxious member of the onshore crowd sends a flare out to sea. Meanwhile, on a manmade rocky extension of shore, fires start to blaze on hula-hoops, and ends of ropes - ah, the fire dancers - we'd heard rumors that they'd show up. But they're so far away they look about two inches high, and I'm not quite sure how to be entertained by them.

I lean over to my mom and whisper in her ear, "It would've been better if we stayed home and watched Dad set himself on fire." She laughs. And the bored fellow off to the right sends a few more Roman Candles out into the dark night.

This is Canada Day. And I'm glad that we didn't have to pay for the festivities. I try and get my parents to leave - we should just go home. A lone firework over the heads of 3 fire dancers a quarter of a mile away, is not quite enough to hold my attention. But Mom and Dad, like two children, have their legs out in front of them, hands on their laps, and are staring out excitedly. They say, in small voices, "But we want to see the fireworks." And I can't disappoint their happy little souls. So I lean back against the cool grass, and try to take a nap.

I've forgotten, all this time I've been away from home, that these things always start out slow, but you're never disappointed in the end. The darkness is blinded by flashes of color, that fall sparkling and twinkling to the water. And I recall standing in lapping waves next to friends anxiously awaiting the next firework - will it be fat or skinny I wonder, because this one is for me, and if it's too wide I'll have to duck my head in the water. A silly game, but I'm young - and I laugh as I see I'm going under. I remember other times too, where I've sat with friends and family, and quietly watched excited children's eyes reflect the sky-scape. And I remember, that as weird as it can sometimes be, this is home, and I'm happiest here.