Jet Lag and Thunder Storms

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

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

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

Number the Hours

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

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

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

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

Switchblade Sunday

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

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

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

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

CSI: good for the couch, bad for my ass

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

Forgotten Mines Are Dangerous to Civilians

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

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

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

fighting for air

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

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

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

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

fourteen years and counting backward

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

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

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

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

if not then, how about now?

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

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

Dog Years

Come in Sevens

and Marc Jacobs' flats.

Archly smiling smiling

Behind closed eyes—

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

commitment is a four letter word

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