Purgatorio

It's been awhile since I've read the Divine Comedy, but it is supposed to be that, right? a comedy that is both inspired and meant to inspire the movement of all good men upward toward the beating wings of golden angels.

Purgatory though that's where the real danger lies. In not having been a traitor or a money lender you don't end up in the boiling depths of doom, but also neither are you allowed into the showering glory of god. Which is what jesus experienced on the cross. The knowledge of god and the knowledge of its absence. Being able to catch a glimpse of fame but having your roll as a minor extra axed because of budget short falls.

Where is this going, you might ask.

Nowhere. Stuck in that Limbo of the Bermuda Triangle is the worst place to be. We want answers, good clean straight forward and immediate, preferably the words we want to hear right now and not having to wait or work for them, answers. When the answers aren't there or communication fails and the gratification of a solution is out of hand but just there, visible around the bend, can be the most awful place to be stuck.

Especially when everyone is right all of the time.

None of this is coming out right. This was supposed to be about how the internet is both a god and a devil, but the words just aren't there and it's making me feel very frustrated to be able to see the vision and not find the appropriate words.

Over and Out.

Growing Pains

I am very lucky to have a handful of interesting individuals in my life. I have three friends in town—three good friends whose idea of a good time is to be at home drawing pictures, or getting lunch, or even just sipping beer while the hours slip by and conversation unfolds.

From time to time I think that I ought to really get out there and get to know some new people. So I did. I went out and tried to be social on a saturday night. What a joke. I am a fairly open-minded and willing companion, but (you can really hear that looming) I just don't have time to waste getting wasted, really wasted on a saturday night. It's not just that I have a breakfast joint to run, it's that I just don't hate myself that much anymore.

It all started with a call to dress up. I always dress up; sometimes it's a skirt or even a dress, at others jeans and wicked boots, but I always dress with care and precision and dislike being told how to present myself (I am not a package and do not wear bows, toggles, and despite the holiday cheer, I do not wear bells.). Skirt goes on, layers of shirts, stockings, sweaters, jackets, jewelry all go under and over and I am still freezing because it is december and I'm in a skirt.

First drink and everything is fine.

Second drink's when things start to get weird. But, I think, I'm weird, how weird could this all really be? I find out that she had been drinking and smoking long before I picked her up at 7.

By the third drink I had moved on to ginger-ale and she asked if people would mind if she smoked weed in the bar. I said yes they most likely would. I don't think that the general public is okay with people smoking controlled substances in wide open non-smoking bars. It's the kind of thing that gets you kicked out really quickly and asked not to come back.

Your probably right she said. Are you straight edge, she asked.

As I had just had two drinks I was thrown off by this question. Before I had a chance to reply she asked, Do you want to get some coke?

I was stunned and completely grossed out, Yeah, no, I said. What I didn't say was that I had no intention of breaking a personal code of behavior on a first date.

But the truth was that there was the little tiny part of me that thought I could. For a second I thought it would be fun and that I could just do a bump and then be fine and go home and work in the morning. Then reality flares up. I look at her, she's 30 and wasted and I don't want that. I don't want any of that. So I drop her off and head home.

My bed's warm and I'm off to sleep.

Toothsome Delights

This afternoon I raked the gutter and median. There were at least five different types of fungi under the decomposing oak leaves. Drawing the orange tonged rake over them I released their spores to the wind and soil. Very solid, I thought, doing my part to clean and trim and propagate colonies (I would never know if they were edible as all mushrooms are mysterious neighbors and I remain certain that their semi-vegetative state lends them humanistic qualities.).

I am very pleased to announce that as of today, the second of December, I still have a dahlia blooming. It is large and lemony yellow. In addition to this, the japanese maple in my yard insists on having the last word: while all of the trees up and down my street have been void of foliage for at least a week, it still has the majority of its leaves—most of them blazing red, though some still a nice verdant green. My yard is downright lush for late fall.

Autumn is lingering and I am not protesting.

Thintopia

I was caught by surprise when I was reminded about eating disorders. Specifically mine. Twice today; twice in one day. (I said no to ice cream.)

It all started with Ding-Dongs. I was at a meeting, and, someone, for some ungodly reason, brought a dozen Ding-Dongs. As tempting as the highly hydrogenated snack sounded, I was able to decline. Years ago, I loved the chocolate confection as it tasted as good coming up as it did going down.

According to the New York Times, there are support groups for people who think that the government is stocking them in red and white sedans. Those groups have resources and support networks which can be found online. They are like the pro-ana sites, which are also full of resources, tips, and support.

I caved and googled "thinspiration."

My inspiration is in not ever being that sick ever again, in not having to portion out an apple into my alloted daily serving of four meals of two slices each, of not having to throw food away, of not having to brush my teeth seven times between morning and night.

Skipping meals, wrestling nausea and vertigo, being acute.

The Surprise

There are always surprises. And, there is routine like what I'm going to wear tomorrow (something amazing and not too stained). The surprise is when isolation creeps in and finds me in the strangest circumstances. How did I end up here, doing this? Even more surprising is that I suddenly care that I am friends, even just on facebook, with exactly one person that I have known since my early years.

Most people I grew up with seem to have this overflowing fondness for our hometown and have this sort of comrade-in-arms kinship that I don't understand. I can't stand the place. I am starting to question my lack of shared joy. Was there something I missed, did my memory somehow fail me, did I suffer some unknown accident which has left me paralyzed to Ashland's merits?

I am starting to wonder.

I am also going back for Thanksgiving. It will be my first time there in almost three years and at this point it is starting to seem like I have been avoiding the place. So if you find yourself in Southern Oregon over the shopping holiday and would like to get a drink, you know where to find me.

Breakfast for Breakfast

Overrun by my need to follow the nonsense that is the US political system, I have to admit that I am really nervous. More nervous than I was on prom night, but that was a bust. (He was 23, tall, dark, and hansom; when I dropped him off after the dance and he asked if I wanted to come in, I said, Why?)

I woke up at a hair past five this morning, what an ungodly hour. I couldn't fall back to sleep. I came downstairs to see if there was any news on the election front. There was not. There was relatively little news about anything else though either. I have begun to suspect that this whole 22 months of endless campaigning has got me so focused on a single event, that I have neglected my world view. With fairly narrowed vision, I proceed to take the goggles off. What! there is more to the world than our election! the dollar has made gains against the euro (I wish I was in Spain), Evo Morales has ousted US diplomats from Bolivia, Really?

It's good to be back in the world.

Control Quality

My hands are really dry. The nail beds are chapped and small shreds of skin are peeling down toward my knuckles (that word is more than a little tricky to spell). There is little moisture left in them. I woke up yesterday and felt a familiar tightness in the joints of my fingers: It must be raining, I thought.

There are people who take really good care of themselves. They come into my work and I can smell their Shea butter body lotion and creme rinse conditioner above the smell of coffee and frying eggs. They glow and smile and drink plenty of water.I chew ice and sleep on my stomach, leading to terrible aches and pains through out the day. I know it's bad, but habits are formative and hard to kick.

There are other people who sit at booths and reek of unwashed clothes and bodies. I breath before I take their tofu to them, setting down their plates as quickly as possible.

I like to think that I am somewhere in the middle, not a fanatical moisturizer but also a regular bather. I brush my teeth and use fancy face cream twice daily. I don't carry a tube of compressed vitamin lotion in my purse, nor do I always carry a purse. Since I am at home and my hands are so dry, I think I am going to go upstairs and take care of my digits and maybe, change my socks while I'm at it.

Beating the System

It is so hard to create a second identity; that should be easy. In this world of bits and pieces, ones and zeros, why should I be limited by my own name, age, gender? I should not be; I can have as many email accounts as I can remember names for, that goes for online networking too. But, I sing victoriously of my recently added persona. I have long held the belief that all good work ought to be done by someone other than me.

So far so good.

Fundamental Choice

Look out, see. To really look and see the basic structure is the first challenge. The form is irrelevant; we could be talking architecture or biology, the framework for understanding remains identical enough in physique that the principals are constant. But, to understand motive is guesswork at best.

I love car naps. I may have written in the past about sleeping in my car, though I have a hard time remembering if I made clear just how much: sleeping in the car pours warmth into my limbs. The first real car naps began as my father was dying. I spent time in Ashland and Seattle, driving up and down the I-5 corridor countless times past nameless towns: Tacoma, Olympia, Centralia, Portland, Salem, Eugene, Rice Hill, Roseberg, Grants Pass, Central Point, Medford, and finally Ashland. I know the traffic patterns and I can usually make the trip in a little less than seven hours.

Time can crawl, especially with a hangover.

I get a deep heavy pit in my stomach, a pit that sinks and demands that I sleep. I stopped behind the Circle K in Centralia. There was a park on one side and a parking lot on the other. I pulled over, set my seat back, and was out in a flash. I leave the radio on and the voice reading DeLillos "White Noise" drones over the progressing apocalypse. When the cassette tape flips, I awaken, somewhat befuddled, but refreshed.

Car naps became a regular thing on long drives. I would pull over, sleep, feel the heat of the sun through the windshield. Then I started to go to school; then school and work; when there wasn't time to rest. When I really dreaded the hours in the afternoon when there wasn't enough time to go home and relax before work, I would take my car to Forrest Park and sleep. If it happened to be raining, all the better, I didn't need the radio.

Car Napping at home almost takes the cake. When you pull up to your house there is that special sound in the air. It's a slight ring in the atmosphere, and internally you just know you are home, you made it. Anxiety falls away and "The World" is on NPR. The seat goes back and the day unwinds as I sleep.

Losing Faith

I used to have friend; she was the one those amazing women who can really do anything, a real type A. I was young and probably didn't recognize that in her. She was the good one and I was the bad one. It was important to live up to the standards we had built around one another. She was loyal; I was independent, though reliant on her approval. When she moved east for college and I thought we could remain close, at least in spirit, believing that the years of shared eating disorders and secret ambition would turn into a lifetime of friendship.

I let the relationship slip away, one unanswered letter at a time. Then one year my letters started going unanswered and sometimes even returned because I had lost her recent address. I blamed myself for the loss: probably the smoking and sleeping around as a late teenager; the lying; the lack of direction my life seemed to have; the overall lack of consideration for the person on the other end of the letters.

I still dream about her, though not with the same frequency. I used to be haunted by guilt. Until I realized that the door is always open to her; what I feel for her is unconditional. Friendship as an adult is built on a mutual respect and understanding, and though I do not know her now, I would take the time to do so. I am sad that she is gone from my life, but to have known her and had friendship is good. The very closeness of our former relationship limits our ability to build a current relationship. It would be hard to know how to be together after so long apart, especially after the early years of bonding. That's why good people grow apart and lose touch.

Sad bunnies.

Technology and The Devil

Four or five nights ago, I tried to post to my blog. Comcast was servicing the internet and I was unable to publish. Then last night I tried to republish the piece and again was denied. From that I decided that the update from my brain was unnecessary for the world. The devil, it seems, was in my computer, stopping me from putting that piece into the hands of the general public. Conversely, perhaps it was god. Is there really a difference?

I have found that time is one of those commodities of which there is never enough. It is always in demand, supply is limited, and there are an infinite number of ways in which to spend what little time I do have. This last week I worked at my full time job, made peach jam, rode my horse five times, walked my dogs five times, had dinner with my s/o every night but last, did the laundry, cleaned the house, and read every Op-Ed article in the New York Times. What I did not do was change my bank from the institution formerly known as Washington Mutual to a less known local credit union, write anything more than an email, call my mother, buy new winter boots.

How is it that no matter what is done, the stack of incomplete projects remains. It must have to do with technology and sleep. If I didn't sleep eight hours a night (I know its excessive but I really have a hard time functioning on anything less.), I could undoubtably finally get that novel past the outline stage. But technology is competing for my attention.

Instead of spending my few alloted minutes of "free" time doing healthy creative projects which activate the right hemisphere of my brain, I check my facebook account or watch CSI. At the end of it all, the working and the talking to people, my brian relapses it seems that the best I can do is wait until ten o'clock so that I can fall asleep in order to do it all again.

This is not living.

Jet Lag and Thunder Storms

I just got home from four days in Stamford, New York. Population 1,241. Delaware County is the poorest county of New York. There are more homes vacant than occupied. It is no wonder as the homes are often huge rambling affairs that were hard to heat even in the best of times. I cannot imagine trying to keep a four-story twelve room home warm on wood stoves and candle sticks. I was told the obituaries would be full this winter.

It is beautiful there in a way that makes the West seem garish. The open spaces are many; breakfast is cheap and cooked in butter. I did not want to come home. I never want to come home after a stint in a different part of the country. Especially when the land is practically a dime an acre. But I do come home and the the dreams start. The dreams of a life away from the call of the alarm clock and toward the natural rhythm of rising with the sun. The rural roads and green acres which were the symbols of oppression in my youth have become a beacon in my adult years. There, my heart beats, Is where life really begins.

Almost as if we had traded climates, the humidity in Oregon was thicker than that in upstate. This morning, after sleeping a sound eight hours, I awoke to the boom of localized thunder and flashing lightening. Typically a rarity. But in these shifting times climates and hearts change alliances.

Number the Hours

Today started last night. With the best intentions, and spun out on coffee haagen-dazs, I sat listing out what today would look like. Then I put my clothes away, organized my desk, filed my bills, and finished a book. It is summer and I toss and turn in the heat. I slip under and on top of the sheets. I listen to the neighbor's air-conditioner and hate how noisy and wasteful it is. I take a sip of water because my throat feels dusty. I have another to wash the dust down. I put the cat in the basement. I contemplate getting up and changing my facebook heading to: coffee ice cream contains caffeine. But, I don't.

I overslept, I couldn't get myself out of bed at quarter of seven for my run. I almost miss my eight o'clock phone date. The library books went unreturned. I fill my car up with gasoline on my way to the barn. I skipped doing the laundry at noon to have a coffee date that turned into an entire afternoon. My kitchen is still in need of a scrubbing and the vacuuming has remained undone.

I did manage to call home in time to find out that we were four blocks away from one another and had an impromptu dinner date.

Today was not a day for my endless listing and organizing and micro-scheduling. After all, I always have tomorrow for that.

Switchblade Sunday

I have been the proud owner of an Italian made switchblade for four, no five, years. It is sleek and black and has a four-inch blade. It is illegal and I keep the mechanism well oiled. I use it to open my mail. Not bills or information regarding a new offer of a life of borrowing and debt; but, mail, real mail written by the hand of someone I know.

It was late winter in 2004, one of those days when you know that spring is close but you wear a jacket over your sweater. I had already worked that morning, I was a Barista at Bau Haus (those were the days, weren't they? full of action and caffeine, friends, late nights, and forgotten mondays). I pulled my motorcycle up outside of the Madison Market and a dude on a whole lot of drugs ran up to me: I have what you need. He exclaimed. What ever it was, I seriously doubted that I wanted much less needed it. He reaches into his backpack and pulls out this amazing little knife. See, he said, and pushed the small round ball on the handle. The blade sprang to life. As any normal person, I recoiled as the stranger on speed flashed the switchblade in the afternoon sun. He pushed the release at the top of the hilt and the blade disappeared.

It had a solid weight in my hand. The blade was steel and strong, unlike the cheap blades we would buy in Encinada as teenagers. I had to admit that despite the odds, the man had had what I needed. (And, even more, secretly wanted.) I carried the steel in my back left pocket for months. It felt good in there. Not that I needed protection, but that I had my own back. I liked that no one else could flick it open with as much natural ease as I; I liked that the boys were jealous.

I have stopped carrying the blade as it was more about status than anything else. But, I love the reminder it holds: of that one perfect summer before I left Seattle and everything changed; that sometimes strangers do have just what I've been looking for; that being a little bit macho is down right sexy in a girl.

CSI: good for the couch, bad for my ass

So there have been a number (more than two) bodies found in parks in Portland in the last month. Well, as a television fan I know this means I should stay inside and avoid strangers and desolate, isolated places. Unfortunately it is training season and I love trail running. The feet must pound the trail, so I will venture out-of-doors, dogs in tow, and run through the hills. After all, I am running, thus I assume I can run faster and longer than most people. And, I am not crazy about being chopped into bits which gives me an edge.

Forgotten Mines Are Dangerous to Civilians

I got home from work and my house was an absolute disaster. The kitchen is being remodeled (yeah!). But that leaves the dogs feeling displaced and a bit on the back burner. I cannot imagine that they where home alone for more than 45 minutes, but in that time they were able to devour several boxes of bagged tea. Who knew that dogs had a proclivity towards Decaf Earl-Grey, certainly not me. In addition to the tea was my pencil case full of wonderful, inky pens (leaving dark smears all over the wood floor); a wooden elephant from my mother's most recent trip to India; Emma's collar; a collage made of German Shrubbery; and a cat toy—all masticated. Evidently my dogs have international taste. I will have you know that they left their nyla-bone and ruff-toy untouched (what's the fun if it can be shredded? I concede them that point).

This is an ongoing, and escalating, epidemic of naughtiness. I would like to believe in my heart that it is the dislocation from the kitchen/normal routine which is leading to their behavior. However, if they do not get shipshape soon, it's going to be time fora new fur coat…

And finally, the BBC is reporting that anti-depressants are garbage. So my dream of putting the puppies on Prozac has been dashed.

fighting for air

Maybe, if you know me, you know that I have a love affair with horses. Sadly, I haven't been riding in the last year owing to death of my noble steed.

I dreamed of horses last night, I was rewiring hot wire and the gelding was snuffling around the pasture. Stroking his head I inhaled the deep scent of sweat, alfalfa, and the magic that is horse. His great brown eyes and velvet nose, so soft and so full.

If I do not sit astride a horse in the near future, I am sure that my heart will explode with sorrow—it is almost as if a portion of my soul is missing and I awoke, only this morning, and realized it.

One can not live in halves and pieces, a fraction of a life, or a portion of a day. I am crying out with every fiber of my being: I must gallop up a meadow as spring turns into summer or lose the part of me which I treasure most dearly.

fourteen years and counting backward

It has been brought to my attention that I am going on thirty and have no womb fruit. This is a good thing in my estimation. Really it is. I admit that my ten year high-school reunion is being planned via myspace, and though I am reticent to join anything as cloistered as an event with 300 people who make my heart rate spike, I do enjoy stalking their profiles. There is a specific satisfaction in seeing the majority of my classmates saddled with the extra baggage of cherub faced poop machines. Not that I don't love changing a nappy as much as the next person, but I paid my dues as a 12 year old babysitter.

There is this bizarre transformation which I notice in the breeders around me. They suddenly cease to exist outside of their infant. Granted, they are sleep deprived and haven't had a lucid dream in months, but that doesn't mean I haven't. This must be why it is that they feel the urge to change that same dirty nappy in the middle of a crowded restaurant. Oddly, if I question their behavior, I am a selfish and un-matronly woman who deplores all things children. Well that's half right. I do approve of children in restaurants, as long as they are not having a fit. I do not approve of anyone crying in public, especially if their is screaming involved.

What happened to the days when children where removed from public when they were making a scene? What happened to finish your meal? What happened to "Please" and "Thank You?" What happened to nap time and tree climbing? What happened to listen to me and this is not up for discussion?

Anyhow not much else has changed; I remain unconvinced of procreation—the majority of people choosing to do so seem so coddling and unfit for life much less parenthood.

if not then, how about now?

If all goes as planned (when does it?) I should be alive and well—happily going on 50—in 2028, and as an avide orange eater, I wonder what an orange will be like in 20 years.

Perhaps history, specifically the history we are living in now, is not static.

Dog Years

Come in Sevens

and Marc Jacobs' flats.

Archly smiling smiling

Behind closed eyes—

Heaven is in those pants.
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Having spent my many, three, days off going about my business, I have decided that today I will drink coffee, read books, have a bath, eat a scone. My coffee is thick, rich with cream and strong from having left the beans in the press for too long. I am reading The Cutting Room, by Louise Welch. It is the perverse book which was made into the film 8mm. The book is terrible, terrifying, and electrically thrilling. I plan to finish it by evening.

commitment is a four letter word

Let's debase our minds for a few moments: I have often heard "oh, he has commitment issues." As if that explains the fucking around. I have also heard, "It's a guy thing." Let's, being meand you, dear reader, set the matter on the log for some examination. Women have commitment issues, too. And we often think about how great it would be if that hunk sitting across the room would take us to the WC and lift us up the wall so that we, too, could f*ck like it didn't matter.
That's it. Fucking is not a male privelage. Everyone of those hot little tickets you see in her tight jeans is one of us. We know it and now you do too.
Infact, evolution dictates that monogomy is bad for genetics. When a woman has multiple partners, it is the strongest and fastest sperm which reaches the egg, thus providing it with the best DNA. So the next time you think damn girl, think quietly because besides being hot, we're also all psychic and nothing is less of a turn on than a man who can't keep it in his pants.