adamantine

much too much tutu much

2012-01-17T06:34:00.000-08:00

The new roommate cooking hamburgers in my kitchen in my pots using my plates. "I hope it doesn't gross you out when I eat meat." She said yesterday evening when we were sitting around the table talking.As if the five pound tube of ground beef didn't bother me sitting in the grocery cart nestled against a bag of doritos and a box of blueberry mini-muffins. No, the eating of the meat is not the part that grosses me out. It might be your revulsion to turkey vultures that is weird not my fascination with their lopsided flight.Now it is 38* outside and my bedroom window is thrown wide, I have a towel lodged under my bedroom door, and I can't leave my room because the smell of char is too much for my nervous system, and yet it is not the eating of the meat that bothers me.I did a handstand for thirty seconds, I did thirty push ups, I did a will squat with A-O of the Oxford English Dictionary balanced on my lap for a minute and a half, I still feel my spirit pressing out of my skin hovering outside of my body unwilling to inhabit that moment . A prisoner of my own making, I sit in my room, grateful that after a week of intermittent non-existence the internet has decided to function properly so at least I have an immediate distraction.I looked at 44 photos of Kate Moss spanning 16 years. She is an alien and I cannot decide if she is beautiful.That's all. Abide in temperance.

I Spy...

2012-01-05T06:53:00.001-08:00

The holiday season left me sleeping minutes later into the predawn hour and with a large stack of reading material. I read as I am in life: consumptive, compulsive, following the peccadillos of mind over time; weaving fantasy, fiction, and fact into the fabric of my being; stitching new thoughts to old; seeding ideas fresh from history into this ever changing sphere of present hellos.

My reading list today How to Save Your Own Life Erica Jong, Best Food Writing 2011 Holly Hughes, Don't Push the River Barry Stevens, Scientific Progress Goes "Boink" Bill Watterson, creator of my heros Calvin and Hobbes, Tropic of Cancer Henry Miller.

Fitting together hand in glove this collection of books glimpse into the human mind of the late 60s. The momentous zeitgeist, that fire of human spirit Henry Miller lit upon decades before Erica Jong grabbed and used to throw open the minds and legs of women. This book Don't Push the River by Barry Stevens is the Gestalt mind on paper in ink and it reads like sunlight through leaves on a windy spring day, leaving me the reader knowing that the process of becoming human is hot, tangible, personal.

Holly Hughes manages to catch the current pornographic nature of our food obsessed culture in her gathering of international essays. And looking back it makes me wonder if we as a whole group, not the few separate individuals leaping into the clouds, have lost human intimacy, our ability to connect deeply with those around us, so we move our connection to ourselves and that which we cannot live with out.

Bill Watterson, Oh, that's what it meant to be a child of the eighties, thank you, I forgot. I knew this book was starting to get to me when I dreamed 'my personal gravity reversed polarity.' As hyper sensitive, overly active child and now adult (I think they call this ADHD...) I relate to Calvin. His frustration and imagination defines the solitude of the only child, the pain of isolation, and the fulfillment of fantasy. More than that the book makes me laugh and I read the best bits out loud to Sampson, by world traveling bear of the last twenty plus years.

These books, each fully rooted in their time, are not obsessed with the future. Rather they express perfectly their present with typewriters, babysitters, smoking indoors, no mention of HIV; they are clear pictures of time in time. Looking back and wondering how to define this ever changing sky of a hopeful tomorrow it appears that we become the adults we deserve from the children we were. Some of us are obsessed with food. In that, I am not alone.

Living on Air

2011-12-20T07:18:00.000-08:00

Growing up my mom's diet consisted of meditation and grapefruit; I am accustomed to poverty.There is a grapefruit tree in Healdsburg, on the corner of Johnson, just north of the library. I go to the library on wednesdays as they are open until 20:00. I love libraries, all of them, especially the ones with books and periodicals.I saw the grapefruit tree much earlier in the season, september or october, and mistook it for an apple or pear. Upon closer inspection I find the yellow orbs of a citrus and that the tree us not pomaceous. Ignored, the tree and the fruit continued to hang and ripen, the branches grow heavy under their burden and hang close to the ground.Ten days ago at the grapefruit tree: It stands proud with dark glossy leaves in an empty lot. Liberating pounds of fruit into my grocery sack, I freed the tree of the burden of production without appreciation.There is an abundance of food here, growing and hanging and waiting to be eaten by strangers because most people are too nervous to eat the food that grows in their yard and would rather eat food that comes from a truck. I eat what I find and supplement my diet with the fresh eggs my neighbor gives me for keeping an eye on her goats.Though comfortable with basic survival, I wonder if it will always be this way. I remember back to my father and his liberty to do as he pleased, there is liberty in poverty, time becomes more important, the reality that time is all we really have. Time and love and the abstract idea that there is nothing outside of love and time.

Long Winding Roads are Scenic and Worth the Effort

2011-12-18T06:32:00.000-08:00

Here it is Sunday morning, the week before Christmas. For those of you who know me and are a relation, jam is in the mail. For those of you who would like a jar of preserves, send me your current address and I will put a package in the post for you. If I am feeling particularly generous I may include a spoon so that you can stand in the sun, somewhere far away from here, with a mason jar in your left hand, a stainless steel spoon in the right, eating the fruits of this season thinking of me.These days I circle in closer to myself; I feel the touch of the starlings wings in my ear as their murmurations escalate into pulsing sculptures of light and silence, the air is redistributed and catches me up into the wind before settling me softly back below the oak that has lost most of its leaves, the one by the gully that needs to have the girder removed, you've seen it, you know.I move towards myself.Close to the surface, tears in moments taken alone course down my cheeks, cut through the dirt, oil, manure. Laughter fills my heart as I remember the touch of starlight on my soul.

Why people set their alarms and don't get up

2011-12-06T06:29:00.001-08:00

Why do I wake up a little bit grumpy and rough around the edges on a perfect cold morning? I have everything I need (to survive) and thanks to the California food stamp assistance program, more than enough to eat.Food tastes funny on ebt; the cardboard coffee from Trader Joe's I was drinking for months was something I had learned to tolerate. I had stopped dreaming of french press stumptown or cellar door coffee roasted the day before, too dark to see through, rich with oil, hot but never boiled. All of that slipped into the past as I became increasingly inventive with my morning routine. I would have continued this from now until some other day, unseen looming on the horizon of my future had someone not told me that my coffee tasted like dirty socks. I was a tiny bit offended as I had even purchased 1/2 & 1/2 (a luxury of fat and flavor) to add to the brew.Attempting to create a drinkable cup of Trader Joe's coffee, I first tried a single cup pour over. Admittedly that was a grayish mix of hot water, milk, and with the subtle flavor of paper from the cone.Improving on that wasn't difficult. I began filling a mason jar with hot water and grounds and letting it sit for five minutes before sending it through the cone and filter. To me, this method was a huge improvement in the color, if not flavor of my mornings. The flaw was in the fact that one of my roommates decided that my two mason jars (one for brewing, one for containing) made great ToGo containers and started to take them to the barn everyday, at which point one broke, and since I am to old to keep doing other people's dishes, I had to find yet a better method.I moved to the soak simmer, which I believe is also called cowboy coffee, but since I am a civilized dressage trainer cowboy coffee sticks in the back of my throat and rubs the bottoms of my feet. This has become my preferred method. Put grounds in water, heat slowly to just below a boil, reduce heat, let stand and cool for a few minutes, filter through a fine sieve, add milk, day starts. Simple.There was the dalliance with an attempt at brewing a toddy like concoction. Soaking the grounds in cold water over night before heating them in the morning. I found this to be an extra step with no perceptible benefit.Yet, my morning still tasted like old socks and it was suggested that the weakness was neither in my preparation nor in my creativity, but was inherent in the dusty old beans.This is where ebt swoops in disguised as flavor-man wearing a mask and cape and offering me freshly roasted beans all for the price of pride and the color of my day will improve if I can just accept that I am poorer than dirt and let that be okay.I can let that be okay.My mornings, no longer stale, are filled with rich solitude and the sky before dawn.

Comfort the Fallen

2011-12-04T07:08:00.001-08:00

I got the deep itch of doom last night, the sense that I am far (miles, more than five hundred) from family. It made me toss and turn, the thought of the world ending and me walking north towards an unknown border with few supplies and no knowledge of how to set a bone or suture a wound. The world can press down on my being; I must be lonely for rational life.

Slip into Wake

2011-11-30T07:58:00.001-08:00

Between routine and compulsion is creativityMy shadow leaps against the sky of my mind: it is fangs, talons, wings, and claws. I wait for it to surface; it is off hunting shards of glass, bits of rock, feathers, bones to fills my pockets.A slow voice speaks and (sonorous, lugubrious, oneiric) words flow in to fill the void which is not empty.Be still in this discomfort, be quiet in the night, sleep and dream, and wake now early before the light of day. Build a fire, build a dream, burn the dream into being across the backs of your eyes, and in that moment when the sun slits the horizon and all is ablaze with the thick light of late fall, pregnant with all the richness of the year and you are blind in that moment, yes.

with thoughts colliding, doors fall open

2011-11-16T07:06:00.000-08:00

Needs Must

Fog from the creek coils up the valley and into my open window.

The meadow, where their laughter carried over the morning, is being readied for spring, manure worked into the soil, water lines set beneath, rows staked.

Planters and Harvesters, there is no rushing time

Quietly Dissolving into Air

2011-11-11T14:24:00.000-08:00

I woke from a nap and behind my eyelids I saw all eternity for a moment blazing across the neurons of my brain.

Limitless

I woke in the morning one day not too long ago and the cacophony of one thousand song birds was so intensely titillating that I threw open my window to hang my head out with them in the first rays of light.

Dawn

I cannot get the smell of her perfume out of my nose. My head is aching from the manufactured odor of elegance.

Reveal

Position, No Action

2011-09-21T06:52:00.001-07:00

We do without doing and everything gets done

Our bodies are full of thoughts, muscles carry memories and charges of electricity run through cells firing off commands much faster than one can comprehend. The first step is getting to place of intellectual knowing; the next letting go of knowledge so that the body can take over. My brain longs to control, my body responds with tension, the horse is uncertain of my request. My brain shuts down and is still for a moment, my body relaxes, energy flows, the horse moves in harmony. Simple.

Bent to Breaking

2011-09-15T07:30:00.000-07:00

This week I am taking that which I hold precious and close to my heart, and redefining my perception of it in one week. It is pushing me to the edge, the breaking point looms, to be in a position where the less I know the easier and better off I will be, this is a time for unlearning, unwinding the ego, yet this is a process that must be handled delicately as if it is crushed all that will be left is a quivering pile of unfocused goo. I cannot describe fully how to unlearn years of learning, but it happens and I am grateful.

Serious Lounge

2011-09-11T08:12:00.000-07:00

It is Sunday the eleventh of September: my first day off in a month. I woke at my normal time, quarter passed six, since then I have been lounging in bed drinking coffee in a clicker trance (I learned fancy diy nail-polish tricks that I will put to use in all of my spare time.).It takes 21 days to form or break a habit. I am not concerned that listlessly shuffling through websites will become a habit.Yet, progress calls! Rumors of an heirloom tomato festival and the fog of Bodega Bay lure me from my sheets.

Long-Term Agreements,

2011-09-10T07:40:00.000-07:00

The natural state of entropy and disregard have their own gravity.I was three, possibly four, when the nightmares began. Giants would swoop in from the sky and hunt me through the forests and skies of my dreamworld. They would come alone or in groups, cannibals hungry to eat my nose. I lived in terror of sleep.One morning I was sitting outside of the cabin and using my thumb I was squishing black ants. I had no conception of life until this moment, when I realized how unjust it was for me to squish an animal simply because it was small relative my the largess of my three years. I stopped killing bugs and made an agreement to not take the lives of other beings.This week I cleaned the small barn so that the horse of my heart could move into safe, clean, welcoming environment. This consisted of removing years worth of cobwebs from the walls, ceiling, corners. If I were a witch who needed spider silk for potions, I would have had gallons of tensile thread at my disposal. I uncovered a spider larger than a silver dollar, her round black body shone in the unexpected light of day, her eight legs, talons, the telltale hourglass mark on her back. She was guarding the nest I had just swept away, "Please get on my broom so I can take you outside." She didn't listen and pulled her legs close into her body to appear less dangerous or even dead. I looked for a jar to transport her out of the area, no dice. I tried again to encourage her to come with me on the broom, she would not leave the destruction of her former nest. My heart sank as I realized that this was the worst moment I had faced in years, I had a real and absolute choice to make.Afterwards, I wept, moved her body outside, left an offering for the life taken. I said a prayer and thanked her for her ferocity, the care that she put into her home, and the power of her life to help me remember the promise I had made long ago to honor all life.

Shuffle the Deck, Take One, Pass the Rest

2011-09-09T07:15:00.000-07:00

There are blogs about a lot of things: how to eat and dress, do a fancy side-twist braid; the importance of awareness; loads of blogs about babies and the people they boss around; sand-crabs of santa cruz; however there are not a lot of blogs about learning how to live with roommates at the ripe age of 31.I have no solutions to this, I am not about to start, but I can say that it is a new challenge for me to learn how to define what matters to me in a shared living environment and what is not worth bothering about (why do people not always think of things in same way that I do at all times in all cases and about all things? what a bore.It is a treat to live with new people, the challenge is real, present, and an honest delight....Things I love:... bananas, hard-boiled eggs (foods that come in portion appropriate portable packages)... and... half-cartons of eggs and six-packs of beer ... 137...Love,chaya;:

The Road to Hell is a Bowl of Cherries

2011-09-02T09:04:00.001-07:00

I had a friend, once, who arranged my refrigerator magnets to say "the road to hell is a bowl of cherries." I saved those nine magnets for years before the tide of progress caused me to through them in the goodwill bin.

Half-way there. Things are falling apart--my car is having electrical problems owing to the fact that the muffler needs new rubber bands so it is hanging on by a thread; the mechanics who last replaced my air-filter used the wrong size, so I have been cruising for the last 13,000 miles with basically no filtration; the #12 fuse keeps blowing up; the battery fell out of my computer this morning.

Mercury retrograde always hits me a few days late and all at once.

Yet all of this is simple and relatively easy to fix and I am here in Ashland, the town of $2.50 cup of coffee (they try to serve me single origin Ethiopian as if I will be please to drink the cardboard dust) and it is beautiful, amazing, and I am happy to be stranded here, if only for hours rather than days.

And, it's September, the air at five this morning was so chill that I had gooseflesh running up and down my arms. I slept with the doors open, under three woolen blankets, listening to the crickets, the creek, the stars moving across the dome of the sky.

Juxtaposed between departure and arrival I dance in this limbo to get comfortable with these feelings of frustration, addiction, emotion. I move into the day fresh as sleep falls from my eyes.

manifestation

2011-08-23T06:48:00.000-07:00

Pulled from my notebook:

24 June 2011, I make my living riding, training, working with horses. This work is deeply meaningful to me and I am consistently amazed at the possibilities that continue to offer themselves to me. I work with a trainer who challenges, motivates (and may I add, respects) me. They are kind and generous with the animals in their care. The relationship is mutually beneficial.

At times I make a practice of writing out exactly what I want so that my subconscious brain and the universal id that makes shit happen line up.

Pulled from life:
12 August 2011, Offered the chance of a lifetime to work in a classical dressage barn in Healdsburg, CA.

Now, I am overwhelmed with all of this manifestation. On my list of physical things that I needed were living off the I-5 corridor, a better climate, living near a small town; my mental and emotional list be a horse monk; be able to bring my horse; be able to live on the farm; respect, value, love the people I work with and for; have a living stipend; have enough time to take it all in.

Every item on that list is covered, every damn one. When does that happen? overwhelming gratitude

Ticking Clocks, Off Time

2011-08-12T08:19:00.000-07:00

In a previous life as a sensitive ticking clock phobe, this house would have driven me mad. There are no less than two ticks in the room where I sleep, three in the living room, one in the kitchen, and others scattered aesthetically through out the rest of the home.

This cacophonous din became white noise as I slept: through people arriving late in the night, through dreams disjointed dreams, through the anonymity of waking without a name to attach to myself the clocks remained vigilant. Waking as the sun cracked the eastern rim of the sky lighting the dew, the horse's backs, the spark behind my eyes.

I wake and feed the animals, make coffee, the air is damp and clear as I pick the manure from their paddocks. Tomorrow, I will ride before dawn.

Poison Rattles

2011-08-05T11:55:00.000-07:00

I was three when I dreamed of compassion; I was four when I learned the cold hard truth of life; I was five when I knew that compassion and humanity are not happy bedfellows; I was five when I was kicked out of kindergarten for fighting.

The Rogue River was close to the place we were living in late spring of 1985. I saw dead salmon in that river. Huge teeth and a long tapered jaw, its teeth were black and yellow with age and rot. The salmon must have been spawning; it was bigger than me.

There was a mama duck. I found her nest in the cattails; I didn’t touch the eggs, she was my friend. I was fascinated with her concentration as she sat on the next but after all of the eggs but one hatched, I was so sad that I didn’t like watching her living ducklings because the one egg in the nest just sat there lonely abandoned dead.

I saw a lot of death that year. The worst was when the creepy Jesus Lovers killed the rattlesnake in the drive way. I was four, almost five, and we lived a studio above a garage in Grants Pass, OR. It was the first time we lived on a street, had a sidewalk, or neighbors. Our neighbors were also our landlords; they hosted revival style meetings in the garage on Sunday mornings. They would bang-bang on drums and sing to heaven about sin and salvation. I was pretty sure that everyone was their neighbor's landlord, right on down the block to the very end to the last house next to the park and those people were in charge of the park, that way everyone had someone to watch over them and keep them safe. Some boys lived next door, they had a grape arbor and taught me to swear with the biggest four letter word. I learned that if you say fuck your mother will swoop in with a bar of soap and teach you that words are so powerful that you have to eat lye to absolve their hold over you.

One day the landlords drove up with some of their friends. I stood up in the window watching them as they pulled a styrofoam cooler out of the back of their Lincoln. Tipping the cooler gently onto the baking driveway, the all stood in a circle as a snake twisted hissed coilded in the sudden light. In a flash, one of them had a jack knife. Running for the stairs, wailing nooooooo I burst through the door and into the daylight. The majestic snake in its final death twitch blood pooling. I ran at them and tears and mad and fists and why why why did you kill it? They told me, so that it wouldn’t get me first. But, they had trapped it and brought it home and slaughtered it right there for an eight ring rattle. That was their prize, and I’ll bet that they shook that rattle early sunday mornings as they worshiped Jesus and all his creation.

a fruit once plucked will never ripen

2011-08-03T18:53:00.000-07:00

The tub was small, deep
and round, rather than
long and coffin like.
The water, pulled from
a cistern then sun
warmed, hid our legs below
the murky surface.

Upstairs, our parents smoked
joints
on the futon listening to
records. A narrow
window stretched from the
roof to the basement,
connecting
us. We shared a view
of an old gnarled

apricot tree. In
the green tiled tub our
toes turned from raisins
to prunes as scarlet
and fucia flamed,
a fire of sunset.
The fruit, still hard, green,
sour, hung silhouetted
in twilight ripening—
waiting to be eaten.

five years of stories, mostly lies

2011-08-02T18:28:00.001-07:00

and as the note I wrote to myself (I leave notes for myself, so I don't forget to remember) says: mix truth with fiction, real with imaginary, to explain why I am here.

Here, There

2011-08-02T18:07:00.000-07:00

The small bead pressed against the mound of her clitoris. He rolled the smooth and round ball over the tightening vessel. She broke against him, loosened from her body one fraction before she retracts; as a wave onto the shore, the edges of her being fell over his in an awakening; that forgetfulness of form carried them onto the sofa.

"As one drop this rain fed the root of my spine, and I, now more awaken, more livened, can step further from the bough and harbor my scent in a bottle."

"It will crash through walls and shake the sky. There is little to contain if not the wind of our minds, this breath already passes."

"Oh, union of senses! The breath inhabits none, the breath inhabits all: it is no more a limiter of time than that of the iron in our blood."

"Push onward now and return to the base sense of mortality, this is nothing, the invisible world of void and shadow dreams too far from this field I hold you, too, as the night moves perpendicular to day."

"Loneliness presses people, solitude taunts their substance; there, that the temptation for contact, charges them headlong to live in boxes with strangers."

"Friction creates heat and the bodies too closely packed flair personalities and discourage calm thorough thought."

"Feet on the sidewalk deafen the canals of ears and the heart beats too close to the throat."

"When nervous I feel the pulse in my sternal notch, it calms me, to know that my heart beats when my mind detaches and searches outside the room for respite. With the first two fingers of my right hand I count the push against my fingers."

"The sense in the fingers is not of the organ, nor the organ of the fingers, but that which is perceived lies in their union."

"My soul lifts and before making its journey across the firmament it moves between the mist and between clouds."

"I press a small bead against the raising notch of your clitoris as the first two fingers of your right hand touch the base of your throat and you shutter against me."

Dead Opossum

2011-07-29T16:33:00.000-07:00

Wishes granted today

The horse and I walk down to his meadow and stop to watch a large turkey vulture tipping its wings on a thermal
before circling in and down and landing on the electric fence
slipping to the ground and sunning its huge wings in the paddock and then just as quickly up to nearby fir

I take the horse to the paddock and as we walk I see what the buzzard is eyeing
Opossum, freshly dead in the hogs-fuel arena
a thin grin of pointed teeth show around the still pink gums

I wince over its death and leave the horse to graze
Walking up the hill, I turn back and notice that the vulture has now landed on the carcass
Settling into the grass I watch from hundreds of yards away wishing I had binoculars

I walk closer and sit in the shadow of an alder
Far enough away to leave the scavenger to its feast
Close enough to have a view of the process

The first bird rips the belly open
and I imagine that the smell of fresh carrion is pulled up the thermals
two more birds join the event
one lands in the fir, the other chases off the first bird who joins the second bird in the fir

Two juveniles circle above and express their interest but make no attempts at a meal

The first bird opens its wings in the fir tree, stretches from wingtip to wingtip
and the wings must say something to the other birds about being huge and strong
because the juveniles fly off in search of an easier meal.

This commotion of stretched wings
and the masculine display of feathers
is too much for the female sharing the fir
she flies across the valley and takes refuge behind the mottled shade of an oak

The first bird, alone again in the fir
Swoops down to god's table
and the other bird does not fly off but steps back
as the female soars down and lands on the opossum spine

Her mate keeps the competition at bay as she gorges on intestines, fascia, organs
She shares scraps with her companion

All of this I watch for hours, until there is nothing left, not even bones
and all I can think of is the poem by Robinson Jeffers,

Vulture:

I had walked since dawn and lay down to rest on a bare hillside
Above the ocean. I saw through half-shut eyelids a vulture wheeling high up in heaven,
And presently it passed again, but lower and nearer, its orbit narrowing, I understood then
That I was under inspection. I lay death-still and heard the flight-feathers
Whistle above me and make their circle and come nearer.
I could see the naked red head between the great wings
Bear downward staring. I said, “My dear bird, we are wasting time here.
These old bones will still work; they are not for you.” But how beautiful he looked, gliding down
On those great sails; how beautiful he looked, veering away in the sea-light over the precipice. I tell you solemnly
That I was sorry to have disappointed him.
To be eaten by that beak and become part of him, to share those wings and those eyes–
What a sublime end of one’s body, what an enskyment; what a life after death.

tell me more

2011-07-13T20:23:00.000-07:00

I lose myself and the questions at the forefront of my mind which go unasked; I, too, lose thoughts and words that I imagined saved yet skip from the peripheries into the abyss of thoughts not-to-be-remembered; the quick shift of a key those words, thought safe, return to the sea of mind from which they sprang: Little lost, nothing found.

Tell me, tell me all that can be unspoken

Poets, who speak clearly with less

2011-07-05T20:22:00.000-07:00

I am on a rampage: Tearing through anthologies, looking for a poet who says what is in my heart; if they say it, I won't have to expose my bones and I can pick over theirs.

Scavenger, that is me.

My arm tastes like minerals, raspberries, dust, sunscreen; I squint against the backs of my eyes and catch the sun's orb silhouetted against the lids.

The horse moves over the July grass in search of clover and shade. I sit astride holding a thin piece of rope that attaches to the leather of his halter. Sweating his hair mats and sticks to my bare legs. I wait, he eats, clouds and birds roll across our horizon

Hot in the Vein

2011-06-30T12:15:00.000-07:00

My stomach shifts in my midsection and I cannot tell if it is dread or disease as I stare at the online application page for a new credit card. Dread. I close the browser. I will not go there, yet, but fucking close; the distant walls are ever changing.

Paper, pencils

Collect cobwebs.

Shearing time

Peals waken

Rending

Moments ripen

Split

Join anew

Eating Crow

2011-06-23T13:25:00.000-07:00

Well if I was a carnivore, crow would be the last thing I would eat because those highly intelligent birds would stalk me all over the city and my life would spiral out of control.

That being said I am making a horizontal list right here (colon) rip every single thing out of my room and then put it back in a nice way (semi-colon) keep it all together (semi-colon) keep waking up before six for the rest of my life (semi-colon) find something that makes sense of all of this confusion (semi-colon) learn how to identify the questions before trying to answer it.

Living life through a fractured lense (and yes, I checked, it is okay to have an e on lens, it's better that way, for me, more clear and really what else matters?) takes a toll. I am looking forward to being able to focus and direct my energy toward a specific target, in the mean time, I hope to find ways to express how truly grateful I am for this human experience. It seems that more wildly unpredictable it becomes, the more the steel fibers in my heart soften, the deeper the sorrow the greater the joy. When I find a way to describe that everyday, I will be getting closer to asking the right questions

June is more than summer

2011-06-21T08:07:00.000-07:00

This tide is momentous and perhaps at some point the high will match this low. As this year progresses, I learn that there is no way of knowing or holding onto water or sand, I work to flow out and disperse into the greater waters of the ocean. I fantasize about floods, their hunger for low laying lands and trailers. Floods are things of beauty which cannot be suppressed. Fire, in its consumption of all things which leaves only charcoal ash soot, shoots fear to my bones. Fire is individual, a flood is bad luck and low lands.

So this tide that carries me, I drift on it.

I lose my second job of the year, the third of my life, this is not a year for having jobs if you are me and I am, so I don't have jobs. Again, fine, and better still, because the sucking of marrow from the inside of my bones to deliver it into the waiting maws of man ends.

So catch my breath, find a minute, breath deeply, and wonder about all of this.

standing in the dark

2011-06-20T09:19:00.001-07:00

Every few months my sleep health goes to hell and my days turn into endless streams of lost moments and missed opportunities. I wake drenched in sweat, legs trapped in my sheets having forgotten my name and hoping that the stranger in the bed next to me doesn't mind my nakedness. Heart in my throat, my eyes search the dark room for clues, until slowly I come back into my body which has been sleeping in the same bed next to the same stranger for years.

I push pull my mind now. I heard a quote from a famous man whom I will not attribute as I have no desire to fact check and the last time I failed to fact checked I got checked publicly for not doing my research: "When your dreams turn to dust it is time to vacuum."

It is father's day. I love you.

unwashed vs prewash*td

2011-06-05T21:02:00.000-07:00

Time in all its glory follows the sun. It is no small act of truth that time in all of its implications is uniquely personal. My time is marvelously slow and as minutes linger under the beading rim of a glass, I know my skin over bones hides more than it reveals.

There exist one pair of cut-off levi's, faded, almost white, loose around the pockets and thighs; one black tshirt with printing, including, and, yet not limited to the search for Carmen San Diego, a graphic, and a streak of turquoise oil paint; one gray graphic tshirt which can never be washed, a sliver ghost to hang smock like over my torso; one pink and yellow tie-dye, worn down to sheer threads: That is love.

Time is in those clothes. Their folds hold the soft scent summers past, long warm nights that dipped into the mind of a tomorrow that has never unfolded. These shirts are crickets and roller skates and speed and the rolling years, years of ambiguity, there is moon in the fibers and sun too, and when I wash them all of that gets a little further from my fingers and my eyes see less and heaven knows I remember much less than I hoped.

New Faces

2011-05-10T19:37:00.000-07:00

I wish I knew you, knew your life, what it looks like each day. What your bliss is, if I knew that I would wager that we'd be friends. The world is so big small, and, yet, each day, I struggle to connect.

Transitorily Honest

2011-04-25T13:26:00.000-07:00

I consider myself to be an honest person. Most of the time. I cheated on a test, once, in college. It was my second term at community college and I was figuring out the ropes of how to juggle the grief of my father's death with the academic rigor of a twelve credit term. I took night classes and kept my mouth closed. I pulled A's for the first time in my life. I don't know what I did during the days besides sleep and ignore the pounding hangovers my insomniac brain demanded.

Is that even honest? Honesty is a mistress of opportunity, she ages well and if not provoked to rage will offer lessons in reality. At that time, I was as honest with myself as I possibly could be. The trappings of truth I invented kept me safe from too much self harm and away from desperation. Now, I look back and with the clarity of time can see a different truth, the truth of the broken spirit that needed spring to come with warmth and flow blood up through my veins and into my heart. The heat of those March days crept into the ice and thawed out my bones, steam rose from my feet as they touched the ground, and that is lucky for if we spend too long frozen our souls will be trapped under ice and may forget to surface. That is what happens with time, the pain, while no less tangible becomes less visceral and safe to look at, to inspect the shards of ice beneath a microscope to learn that ice is teaming with microbial life.

With frozen veins I made way in and out of class rooms. I showed up physically into rooms full of strangers and sat in hard chairs under florescent lights which hummed inside my ears. The sound pulled me out of my body where I would wait for a chink in my thawing veins and reenter my body disoriented and unsure of my surroundings. I fell in and out of my body. Time moved forward without me. I cheated on a test. Time was so slow and my body so light that I hovered above the room looking at answers, marking my sheet correctly. It was terrible to do so well as the professor wrote out our rankings on the board. "And, one of you," he said his voice full of pointed accusation, "Received one hundred percent." That was me, I shrank into my chair. I am not supposed to be seen and now all the eyes in the room shift focus on to me and I am visible as their eyes cast disbelief in my direction.

I had to study so hard after that. To ensure a repeat performance when one cannot rely on out of body experiences to succeed, one must take notes and study notes and spend hours examining them from every angle.

Dishonesty took more work and even if no one knew, I did, and it was wretched. I proved nothing only that I had to overcome more isolation as the space between me and my peers grew ever wider. So I studied and read and sat on the earth warming my legs and felt the breath of summer on my neck and melted into the body of flesh.

Gravel

2011-04-17T19:00:00.001-07:00

Leggings as pants are wretched, we all know that, right. So tell me, how does the girl packing an extra 35 pounds not know that?

More than leggings I despair when I am faced with the thought that I may not have enough creativity to manage getting through this month with my tongue as I am growing sick from biting it. The inside of my cheek is welted from my incisors; it is the holding of thoughts that drives my teeth into my tender flesh. That sounds morbid and it is not entirely untrue.

More than the taste of pennies, I hate when I am a coward. I am a coward now because I am biting my tongue instead of speaking up and saying what I believe to the few people who need to hear it. It is an adult decision not to call someone out, ask them to sit down and have a conversation. I suppose that I could write a letter I never send, or I could burn an effigy, or, like a normal person, drink too much.

Until I realized why I was so damned angry. I was mad because I felt my power stripped away. By being 'let go' from my not so reliable, horribly underpaid, working almost for fucking free for a year without so much as a thank you very much, I felt myself adrift on the wind of chance and it scared the living shit out of me. When change is forced upon me, I tend to spiral.

What an opportunity to recognize that no one has the ability to dictate my response. What a chance to realize that I am now more in control. In the odd twist of fate the awakening to the fact that I do have a choice even while my options are being limited. It is not that I am no longer angry, but I recognize that I am not beholden.

Also, for the record, I think that people tell all kinds of stories to make themselves okay. Self reflection is not a quality for those weak of stomach and tender of bone.

And finally, I dreamed I had cloudy vision as if my dreams were out of focus.

Rock's Bottom Line

2011-04-15T07:41:00.000-07:00

Braiding twigs, straw, smoke and mirrors together I made a life. I thought that I could run a little faster than my shadow, but as we all know shadows are tricky and have a way of leaping from behind bushes, scaring horses, exposing a chinked chimera fastened with duck-tape and putty. Now exposed my shadow feels better and is doing a great job making me work harder to have less.

I convinced myself that I need a truck—a big fat fuel monster to haul horses to expensive events where their coats would glisten in the sun and my boots would be polished mirrors—with some hesitation my bank said okay, I with no hesitation said yes. I told them, hey no problem, I've got this and I pretended that it would. But now, oh now the pain of a beast with no hope for resolve, gulping fuel I can little afford. It is my own little budget ceiling and I have hit it.

The plan is simple--sell the beastly truck for pennies on the dollar--take the hit of a poorly invested venture and add in the depreciation and I'm talking thousands of dollars lost. But, that's what it is now, people everywhere have lost thousands of dollars, I am not alone on the Titanic.

But no one wants a truck a big beastly truck. Especially now and especially not from a young lady who can barley put boots on. No it's not that, what it really is is that it's not no one who buys trucks. Men buy trucks and my flitzing floating voice over the digital wires throw them into a state of shattered world view and no one with a shattered world view spends money on a truck.

So now, what now? Maybe I'll start advertising, 'this rig is being sold by a lady,' or as my brother kindly suggested pose in a camo bikini on the hood of the truck, or maybe just put my husbands phone number on the add, because at this point the sexism is not the point of the bottom line.

Fine.

2011-04-07T22:57:00.000-07:00

I was what, seventeen, sixteen? who knows now, riding shotgun while my mom drove five miles under the speed limit, "Chaya, how are you?"

The ubiquitous 'fine,' seemed less than satisfying to my mother who replied, "I don't remember what the eFF stands for, but Insecure, Neurotic, and Emotional."

Well, now I know, Fucked Up completes the acronym and am happy to say that I am far from fine, I am dandy.

spilled milk

2011-03-14T08:28:00.000-07:00

Sundays are slow. A day for books and easy meals, movies, and rain. I made macaroni-and-cheese from a box last night: a little garlic and olive oil in a pan, heated to allow the garlic to sweeten, shell shaped noodles, milk, the cheese packet, a little grated cheddar, a little sour cream to be sure that everything blends. I steam a bunch of kale on top of the noodles while they boil and it's a ten-minute meal until milk is spilled down the cabinets, into their drawers, on to the floor, under the edge of the stove.

I hear my mother's voice tell me not to cry over spilled milk as we sit in the dollar movie theatre.

I am eleven, maybe, or twelve, possibly I am ten. It is a big event for us to go to the movies. We drive ten miles north up I-5 to Medford, she must have had something to do there that afternoon. Twenty years is a long time to remember clearly.

The dollar movie theatre, the house of the second run, no longer on the blockbuster list, not eight dollar movies, dollar movies are for people who want to go but have to wait till the market weakens. I harbored a fear of being spotted there, miles away from home, by someone I knew or even a someone I didn't know, but was my age, that they would mock our poverty.

I got a small soda, which cost more than the price of admission. It was a sprite, I have never liked 7-up, but sprite is cold and clear and clean, it doesn't leave the taste of chalky vitamins in your mouth. I got real soda with cane sugar in it maybe twice a year. My mom was a real stickler for not allowing sugar in the house or in my mouth, so it was a big event. Soda at the movies is expensive and I felt the double pleasure of seeing a feature film and drinking a forbidden beverage slip through my hands, down my seat, and spill over the slippery floor.

Tears came. Not that I had spilled and was ashamed of the childish action. But that I had wasted my mother's money and my moment with her, that I had been clumsy and it had ruined my opportunity to forgot our poverty in the darkness of the dollar movie theatre.

"Don't cry over spilled milk," my mother said as I held my breath in my hot throat. If I could hold my breath long enough I could stop crying. I knew that. She bought my a new soda as easy as that and it tasted good on shame.

Easy come, easy go.

comestible

2011-02-14T09:08:00.000-08:00

Sometimes I think in words and pictures that my brain cannot unwrap. They live inside the marrow of my skull looking to export themselves, but my fingers and eyes shift the meaning as they join the world of dense matter. No matter, they are fodder for my soul.

living it

2011-01-30T18:09:00.000-08:00

I haven't sat down to write in one hundred hundred days. I don't know how long, not that it matters, not really.

I will now, though, sit here, and write. I believe that the moon must be in a house of communication as I am full of words and organizing and filling in small numbers in my checkbook ledger. My room is no better for it, still a rampant mess.

The blood bank called and needs blood, 14,000 units down nationally, and it's my duty as a citizen to be a hero and save a life. So I will take my bones and blood to the bank and they will jab my arm with a hollow needle while I sit pumping life into a small bag. Then I'll have a hot chocolate and a box of raisins. Raisins are high in iron, for those of you who are anemic.

Take that Sweden

2009-02-20T20:28:00.000-08:00

This system just sucks. I am looking over my taxes, income, savings plan and realizing that I pay 34 percent taxes. This fucking blows. It is a little bit complicated, so let me explain. I have regular wages, which the state and feds happily take 22% of; and then I have my tips which are all taken as a deduction. The total of my claimed tips are used as a deduction from my over all pay. This is a horrible and terrible system that is trying to eat me heart, mind, and soul.
What's more my boss wants all of us to claim more of our tips, of which, for the record, there are none, so that she can cut us all smaller and smaller checks. This would all be fine and dandy, but, despite the new free spending administration, I have yet to see my tax dollars hard at work. And, since she already owns four businesses, three houses, and eight cars, I am less than inclined to create a false income so that she can continue to stimulate her economy.

Scamer Puffer

2009-02-09T18:06:00.000-08:00

I got scammed at work today and that made me feel pretty shitty and not so hot. People, you suck, get a job, or at least go stick it to the man. Something's gotta give.

Same Old Song and Dance

2009-02-07T17:11:00.000-08:00

So far, I have yet to get a new job, or win the lottery, but, there's a drawing to night, so come on big bucks.

On a brighter note, I have a job and did not have a heart attack this week, so life's aces.

On another bright, but somewhat dimmer, note, I have decided not to seek legal action against anyone and everyone who's ever been mean to me. Do not take this as a permanent measure to slack off on being good to me, this is just a temporary relaxation of my moral standards regarding the code for interpersonal behavior. I may, after all, decided at any moment to contact my attorney and really stir the pot.

Reading to Toddlers

2009-01-30T09:38:00.000-08:00

I just applied for a new job. It would not involve food, beverages, or toddlers. Thrilling prospect.

Especially after last sunday when a three year old asked to feel my shirt. (Weird, I thought, a shirt fetishist at the age of three, hmm?)

"Mommy's shirt is nicer!" she said, just like that, matter of fact, no room for argument.
"Your mommy's not working." I said, crossing their name off the list of 15 people waiting to be seated.

Her parents apologized as their daughter outed them.

"It's fine, really." I said.

I seated them in someone else's section, and, sadly, because I am not a bigger person, let them squirm with the knowledge that they had somehow shamed the waitstaff.

Why I Don't Shop

2009-01-17T14:40:00.000-08:00

I love shopping. Purchasing shoes, clothing, even basic life things like food and household supplies is a source of joy. I haven't shopped in months and I am blaming the recession. I am blaming everyone but myself, because I really do have a job and work normal hours and shouldn't have to find a whole other job just for my shopping budget.

So I have decided that instead of shopping I will just start pseudo-shopping. I will go to the grocery store and load my cart, then after the checker has nicely bagged my bananas and milk, I'll say, "Opps, I forgot my wallet!"

Or, I'll got to Saks and just touch shoes and hand-bags and silk scarfs.

And Powell's and read the whole book in the aisle (I can speed read so this shouldn't be a problem).

But best of all, I will go to out to eat and enjoy my meal and drink ten cups of coffee, but when they bring me my check I will be nowhere to be found.

Sounds like the life for me,
Your Breakfast Server

You're Cheap and Dirty

2009-01-14T08:02:00.000-08:00

I am responding to this pod cast on NPR (recession etiquette).

After having read all of the comments that people have made, I have a few of my own:

1: Your tip is split like this: 20% to the busser and 15% to the cooks. Period. We all gotta eat.
1A: If you ate the food you tip for the pleasure of eating it. If you don't tip make it at home and leave the dishes for your wife.
2: Expecting that restaurants provided a living wage for their servers goes against the principals of our free market economy.
3: We, as the general public, decided that 20% was standard, this has to do with the high cost of living due to inflation.
4: I budget.
5: Times are tight for all of us, so save me the grief and either cough up or stay out; do it like me, stay home and eat burritos.
6: I am friendly to your children even though they're fussy.
7: Dining out is a privilege, not a right, so use your best manners and I'll use mine.
8: I can make up for the 2% decrease in tips, but not much more, because I also have student loans to pay back.
9: The longer you're cheap, the more fuel I have for fire.
10: To Insure Prompt Service.

Have a lovely day,
Love and kisses,
Your Am Server

Are You Serious?!? More Thoughts on Service

2009-01-07T16:36:00.001-08:00

So that day when I brought you and sandwich and you looked at it and said "there's cheese on this!"

Do you remember that day? I do. I had been on a break enjoying some much deserved reprieve from the likely demands of high maintenance customers such as yourself. Well, when I had finished my plate of eggs, I washed my hands (see, hygiene!), grabbed the food waiting in the window and brought it to your table. I had never, ever, seen you before. I did not take your order, I had not brought you coffee and soymilk. You and I were strangers.

Back to the cheese, "There's cheese. On this."

I looked at your sandwich, which clearly had cheese on it, "Oh, I'll take care of that." So I went into the kitchen and said, "this grilled veggie sandwich has cheese on it, can you make me (a whole new one, from scratch, with all new ingredients and throw away the old one because we can't reserve food.) one without cheese?" And even though they were really busy, they did it 'cus I said please.

When I brought you your sandwich for the second time you said, "This isn't a garden burger." and I said, "No, it's a grilled veggie sandwich sans the cheese." Then you looked at me and said, "You know what, don't even bother, I can't eat this."

Well I walked over and threw that sandwich away for the second time so that your sorry vegan ass who doesn't want to hurt cute little animals and save the planet, just wasted two perfectly good meals. Then I started to cry. Because a stranger, you, just yelled at me in public. You yelled at me and I wasn't even your waitress. You are big and mean, and you know what just because you're vegan doesn't mean that you are doing your part to this world a better place.

Love and Kisses,
Your Breakfast Server

You Thief! musings of your cerebral server

2009-01-04T19:51:00.000-08:00

Okay you like your friends and I am so glad that you have so much to talk about. Which is why you are here, at my restaurant, having breakfast on New Year's Day. I get that you were hungry and in need of caffeine and nutrition, so I brought you both and even, maybe gave you a little banter as I dropped off your steaming plate of eggs.

But now, two hours later, it's getting old. Your face has lost whatever charm it had and you are a thief.

What?!? you benignly ask

(This is where I slip into fantasy)

This is the busiest day of the year, I say as I take your hand, do you not see the twenty people waiting to have their chance at caffeine and nutrition? do you not know that since they have no over-grown toddler, they are in the midst of a very dangerous hangover and I want to put hot food in their empty bellies???? Get the fuck out of here.

And leave me a 20% tip for every half hour you stay over once your meal is over and then you'll just be an asshole and not a thief.

I make my money from turning tables as quickly as I can and when you sit sit sit and only leave me a measly six bucks for two and a half hours of table time you are a worse than a worm.

Or I'll ask where you work and then I'll just go there and be as rude as possible for as long as possible infront of as many people as possible.

Love and Kisses,
Your Breakfast Server

Purgatorio

2008-12-12T19:57:00.000-08:00

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

2008-12-10T08:32:00.000-08:00

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

2008-12-02T17:58:00.000-08:00

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

2008-11-13T23:26:00.001-08:00

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

2008-11-09T21:57:00.000-08:00

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

2008-11-04T06:53:00.000-08:00

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

2008-11-01T17:32:00.000-07:00

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

2008-10-30T17:09:00.001-07:00

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

2008-10-28T23:01:00.000-07:00

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

2008-10-22T08:58:00.001-07:00

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

2008-10-15T13:25:00.000-07:00

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

2008-08-18T07:33:00.000-07:00

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

2008-07-10T19:47:00.000-07:00

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

2008-07-07T18:51:00.000-07:00

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

2008-04-13T16:55:00.000-07:00

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

2008-03-01T13:51:00.001-08:00

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

2008-02-21T16:51:00.000-08:00

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

2008-02-13T21:59:00.000-08:00

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?

2008-01-10T21:09:00.000-08:00

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

2008-01-09T10:42:00.000-08:00

Come in Sevens

and Marc Jacobs' flats.

Archly smiling smiling

Behind closed eyes—

Heaven is in those pants.
--------
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

2008-01-05T19:32:00.000-08:00

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.

When the days are long, life is short

2007-12-08T21:45:00.000-08:00

There is fire under my kettle
and people
people,
(peapole)
keep intigrating themsleves.

Food. Hot Food.

It’s no longer Easter and I seem to have forgotten how to write: that sounded good. I am drunk, more so than I imagined, and am surprised at the fluidity of my former mind. It is funny how minds elapse into detritus—and how quickly. I am sure McDowell would have a hay-day with that sentence. However he’s not been inhabiting my dreams for months, so I'd better leave that English teacher alone.
That is where the crux of existence lays, like a chicken, between morning and afternoon, misspelled and forgotten beyond omelets and ham—which is not kosher, though I am not, nor have ever been, Jewish.
Like the cow dripping from my back in pride: a vintage wearing über vegetarian (my parents raised me that way, I have never tasted {only smelled} bacon. I wear leather and wash my hands of this discussion.

I saw a double rainbow, and I made a wish and it almost came true

2007-10-09T08:06:00.000-07:00

Every once in a while something happens in local politics that makes me not want to puke. Recently, Oregonians passed a measure that would allow all people to register as domestic parteners (though Massachutes remains the only state that allows everyone to marry). Naturally there are some jerks who think that their stagnant values should apply to everyone. It Sucks To Be Them! because they were unable to get the votes necessary to put bigotry back on the ballot.

Politics in Oregon have been getting pretty interesting this cycle. For example measure 50, which would force a constitutionaly amendment, set to increase the cigarette tax to help pay for children's health care. I am all for socialized health care, not that I have ever been to the doctor, but I am hoping to go someday. But, I have this rather archaic idea that the purpuse of the constitution is to lay out the jobs of congress, the rights of the people, and the regulation of political power.

I know that's archaic because last election cycle the same afore-mentioned bigots managed to define mariage in Oregon's constitution as between specific genders. I fail to see how that has anything to do with the purpose of the constition's specific purpose.

Intrestingly enough the people against measure 50 (Phillip Morris, et al) are all up in arms about amending the constitution and that it "hasn't been done in 150 years" which is a blatant lie.

In all I am undecided as to how I feel about the combination of something I love—socilised medicine—and something I hate—the misuse of the constitution.

if there is a choice between less to do and more money, chose the later

2007-09-28T17:55:00.001-07:00

D. can home with dog today! horray, I am only two parakeets short of a menangerie!

PS I killed Cricket, the puffer fish, when I tried to de-salinate her water. Oh well, I got ten tetras and one hundred snails to replace her. And since, when operating a full-time menangerie, it is numbers over quality that count, I am pleased.

Well that's it from the zoo, more old news later.

having lost everything I found

2007-09-03T22:24:00.000-07:00

Somewhere between work and life I have lost track of things that are important. Like my favorite letter: q.

Before the song birds turn to crow

2007-06-10T08:05:00.000-07:00

the distant siren of a police car jams down Fessenden Avenue, i live in NoPo. you remember, where you need a gun to walk outside—

Conflicting emotions are a part of the natural adult experience. I find that it is normal to feel confident and solid for hours, then to get stuck in traffic and lose control of my zen-like calm. The beauty of this is that I recognize my rapidly shifting emotions as a product of this culture of instant gratification. I am not pleased about being in traffic, therefor my world is not working for me. WTF? why am I even stuck in traffic for an hour?

A recent conversation went like this (and I am ever the person who realizes hours later what I should have said): "What kind of computer do you have?" a person asked me. "An old G3 I bought in 2002," I replied defensively. "Wow! is that as bright as your screen gets?" Evidently, my computer is ancient. "I guess so." I said tapping the brighten key on top of my keyboard. "Well, ours gets a lot brighter. That makes me feel a whole lot better."

That's when I should have said: "Why? because your consumer product is new, better, and more expensive than mine? does that mean that your life is also better and more fulfilling than mine?" But I didn't because I was ashamed that my computer (which works really well) was older than theirs, so I left and got stuck in traffic and wanted to slam my hand in the door because I was so bored and mad about being poor and having to pay my own way through life.

I used to shop exclusively at goodwill because I thought it was cheap, that was until I went to the mall. I hate malls; the florescent lights make my eyes shiver, the pumping of canned music is sickening, and I hate the smell of cinnabun. I had not been to a mall in years, maybe a decade. I have to admit that I was really tempted to buy really cheap T-shirts—two brightly colored shirts for ten dollars seems to be the norm—I wanted the shirts because I wear T-shirts everyday and I am tired of wearing the same four, but I couldn't stop imagining the tiny fingers that make those tiny stitches. Now that I know how cheap the mall is it is going to be hard to go back to the goodwill bins, but now I have convictions.

the meanwhiles (or, why I want to move to Canada and be a Socialist)

2007-06-08T08:29:00.000-07:00

when I read backwards, from bottom to top, I see things in your writing that are not really there

Along with ponies and sandwiches, I also like boats. Especially huge boats with sailors on them. Walking around the periphery of the 100th annual Rose Festival I ogled the boats. They are behemoths, huge towering structures that sit heavily on the water. They carry men and equipment around the world. They protect Our oceans from terrorists. I noticed that there were three sets of boats: American; Canadian; Coast Guard. This would have been of little significance had I not also noticed the accompanying military occupation. The American Boats were heavily guarded. They were docked behind a cyclone fence. The walkway was being patrolled by twenty armed men and women. These people had more than the two regular, right and left arms that you and I have, these people had automatic weapons.

Suddenly, ships and sailors were not as attractive to me. What, I wanted to know, was keeping them from snapping and shooting me? boot camp?

I walked away from them, inland down the esplanade and came to the Canadian ships. There was only one man standing guard and since he only had two regular arms like you and I, I felt safe approaching him. He wasn't even a real sailor, he was a submariner who couldn't wait to get back to Canada and back on his submarine. Sergent Oleander was kind enough to answer some of my questions. I asked him why he didn't have a six-foot fence, why he didn't have armed guards, why he was standing alone (looking ever so handsome). It turns out that they were supposed to have all of those things, but it was too much work and so they decided to not allow civilians on their ships. He was friendly, I did not feel threatened speaking to him.

What I learned from my experience is that though I know I live under martial law, I do not like to be reminded of it. In my heart I know that guns are evil and deadly machines. I do not care who is holding them, I do not believe in the power of so few being held over so many. The army that is supposed to protect and serve is a machine that, if commanded, could easily slam bullets through my house. I do not like guns.

has gone peculiar

2007-05-05T21:55:00.000-07:00

I am officially very tired of reading, editing, proofreading. My eyes stick on apostrophes and hover over commas: is that two independent clauses? or, have my hearts been captured by cheese?

The worst thing about spending so much time reading for errors is that I have a hard time turing the internal-editor off. I just read A Case History, by Kate Atkinson. (Which I highly recommend to those of you who enjoy excellent characterization, impeccable grammar, and a good mystery.) As I stuttered through the first chapters, I realized that all pleasure had been lost to my need to understand how and why the author composed her complex compound sentences. I put the book down and picked up my book of grammar exercises. After carefully diagraming the sentence I was surprised to see that she has linked two independent clauses cleverly with subordinate clauses using adverb clauses (damn!); but she didn't stop there, she tossed in some compound predicates for good measure. I remained uncertain about the meat of the sentence. I took the book and my chicken scratches to Doctor M, the grammar professor. He answered the remainder of my questions using yellow and green highlighters (green for independent clauses, yellow for subordinates). The beauty of grammar shines through and I can sleep again.

Trolling the internet, I read friends' blogs. How can I be both envious of their (self-inflated and hyperconscious) talent and yet celebrate in their (latent) mistakes? Is that a noun modifying a noun? I mark their errors, invalidating their attempts at writing. But the truth is that with a good editor they could make something of themselves, maybe. I know all of this, yet I want them to also know this: stop using the thesaurus, a noun is not an adjective and when you use it as such you look like you were reading the thesaurus (I know it, you know it, but do you know I know it?). I could be that editor, swap out the hyphens for em-dashes, replace those semicolons with a comma or two, clarify pronouns. But the truth is that most don't want an editor, don't think they need an editor; I protest! I pray! I insist that everyone do grammar exercises before their spare-tire sentences sink our Nation!

my soul was stoned by flamingos

2007-04-23T21:41:00.000-07:00

I am supposed to buy a dress. Not just any dress mind you. This is a special bride's maid dress. My brother is getting married; I get an amazing sister-in-law and an okay dress. Well, I would get a dress if a non-specified store (j-crew) had not discontinued that ephemeral Rosebud Pink dress, style Emma. Now, I will be the bride's maid in Cotton-Candy Jane. Which just goes to show me that I will ever remain the younger sister (who puts things off until the last minute, [the wedding is a month away.] However, I am scouring ebay; do you think I would fit a size 12?). Yep, the same younger sister who has nervous breakdowns at her big brother's graduations, forgets birthdays and thinks christmas is a holiday in early February.

I am taking solace in a bottle of Basil Hayden and the fact that I have the gift all but picked out.

august

2007-04-19T19:35:00.000-07:00

for there are those around me who say the things I least expect

I am shocked and saddened by this week's events; I am afraid that we, as living breathing human beings, are watching the fabric of humanity unravel. When America was ripped lovingly from those who had inhabited it, we did our best to stand apart from the oppression of the British Empire. We did fabulous things: a postal system; a constitution; a tertiary form of government.

Goodbye constitution, goodbye postal service, and well I never really believed in checks and balances anyways.

I have begun to consider how the history books will look in 200 years. Will there even be books in 200 years?

akimbo

2007-04-11T07:34:00.000-07:00

as I consider the necessity of sleep over the powerful comfort of delirium

I have just wakened to the fact that I sleep, a lot. It is not uncommon for me to go to bed around ten and stay there till seven. This is not just because I am a lazy good for nothing. I often cannot fall asleep or waken to restlessness during the night.

Naps are wonderful. I can nap for upwards of two hours. I nap in the car, on the couch, in the library. I wish my school had a napping room. But this means I am again lazy and unproductive. In trying to justify my ten hour sleeping habits I have come to the conclusion that I must be dying of an anemic disfunction, leukemia, or chronic fatigue syndrome. If I had a doctor, I might go see her. (I am a student; Blue Cross is for people with income.)

In the meantime, I will try to stay out of bed longer. I will stay up until half-past ten, and get up earlier. If I am utterly exhausted by the time I hit the pillow, likely I will not lapse into repetitive thoughts. Sleep is a vicious cycle of catch-up, it is also one of the last (besides sex) free pass times in America.

By sleeping, I am saving voluble resources. I am not driving or eating. (At least, not until I get my prescription to ambien filled.) These productive hours are better filled watching tv, or searching the internet for sites which present live action all the time.

Goodbye naps,nine hour nights,long lucid dreams, free pass-times. Hello productive me.

annuity

2007-03-22T09:54:00.000-07:00

the corn is in the kitchen and the hogs are in the barn

I have exactly 120 minutes left of school this term; and some four odd weeks until student loans flush my bank account. This spring break is one of long walks. I will take long walks to avoid the rising cost of gasoline, to deter boredom, and to improve my overall health and well-being.

I will not take walks to look at flowers or houses or sunrises— aesthetics are for people with leisure time. Observing the warming earth and the budding spring is not for a proleterian such as myself. Oh damn, I'm unemployed. I guess that means I am eligable to enjoy the present moment.

walls

2007-03-14T17:13:00.000-07:00

i am so tired that my car looks like home

I get to this point when there are eight days left in the term and my mind quits. I string words together and listen as the coherent argument transforms into scripted jargon. This is an ongoing problem in my life. However, it is tiresome.

On a much brighter note, I swam so fast today that fish were jealous. I swim a fair bit— the rhythm of my three beat stroke the closest I come to meditation. The water parts for me, and if I don't fight it, I can jam. There have been days when the pool is an endless hell; my mind is satan who laughs as water splashes up my nose. Oh, I know satan. That shit talker who tells me to get out of the pool 18 laps into a mile; that bastard talks so much, I almost listen. But then where would I be? huddled in the shower sniveling like a quiter. I cowgirl up instead, and finish another 18 laps.

Other days it is effortless. Which is why I keep swimming. The days when my mind has accepted that for thirty minutes I am going to work like mad, and then have a sandwich. There are days when I try to whistle underwater. It doesn't work, but I still try. It is bliss, the water is cool and I pretend I am a mermaid (I whistle a little tune). Or, I pretend that I am a boat or an octopus. I doubt that I will see anyone about my overactive imagination. Instead, I will get a pet turtle.

ash

2007-03-08T16:29:00.000-08:00

In which I am forced to reckon with more death

I am 26 and 11/12ths and death follows me. Not in a negative there is a shroud on my life sort of way— but a nice kind of everything I have ever loved I have lost, kind of way. Idesia, the horse I been riding for the last year, died on sunday.

So to the rest of you living breathing friends, please care for yourselves

three jazz standards and a nickle's worth of blues

2007-03-03T18:52:00.000-08:00

For all of you who have ever needed an aspirin and had to ask a stranger

Driving down the highway at a brisk and legal 60 MPH, I noticed my temperature gauge creeping up uncomfortably fast. I had replaced my radiator in September: are radiators something like oil-changes which need to be changed quarterly?

I got to the barn and watched steam rise from under the hood. This was going from bad to worse; so I got my horse and ate an apple. Idesia is smarter than me and she told me that ignoring a wound only leads to scarring. I put her away and opened the hood. There are a lot of tubes and gears and wires under there. As a sophomore in High School I had wanted to take auto-mechanics. But my mother forbade me on the grounds that it was "dirty". Her socioeconomic gender limiting reaction led me to take a welding class; I have the innate skills of a seven-year old when it comes to the mystical workings of my car's secret operations. I digress, I am an adult and no longer blame my mother for everything.

On the left side of the engine there is bucket that is supposed to be filled with radiator fluid. I pop the top and it was as empty as an anorexic on prom night. Filling the reservoir with water, I decide to fake like I have radiator fluid all the home. Two miles out, my Taurus Wagon was blowing steam and with the needle creeping up into the red, I stop. The fluid had all but evaporated, again.

Taking my water bottles, I head to the Exxon bathroom. I am in gym pants and not feeling so hot, what with grease on my dirty hands. I fill the chamber and start the motor. I spot the culprit; it's a busted hose. I am elated to have diagnosed the malaise. The prognosis is grim as I don't have a degree from the MacGyver institute— in which case it wouldn't matter that I'm 25 miles from home with out a screwdriver. I chew my lip.

A guy drives up in a red mustang (no, really) and asks if I need help. I am not a feinting maiden. I know my odds. I accept his offer of a tool set. The hose has a dime sized hole an inch from the motor. He drives me to a Napa and they give us a piece of rubber tubing the length of my hand. Attaching the hose took two minutes. After thanking the generous stranger, I was on my way.

Yes, this real life adventure shows my skills of looking under the hood and spotting trouble. More, I am notorious for letting problems simmer until there is an explosion. But not this time.

idealism

2007-02-24T07:29:00.000-08:00

I have been trying to decide what to do with my life. The following is a list of my attributes:
1. Language
2. Travel
3. Fashion school dropout

I have found the perfect job. Can't you see me in this?

reflexology

2007-02-20T11:45:00.000-08:00

the pain in my knee is from a cut on my heart

I am going to set the record straight: I like classical music. A lot. My appreciation stems not from intellectual snobbery (everyone is a music snob, thinks the music they listen to is cutting edge). By and large I agree. What I would like to know is when did having a taste for dead composers make one less of a connoisseur?

The passion in a good composition escalates and engages my imagination. It is lyrical and poetic, without blessed words. The elitist mentality is a limitation. I understand that listening to Rachmaninov takes acclimation. Jazz does too. Training our ears and minds to hear the relationship between notes and melody is a practice of patience. It is resistance training. We are all brought up with notions that it is pretentious music, written for fine dining and elevators. Admitting to like classical music is akin to the first taste of flesh. At first the body is foreign and exotic, only handled (ha) in morsels. But our appetites, they do grow.

I am not arguing that everyone load their i-pods up with Handel's water music. I am suggesting that there may well be a composition that inspires and titillates you. The ears are organs which like variety. In a world of ever increasing spead and variety, the understanding of historical art is losing to the concupisent seduction of modern replicas.

peregrinate

2007-02-18T22:18:00.000-08:00

Chances are that my information is faulty, so don't take my word without a cautionary pause.

I should never, ever complain about anything because I am alive and can breath and have legs that have muscles that are fired by neurons; and I have thick blood that is full of salt and oxygen, it goes coursing through my body and when I bite my lip I taste pennies. Working so very hard to never say the things lurking right below the line for passable social commentary, boil right down to self-interest. Well, that's what we're all about is it not? the valued examination of the self in the ever reflective mirror or, perhaps we are ever so much more. Is there seven or are the seven?

Now that I have that clear, I can move on to more insightful topics. My boyfriend got an x-box that he has spent thirty hours modifying into a media-center. I am not jealous, only lonely...no seriously. But on a much lighter note, he did buy a motorcycle. Now I can listen for the rumbling engine in the afternoons, wake-up quickly from a nap, and pretend never to have been asleep.

Final and bright note: playing cards with a group of couples is awkward. The future looms and tightens and I cannot always breathe and the room gets so damn hot. Which is the worst, because then everyone can read the shame in my cheeks. And the not knowing the people is there too, and the expectation that doesn't quite get spoken is a secret which has never really interested me all that much. And the truth that hides just behind the curtain is that they all know more about each other, have history, that is seperate and does not ever include me.

But all of this is not about my social disfunction. No that would be all to simple. It is that I never get seen, in element, by the man that I love.

why bother?

2007-02-11T18:57:00.000-08:00

Well according to the FDA exercise and eating with discretion is no longer enough to slim down the two-thirds of hefty Americans. Thank God for orlistat!
This amazing little pill seems to really be a miracle. It inhibits the bodies ability to absorb 25% of fat consumed. Instead of limiting myself to a diet rich in fruits, vegetables, and whole grains, I can now consume with abandon! Once only available by prescription, I can now purchase orlistat over the counter.
Say goodbye to calorie counting and say hello to orlistat.
Orlistat, taking the fat out of effort.

ten to one

2007-01-31T19:18:00.000-08:00

A worm, insidious and noxious, feeding on my organs.

The sheets are fresh and tight, though the bed is old and worn; I sleep on the lumpy imprints of forgotten lovers. Not mine, I never forget you or you or you. It is not my bed, they are not my sheets, they were not my lovers. Am I to mind the past? one cannot have a tail without a dog.

I ate a clove of garlic and the worm lost interest in it's habitation.

Before the sun rises, my feet pad across the floor, it is wooden and quite old, a girl wrote her name in permanent black marker, "Alicia". I find my eyes. They are full of dreams and the morning sweeps down the chimney in a rush of fresh air and sunshine.

I cut it up into bits and fed it to the fish.

temerity

2007-01-28T17:32:00.000-08:00

After life, I have an extended vacation

Folding my body into the back seat of my ford taurus wagon, I using a high powered vacuum to suck cheerios from the recesses of the upholstery. How did I ever get here? I don't mean pushing thirty with half a bachelors degree; I know exactly how I got that. One damn quarter at a time, working a job I took because I thought that it would be emotionally fulfilling. Being a nanny is the hardest work I have ever done; it has all of the benefits of dysfunctional family life, minus the vacations and wealthy parents. That was the last time I will suck cheerios from the back seat of my station wagon.

Good that I leave now— it's been sixteen months— before I spill my mind to the unsuspecting, workaholic parents.
What, you may ask, will I do now? that remains to be seen.

My next job will be one in which my nature is respected, not be stifled; one in which joy is the key requirement.

"I say, beware of all enterprises that require new clothes, and not rather a new wearer of clothes. If there is not a new man, how can the new clothes be made to fit?" Thoreau

assimilation

2007-01-25T13:17:00.000-08:00

well if truthiness made it, why not weaponize?

The destruction of the English language is a shame. This applies not only to the perversion of shrinking lexicons, but the general failure to accept grammar. I am not one of those high and mighty snobs who rebuffs the youth for attempting to walk. Instead, I wince as peers mangle fragmented sentences. Unaware that their flight is awkward, they seek to soar.

I wade through prodigal works rife with erroneous grammar and the morbid inclination for self-proclamation. I am special, unique, and brilliant: feed me first, they all cry.

There was a time, before the era of the confessional self, when literature had depth. Words had weight; they were measured to deliver meaning and emphasis. The affectation of society is driving me mad.

As to those who have craft and wit? write on christian soldiers

mainstream

2007-01-22T13:47:00.000-08:00

My number one recomendation is to do it just like her

The past has a way of creeping up, inflitrating the present with it's insidious poison. Words and their heady aroma, deafen my ears. These same ears with which I hear insistant music in overlit grocery stores. These same ears which cannot not help but ring with painful frequency. The ring is an octive higher than a piano, it never varies in pitch, only in persistency. It interupts activities, wakening me from sleep.

It is this same tenacity that my past persues me. I float between pity and jealousy when I examine the overly dramatic lives of nearly forgotten friends. The pity stems from my pride in thinking that my life has changed, and for the better; jealousy is my natural reaction to competition.

These reactions are real, but narrow.

perspicacious

2007-01-18T10:50:00.000-08:00

When I don't say what I think so the case may rest with me

Recently I have found that my minute and idealized world view is not commonly available. I find it difficult, verging on impossible, to persue peace with logic. Peace is not logic; it goes against the natural grain of humanity. It is not impossible for us to rise above our natural instincts to maim and mutilate. Compassion is a truely modern ideal. I am at a standstill. How can I rise above my romantic notions that the world is need, and more, that I can somehow help. Peace is not natural. However nature can be overcome. The question remains: should it?

fractious

2007-01-10T18:01:00.000-08:00

there is a debate raging my fifth chakra-- i will leave it there

In passing familiar faces on my small campus, the beginning of the winter quarter seems pedestrian. Peoples lack of consideration is astounding, mine included. I am delighted to see the few people I recognize.

I wonder what I am learning and for what end. I find learning happens in hindsight.

As days lengthen I grow anxious for the seedlings; the moon was in the sky this morning as I left at half-past seven.

Persistant and committed to this life, I push on to my pioneer's dream.

sparta

2007-01-04T08:08:00.000-08:00

It is dark well into the morning. The day hides beneath rain; I hide beneath down covers. During this holiday from school, many books have receieved my attention. I am reading at a modest pace, slowly as I know there is time tomorrow as well. Life should not be based on the hectic notion that forty-eight hours are yours weekly, free and clear. That's just not enough. The trap that holds me to my car is the same as holds me to my job. What ever would I do if I were not (unhappily) turning the pages of a calander (waiting for spring). This is my resolution: to live fully and love with all of my heart. In a recent attack of the ever imposing future on my present state, I came to the conclusion that the future is a mutiable dream. This current state of here and now overlap, allowing me to focus.
I wake up and it is raining heavily. January in the northwest is always wet. Walking across the quagmire to my mailbox, I loose a shoe in the muck. I sit and drink tea, and wonder about the bulbs germinating.

fast like tape

2006-12-22T15:36:00.000-08:00

holiday shopping makes my heart rate soar, my throat clench, and my mouth dry. I am pretty sure this qualifies as a panic attack. I am shopping for people I have never, ever met. Okay the lines and the carols and the incessant beep of the scanners has worn me down. I have never done "chirstmas" before. Ideally I would spend the next six days recuperating from the trauma of this morning. Alas it is time to meet the strangers.
How do people do this year after year? and for heaven's sake, why?

puddles

2006-12-14T08:17:00.000-08:00

Rain is a northwesterner thing. "I love the rain, I'm an Oregonian," I say for the 37th day in a row. Rain and trees and Gortex are what make us Oregonians and, to dislike any of those would be down right uncivil. On a darker note we have exactly nine hours of daylight, but who's counting? Winter is time for sleep; my schedule of classes and work muck up my natural inclination to sleep with the sun.
Did you know I have a second life as a fish? my new PR is 31:23 for a mile. That's down 3:35 from earlier in the term. I am hoping that with some serious dedication and a little bit of oomph I can break the thirty minute marker in a few months. I know you're gripping your seat in anticipation; don't worry, I'll let you know.
Being an athlete has been the biggest challenge for me. It is hard to keep swimming when the pool turns into lukewarm Jell-O. I used to quit, but not anymore. Now I keep going. My arms windmill and my legs they keep churning. Stroking and breathing and kicking and gliding across the pool, I look fast in my new suit.

parrallelism

2006-12-11T21:57:00.000-08:00

Days are succinct, flowing quickly from one to the next. What strikes is the momentum of a thought: this is time, passing. Then it's gone. Dreams linger into the morning, colorful nodes of my pure logic. Life is fair, just, sacred. Life hasn't got a remedy, save to live and more if possible. I suppose it is the fear of crossing the shadow to happiness that keeps us from it. The unknown's shadow, too, is lurking a day beyond tomorrow. This moment should be different or, I more in control. Is life ever completely in or out of control? no, it just sort-of-is. I think that is the most difficult fig to savor. I can accept that life is in or out of my hands; to accept the polarity of assertiveness and flexibility is formidable.
If I could linger a moment longer in my tensions I would crack. These tensions, they have a purpose. To remind me I am alive. I know I am alive, because I feel the tightening screw in my chest cavity. A better way to feel is to be active. If I chose to be active, then my life is full and my chest is loose. I breathe deeply and feel even the tops of my lungs expand. I experiment and bring in as much air as possible, then pause, and take in more small sips until no more air fits. I move the air around my lungs; lungs are not balloons, that is a misnomer. Lungs are spongy. The air filters into my blood and my organs work. I breathe deeply and force my lungs to aerate: this breath is life.

oh friend

2006-12-05T21:02:00.000-08:00

linger- sister-
breathing wind and oh the wind
boughs reach, ahh pleiades
if love could hold

ease this-
no desire, comfort
eiderdown nest-
oh memories are weak

no charm holds
oh desire, it is you
whipping the moon-
linger sister

words

2006-11-30T17:26:00.000-08:00

People are the topics of books. This is not to say that people are interesting. The majority of people with whom I come into contact with, adjunct professors at community college and the various rowdies which naturally congregate in such arenas, are as interesting as old sticks. Which is not to say that they do not conceive of themselves on a daily basis. I am sure they do. I can just see them sitting around self-actualizing. This process does little for their rapidly receding hair lines or the expansion of their waistlines.

All of this is to say that I prefer books to people, even loud, bookish people. I abhor the self proclaimed "bibliophile". The throaty voice of a hundred favorite books and three favorite authors makes one a dabbler. A bibliophile is a collector, not a reader. The same as an adjunct is not a professor.

Time for me to get back to my book.

The Divide:

2006-11-19T07:59:00.000-08:00

Communication is perhaps an insurmountbale peak. Sometimes speaking with a man is compreable reading Emerson. Short, pithy statements fall from their lips: "I am an eyeball." And, left to wonder at the meaning of this remark, we women think: well, you certainly aren't an ear.

Silence in my ear
Hot and salty eyelashes
Reverberating

mirror

2006-11-16T18:28:00.000-08:00

Walking in a brisk october afternoon, the buildings rise around me. The sky hides behind brick and steel. I arrived in Paris yesterday, the airline lost one of my cases. I am left wearing an ill-fitting pair of crocodile flats. My right heal has a blister the size of a dime, which tore. I curse airlines and the irregularities of Paris's streets. The maze of Rues and Boulevards meet at democratic angles. I live at 46 rue du Montparnasse. Which in glory years meant cafés and artists; now I am stuck with the only skyscraper in all of Paris. The Gare is confounding, because it stands singular in the sky. I find it impossible to use it as a landmark; it looks identical from every side.
The blister on foot burns. I stop in one of the identical cafés and have myself a tiny coffee. I put in cream and a tube or two of sugar, smoking a couple of cigarettes before I leave. On the way home, I make a point of buying wine. I am at an impasse. My lost luggage has my cork and my teeth are inadequate for such antics. The bonhomme was kind enough to appreciate my delicate situation. He corked the bottle for me, and told me to come in the morning for fresh pan. This is my idea of a neighborhood grocer. I have wine, soup, and cheese for dinner. Sleep comes quickly and smells of the boulangerie downstairs.

Relief?

2006-11-08T09:19:00.000-08:00

I must admit relief. Dems. take the House and Senate; Bush declares marshal law...

The flood I was hoping for came in a different form. The river is receding and the roads are being shoveled. School has not been canceled.

Words and emotions are clogging my esophagus. At this point, I have given my emotions characters in the saga of my semi-comic existence. Today they are folk dancing in wooden shoes.

Perfection is one of those ten-lettered words that gets to me. I cannot concede that I am the only female who is constantly in a battle. Women are less prone to corruption- only if there aren't chocolate cupcakes involved. Our battles are more silent types. I reflect on my lack the lack of fulfillment in my daily life. Perhaps I am trying to do too much. Be smart, but if I could be smart in a more analytical way, that would really be more convenient. Be driven to succeed, but don't succeed so much that it would take me away from a hypothetical family. Be committed and reasonable. What am I supposed to be committed to: a loose promise; my dreams; my fatality? and please not forget to be beautiful, flexible, serene, nurturing, artistically inclined.

This is, perhaps, my didactic rant or it is the elephant that won't stop following me around.

concentric circles:

2006-11-06T19:06:00.000-08:00

Sitting in my rainbox house, I hope for a flood. Watching the water rise, rivers choked with detritus, standing and waiting. There was a small earthquake last night. I am not in charge of any of this: no one is. I drove slowly down 217, my new wiper-blades throwing water impressively off my windshield. I read my future in the leaves that clog gutters. I sat in my car this afternoon. The heat from my drive lingers after I turn off the ignition. The rain is loud in that box; I sleep.

I am back on books. They are my drug of choice. Time is lost between their leaves— sated.