My Memories of Mark in the 80’s – I can’t believe he’s gone.

This is very hard right now. I had no idea until a few moments ago that Mark had died. I was searching the internet for his phone number again because our mutual friend Kevin said he would call him and fill me in on Mark’s latest details. And then I saw this site… I figure I’ll get my feelings out now since writing usually helps me process information but I can’t promise to be eloquent.

I was Mark’s girlfriend in college at San Francisco State University. We met in 1984. He was hanging around my dorm, we met and that was it, we were hooked. We had many mutual friends and we all hung out together and “partied”. After a semester both Mark and I moved out of the dorms and moved into apartments 2 blocks from each other in the Western Addition. He was on Haight and Pierce and I was on Pierce and Oak. We spent most nights together, usually in his place and he had the wonderful ritual of reading every night before going to sleep, as mentioned by all – he was a voracious reader. I had done this as a kid (read before bed) and was happy to readopt it with Mark. I still do it today.

Mark shared a lot of his dreams with me. We shared a lot of laughter. We often went to the park to swing on the swings with our friends. We traipsed around town and had philosophical conversations. Things were good and we were together until 1986. We used to listed to so much different music together, such a eclectic variety. And whenever we listened to one of our favorite bands, the Velvet Underground and the song Pale Blue Eyes would come on he would look at me with those amazing deep eyes of his and say “you’ll never be able to hear this song and not think of me” and even now, over 20 years later, he was right. I remember so many things about him and still, not enough. I remember when he got his job at Clean Well Lighted Place for Books – which was a dream come true for him then.

One thing I remember so clearly is a conversation we had one night. We were both afraid of death but Mark seemed even more so on this particular night. We talked about death a lot but now I’m not sure why that was exactly. On this night we promised each other that whoever died first, we would “meet” the other person (on the other side) when they died. I remember we were both crying and he asked me, “Even if we break up? You’ll still meet me when I die?” and I promised him with all of my heart and I meant it. I never, in a million years, thought that he would die before me. And all the years that went by without talking to him, I never forgot that conversation, nor my promise to him and it absolutely breaks my heart that now I won’t be able to keep it.

I was the one that was there when he and Aaron stole the paintings from MOMA. I was the one who convinced them to return them (in the Stonestown parking lot). That was a crazy night and a crazy few days following. Mark was so funny when he took those paintings. He wasn’t even thinking and he didn’t “break” the door open, it wasn’t really  shut properly he told me. He always wore that big overcoat and so he hid some of the paintings in it and ran across the street to Aaron’s house. And then he went back for the others. Then Aaron came to get me at the wedding party we had crashed. I was so shocked when I saw the paintings at Aaron’s house but in retrospect, Mark was living in the moment when he took them and that was one of the things I always loved about him. His ability to live in the now, his propensity to break rules, his true love of life.

I regret that, when I started missing him and wanted to contact him in 2006 I did not. I went so far as to find his phone number and address on the internet and not call him. I can only say now, that I’m honored that he was part of my life, even if it was only for a brief moment in time. He will remain in my heart forever. He deeply touched all that were fortunate enough to know him. What an amazing, beautiful, charismatic, perceptive, insightful soul.

Kimberly Anne Hoffman

I miss you Marky!!!

Goodbye dear friend and thanks

I have been trying to start this for weeks. I want to find a way that all this makes sense or means something but I cant.  Reading the other posts it occurs to me that we each had our own version of Mark, all of them true and compelling.

I met Mark in 1988 in the Lower Haight in the infamous 714,710,708 flats.  He was just back from India and moping over Liz, the girl who did not wait for him after all.  He was very beautiful, with long blond curls, a great smile and a tender way about him.  He was thinking about Buddhism and questions of spirituality, drawing many mandalas. We embarked on a long and torturous relationship – over 4 years of “relationship wrestling.”  Mark was an infuriating boyfriend – he slept all day, had to choose the appropriate albums to play while putting on each individual article of clothing, was very messy (that room!), always late, and very attractive to the young Nubiles from Arcada and various other places. He would hold court on that ratty curved couch in the bay window, a cigarette and his guitar, wearing a plaid bathrobe.  708 was full of adoring transients and Irish people.   Mark had great love for the fighting/crying Irish poets in the neighborhood.

When I moved back to NY, we became pen pals and I still have lots of Mark’s mail art from his Dada phase. He had the greatest handwriting – perfectly formed and even.  He was so naturally creative in so many ways – music, writing, talking, socializing, criticizing.  I loved going to galleries with him – he was so easy to talk art and culture with.  Our phone conversations lasted for hours and always included detailed lists of what he was reading and what he recommended – he had finally finished that damnable Pynchon.  Every single time he called, he would pretend to be from the county sheriff’s office or my college alumni association.  I never fell for it but that never stopped him.  I would just wait for that familiar “woo hoo.”  He really enjoyed playing with my kids and got along well with my husband who shared his attitude that the “party is where I am.”

For all this, Mark also had a desperate quality about him.  This usually related to drugs and drinking but also to experience and pleasure in general.  He wanted to push it all the time.  He was rarely relaxing to be with – always challenging one to think harder or differently, to explain, to defend.  He really did live a life fuller than most.  Here is an excerpt from an epic email Mark wrote just two weeks before his death:

“Me, I seem to be exiting some sort of season myself, breaking out of a self-imposed exile to trouble with other humans again. My efforts at maintaining an approachable exterior and facile charm only serve to remind me why I withdrew in the first place. I find that my years of polishing a versatility, an ability to travel and have commerce with the maximum number of social strata and situations has left me a particular handicap- I’m too smartass and cutting for the idiots, and too (negatively) experienced and unshockable for the hoi polloi. I know: 9/10s of the world would be happy to have my problems, if that’s in fact what they are. It occurs to me that none of this is very funny, and somewhere along the line I promised myself that I would never write more than three paragraphs without at least attempting lamely a lunge at humor; gravity can be deadly.
Here’s more unfunny business- I’ve made up my mind to write, early often and at length. I’ll still lay abed and strum guitar mooning aloud about my suffering, and I enjoy drawing and pushing colors around a page, but if I have to pick a muse to court with seriousness in mind then let it be Calliope.”

Back on that couch at 708, we used to each other stories.  Mark always ended his, in a strange German/Jewish accent, “you may wish that there was more, but there isn’t, that’s it, there is no more.”
Goodbye dear friend, and thank you.
Alison Fennell Vaccarino

so i guess it’s true

…no cruel joke in sight.

Alas Mark was born in the wrong century; he would have done well in the company of the bon vivants, rebel philosophers, moonshine connoisseurs, and French poets of the Baudelaire and Mallarme ilk.

And I suppose it is also true that conformists die everyday, but heretics live on forever.

Mark was too much of a deviant to dismiss, and too excited about life to forget. A non conformist by nature, a freethinker in spirit, and a lust for life so multifaceted that no grand generalization of his character can satisfactorily sum it up.

So it was Spock who introduced me to the punk anarchist, Mohawk haired (a uniform back then) phase of Mark. It was a time when Strummer sneered for us, Marley rebelled for us – but if we screamed at the inequities of society it’s because we were deluded by hope.

We thought of ourselves as subversives. But we were too distracted about this weird thing called life and didn’t have enough time to foment a rebellion. Mark had a raconteur’s zest and a French poet’s panache. He had a biting wit, sharp cynicism, and excelled at exposing the fatuous, moral shoddiness, the crass and the hypocrite. In truth, he spoke too fast but spoke for me; and lived the multihued life while I lived vicariously. He refused to live a half life while reveling in the irony of it all – He lived!

He was capable of these lucid, electric thoughts that would sideline me for weeks; but at the same time would commit these spectacular gaps of logic. Yeah that Art “liberation” thing did happen. I guess, if you’re gonna be a high wire act, you have to negotiate between a social mudslide and the etiquette of a tea party with Marie Antoinette.

Like the rest of us, he was a walking contradiction: sharp tongue but would be dictated by his private pains; His moods vacillated between a swaying bag of shrapnel and ebullient magic; tortured the ones he loved but capable of Twain like insights; would dismiss the apathetic but when the burden of his doubts became palpable – would fall for these shortsighted gains.

Did I mention humor? Our conversations would begin innocently enough like two bards exchanging clever repartees and degenerate into a one sided cap gun battle. This would morph into satirical observations: be it faux machismo, political grandstanding, social follies, the alarm of sexual gluttony, the funniest takes on self loathing this side of reality… my comebacks fell flat and monotone… I was no match for his rambling performances… besides, I’d tell him, I’ve been abused by better folks.

But this early exit is robbing me of a few more laughs that I desperately need, a few more hours to feel more alive, and a few more drinks to keep my equilibrium.

I raise my half empty glass and bid you adieu, me bredda!

And I still maintain that a walking Mark erm… Twain you’re not – but came closest than any of us.

Am thankful we crossed paths

claude

Mark, I will never forget you

Mr. Mark, remember when we went to the Clash concert in 1979?  I do.  Remember when I burned you in 8th grade shop class.  I do.  Remember when when we started our own school zine called “The Punk Papers”? I do. Remember when we did everything we were told not to do?  I do.  Remember when I said I’d never miss you, I lied.  I do.  I’ll see ya when I get there,  Spock-out.

To all that have left a post, thank you

We, his family,  can “see” and hear Mark in all your memories, reflections.  We treasure them and read them over and over.  Thank you, Mr. Wig for your memories in the Haight.  Mark loved that scene and was so happy, the world before him.   My sister is going on a job to Brooklyn in May.  I am going with her to visit Mark and I have a desire to see where he used to live in Brooklyn.  My neighbor is scanning a few photos of Mark for me and I hope to post them next week.

Hugs to you all, Mark’s mom, Kay

Mr. Tuesday

My name is Eric A Tartakoff, aka, Mr. Wig.

I met Mark one sunny morning in the year of 1991, or was it 1990, I can’t quite be sure but the day was sunny and the room, that was his, at 708 Haight st. sfca, it was a mess that of which I perhaps had never seen before.

Not long before that morning, I had moved into the flat below, 710.

To be honest I can’t remember exactly how or when I met Mark, but my first memory of him as a friend of mine was us sitting at a table by the window of his room over looking Haight st. This table was impossibly cluttered. Books, beer cans, cups of old coffee, numerous ashtrays all filled beyond capacity.

We drank coffee, smoked cigarettes and played rummy 500 all the while listening to his eclectic music selections.

Hours were spent there, smoke was the air.

I lived in SF for 7 years and we were best of friends. He and I along with our very special cast of characters, all great friends got each other into and out of all kinds of trouble, I dare not go into detail here.

Really there are too many stories to write down, too many memories to recount.

Mark was one of a kind in so many ways, he made me laugh and infuriated me and through all the fun, frustration and happy even sad times we spent together, I always loved him like a brother.

I hate saying “mark was”, I hate it beyond words.

Maybe because I wasn’t at his funeral, but I find it hard to think of him as no more, as a was.

I find myself reliving one of a million times spent with Mark, from walking the streets at night just talking to driving 100 mph on a flooded, dry lake bed in Nevada, sliding and getting stuck in the mud.

From time to time I think to call his phone

but I don’t.

I miss you Mark

MY SON, MY SON

Ordinarily – I might look out my kitchen window around 6 pm and see Mark coming up the Filbert Steps with a book or books in his hand. It always gave me a happy feeling to see him. After hellos he would go to the couch and read while I finished cooking our dinner. Usually we ate dinner while watching Jeopardy. Banished to the bathroom to smoke – even then he took his book with him and continued reading – often he would yell out the answer to the Jeopardy question from that location. Fortunately, by and large, we enjoyed the same tv programs, PBS, documentaries, Nova, Front line, Seinfeld He turned me on to Curb Your Enthusiasm, although he liked some episodes better than others. He refused to raise his eyes from his book for Project Runway, but sometimes would for Antiques Road Show. This was our life, routine, since Mark got himself in the drug program about August 2007. He seemed content and I enjoyed cooking things I thought he would like. He told me more than once to let him know if he was invading my privacy too much, too often. I told him, no, I enjoyed his company. And I did. We discussed politics, books, movies, and he always made me laugh.

Recently I was at Trader Joe’s buying eggs and recalled the last time I was there with Mark. I was buying the more expensive “range free,” when Mark brought this to my attention. I said, “Well, I thought it was the least we could do to try and help out the poor chickens”

Mark looked at me soberly, reflectively, and said, “Now, you’re not thinking that those chickens are running around on a lawn somewhere, are you?”

“Well, huh …”

I always loved Mark, of course, but during these months I developed such a very deep love for him that even I was surprised. I thank God for this time I had with him, our friendship, but it makes it so hard. I felt such compassion, sympathy for the struggle he was making. I told him that the two of us reminded me of the old Mafia guy, directing his operations in Las Vegas from his old mother’s outdated kitchen somewhere in Kansas, while she scurried around making dinner. Mark would leave my apt sometimes as late as 12 pm. As he would walk thru deserted Chinatown, I always told him to be careful. He told me, “Believe me, I’m the scariest person out there!”

The books Mark read were as eclectic as the music he enjoyed. I remember when he was about 14 his blasting Beethoven from his bedroom. I told him the neighbors were going to come pounding on the door, saying, “TURN DOWN THAT BEETHOVEN!” At this moment I have to return to the public library for him: The Savage Detectives, Robert Bolano; We Came To The End, Joshua Ferris; The Rest Is Noise, Alex Ross; Stephane Mallarme, Collected Poems (in French); Debunking 9/11, David Ray Griffin; and Harlot’s Ghost, Norman Mailer, 1,289 pages worth. At one time he mentioned that he could not believe that the library let him have 13 books out at once!

When I returned from a month’s trip in Mexico, August, September, 2007, I found, to my great joy, that Mark had got himself in a program. Altho he never said, I knew he felt good about doing it all himself. He had to get very sick before he could begin taking the Suboxone, then get up very early every day for weeks to get to S.F. General for the pill and blood tests. If you know Mark well, you know getting up early was a test of fire. After some weeks of this he was allowed to get a week’s supply at a time. He was also required to see a counselor once in a while with whom, fortunately, he connected with. He was doing so well. He told me once that the chances of him sliding were almost nil … and then he did.

I called the clinic just so they wouldn’t think he had stopped coming. With all the people they have coming thru there I doubted they would remember Mark specifically but, to my surprise, his counselor called me and said they were all devastated. I tell you this because I was not sure when the “slide” happened exactly. But the counselor said that Mark had come in and they had talked about it, it was only once, and Mark had climbed back on the horse, so to speak. I know that because Mark was taking the Suboxone on schedule during his short hospital stay. That one time, evidently, was the one time too many, and he picked up the insidious staph.

I have a lot of Mark’s notebooks to go thru, some large and the little soft-backs he always carried with him. He rarely shared any of his poems – although he did write a couple wonderful ones for me as birthday presents. One that he did let me read was truly beautiful, something about a thorn or barb, very metaphorical. Since he let me read it, I believe even he thought it was good. I hope I can find it and share it with you all. Until then, I leave you with this one I came across and liked. It’s not that personal so I don’t think Mark would mind.

Waking,

we noticed the old words

had packed their baggage in the night

and with the only grace they ever mustered

stole away like the dead loves they had become.

Walking,

we noticed the old worlds

had similarly vanished, and with them

took the false borders, perspectives and limits

they had silently imposed

and in every direction possibility shone reborn.

My Sweet Brother

I’m really not sure just where to begin or even what to say. I’ve been trying to finish this piece for some time. I would write a little bit here and there, walk away in tears, come back, and then leave again. Truthfully, it’s been very painful for me.

Mark was only 41 years old.

A long time ago a friend once told me:

“Life is like a circle and there are no words to describe my loss.” For some reason, those words have stayed with me and that is exactly how I feel. There are no words to describe the loss of my brother. As my mother said, it’s impossible to wrap my mind around what has happened.

It was a heart-wrenching day on March 19, 2008 in Queens, New York. Prior to the service Mark was given a Jewish Tahara, which is a ritual washing of the body accompanied by prayers governed by kovod ha met, respect for the body. He was then dressed in soft white linens followed by more prayers.

The day was gray and cold but being surrounded by some of Mark’s dearest friends warmed my heavy heart. Birds chirped softly and small raindrops fell from the trees as we stood together to honor Mark. Benny, Allison, Joey, Joanne, Mae, Sandra, Catriona, Marty and Brandon, thank you all for creating a warm circle of love that embraced Mark. In the stillness, I felt hearts breaking around me. The rabbi was soft spoken, his face relaxed. Joanne, your poem to Mark was sweet. As you were reading it so eloquently, I felt as though Mark was standing by your side, saying “Hmmm, not bad, not bad.” You described Mark SO perfectly. I will never forget it.

Mark was constantly telling me about his friends. He had affectionate nicknames for almost everyone. Some that I remember are: Young Mae, Sandra feisty Paz, Benny the Jew, Crazy Lyne, Mr. Wig, Hippy Daddy, Uncle Davy, The Nubiles. His younger sister Sharon was Mental Case #0321. Mark made an impact on so many people’s lives, more than he will ever know. He was certainly instrumental in my life.

Mark was really happy when he was working at Scient, where he eventually became Chief Morale Office. There was excitement and energy in him. He loved it there and enjoyed the people he worked with. He told me about various functions where he was responsible for setting up the festivities and time after time he would entertain me up with his hilarious stories. He talked about women at work and asked me for sisterly advice. I remember when a new female boss came on board and there was some friction between them. He had some choice words for her, but again, his description of events cracked me up. He was never mean-spirited; in fact, he put humor into it and took it on as a challenge to win her over with his personality and wit.

Did you know Mark was a movie star? Yes he was! I was flying to DC with my husband around 1999 and all of a sudden I heard Mark’s voice. We looked up and saw Mark on the airplane’s movie screen talking about Scient! I couldn’t believe it. He was featured in a news story about Internet companies like Scient. I will never forget that moment.

I remember his multicolored Mohawk when he was a teen. He loved the attention. Mark like to question authority and didn’t really care about what people thought of him. He was determined to live his life the way he wanted to, not one created by society, always being true to himself, living an authentic life.

Mark was painfully truthful. There was no dancing around the truth with him about life issues. He took them on head first, honestly but with humor and kindness mixed in. He never sideswiped you; he just spoke the truth. Boy, I wish more people were like him.

Mark was so funny and brilliant his entire life, even when he was a child with his blond curly hair, red lips and those big blue eyes of his. He always had something to say. Once he really embarrassed me when he was all of 5. (I was 12). I told him if he ate his peanut butter sandwich it would “stick to his ribs”. Mark looked at me like, “you’re kidding, right?” and said, “For your information, Gina, peanut butter can NOT stick to your ribs because it goes to your stomach which is a sac!” I was speechless. I have so many memories of him as a child, pure and innocent. I remember very clearly carrying him around the house on my hip when he was wearing cloth diapers, his little wet face next to mine; playing in his pool; loving; silly; wearing little brown loafers with tiny shoestrings; his plaid pants; his runny nose. Picking blackberries by our house in San Anselmo, his face both purple from the juice and red from the hot sun. Walking him to school, playing hide and go seek, protecting him, and of course, tormenting him.

He attended the University of California, Berkeley as an art major, learned how to speak French, and did it well. He spoke a little Yiddish also. He was a fascinating person, a true charmer. Mark could write Greek, too. He was a poet and his poems were deep, intelligent and would wind around in a web-like fashion making perfect sense, leaving his readers inspired. He was well-traveled, having been to India, Tibet, Hawaii, Thailand, China (a long train trip with his father), Paris, London, and Brazil. He loved being with friends and going out for nice dinners. He loved the Taddich Grill and Joe’s in San Francisco. Taddich Grill has fussy waiters and he loved that!

He was a great guitar player and wrote beautiful music. Not too long ago he told me he wrote a new song so I asked him to sing it to me and he said, “Ya sure now? Well okay then, here it is.” He plucked away at his guitar, singing his song about love, his eyebrows going up every now and then and then looking up at me with his blue eyes to see my reaction. I remember telling him it was beautiful and he laughed. He laughed again and said, “Oh thanks, I’m still working it out.” God, how I wish I remembered those lyrics. I was just so happy that he felt comfortable singing to me.

Once, he did stand up comedy in SF (what guts!) He loved reading books, and read them like they were going out of style. He had lists of books that he wanted to read and always had a least five in his backpack that he was devouring. He was well read, that’s for sure. Mark’s high school English teacher once told my mother that Mark wrote so well she wouldn’t be surprised if he became another Steinbeck.

He was my only brother, my mother’s only son. I miss him terribly. It haunts me how everything reminds me of him. Curly brown hair, songs, tall men, smells, laughter, blue eyes, cigarettes (I look to see how people hold them now) books, humor, honesty, intelligence and lopsided smiles.

I loved Mark so much and enjoyed being around him. I loved walking down the street with him. He was so tall, 6’ 2”, and I felt proud to be with him. He made me feel safe. On his 40th birthday we took him to a very cozy French restaurant in San Francisco (Chez Papa). He wore a suit and looked sooo handsome. I wasn’t the only one who thought so, as women couldn’t take their eyes off of him. He ordered in French… we had a great time.

Mark was great with kids. He made mine laugh so hard with his stories and quick wit. On Thanksgiving 2007 my husband and Mark took our kids to the park. My daughter said, “we put Uncle Mark in jail and he chased us around and he even watched me do the monkey bars.” During our dinner she whispered to my mother, “you have a funny son”, and he was. What a breath of fresh air he was.

That he was so young and had so much POTENTIAL makes his passing even sadder.

My heart is torn and my grieving is relentless. Daily I am brought to my knees, my tears nonstop. Without warning, grief grabs me and takes me down to a deep, unforgiving place within. Mark was my little brother and always will be. It’s hard to imagine all of this… it does not feel real, yet, I know it is. I loved Mark deeply and I miss him so much.

I would love to hear other’s stories about Mark.

Peace to all,

Gina

(That’s me between Mark and my husband)

I am lamenting like an old Italian woman. the sound that emits from me is like buffalo running across the sky trampling the stars in their path…….

Hello, my name is Chandra Kay “Sabine” Burns. (sigh, breathe, shake head) I don’t know where to begin. I met Mark when I was looking for an inexpensive room to rent in San Francisco in 1991. He was interviewing for a $176.00/month room at 708 Haight St., a place that Mark was the “Senior” room mate, and he lived in the front bedroom (the best room in the house. ALWAYS the best for Mark!). I wanted the smallest room in the house, on the shaft and across from the toilet room so badly that I called him at least 7 times until he said YES! The day that I moved into 708 Haight St. (it was on the corner of Pierce St. and it eventually came to it’s demise around 1993 to a horrible fire) was the day that began a life long friendship for Mark and me. Mark A. Dienstag was my soul mate. We were soul mates immediately. I have over 101 stories of the life we shared at 708 Haight alone, but our friendship was boundless; and I am so heartbroken. I am not alone, and my heart goes out to his family and all of his friends.

I am really still not right in my head. but hopefully soon I can organize this posting. I have a lot of Mark’s words, and I just need to sift through them. We told one another our darkest. Once I told Mark that I was going to save all our correspondence and publish it; and his reply to that was, “No, you should be deleting them all immediately upon reading, and in some cases before.” Well, old man, I didn’t listen to you.

(sticking my tongue out at you!)

It’s Alright Ma: I’m Only Sighing…‏
From:	Mark Dienstag (mark.dienstag@gmail.com)
Sent:	Wed 10/11/06 2:23 PM
To:	Chandra Burns (chalaska23@hotmail.com)

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Wolf Moth…mp3 (9.1 MB)

“Hey Hey Chocho-san,

Hope all is well yr end. Thought I’d take an idle moment here, rant in yr direction, maybe even attach another Wolfmother song for the sheer hell of it.

I guess I told you abt the gig at the Warfield? Anyway I threw up right beforehand & was like trembling nervous (here’s a tip: don’t ever *ever* peek thru the curtain before a show when there’s like say more than 4000 people waiting expectantly) but flicked 3/4s of a lit cig away when summoned & bounded right onstage like I’d been doing this my entire life & introduced the (mad) band (on accounta I was only seconds before missing) and count3ed off the 1st song (“Ragged But Right”- maybe I’ll attch that) & whoop & a hey nonny-nonny and we were off & from there mostly I remember 1. blinding lights 2. people laughing & clapping 3. the eery ghost-white faces of the backup girls 4. some marines (it was fleet wk) forcing some cute girls to 2 step (they must of been fr the south- nobody else 2 steps like that and 5. how quick the whole thing was over. it was fun & now I’m an official (PAID) member of the Kentucky Ramblers & Hippie Dad. I’ll just play my cards close to my chest & see which band pans out faster, ditch the other. God I’m a dick. Oh but I got to meet Elvis Costello the next day at the bgrass festival in the park & Emmylou Harris & can report they’re both nice, normal people (EC was really funny actually-one of my big heroes but I was too humble to ask for an autograph unlike other pushy girly things who I was jealous of for the rest of the day).”

I have so much more. So much much more I want to share with you all.

Much Love & Light, Sabine