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.
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
Losing Faith
I used to have friend; she was the one those amazing women who can really do anything, a real type A. I was young and probably didn't recognize that in her. She was the good one and I was the bad one. It was important to live up to the standards we had built around one another. She was loyal; I was independent, though reliant on her approval. When she moved east for college and I thought we could remain close, at least in spirit, believing that the years of shared eating disorders and secret ambition would turn into a lifetime of friendship.
I let the relationship slip away, one unanswered letter at a time. Then one year my letters started going unanswered and sometimes even returned because I had lost her recent address. I blamed myself for the loss: probably the smoking and sleeping around as a late teenager; the lying; the lack of direction my life seemed to have; the overall lack of consideration for the person on the other end of the letters.
I still dream about her, though not with the same frequency. I used to be haunted by guilt. Until I realized that the door is always open to her; what I feel for her is unconditional. Friendship as an adult is built on a mutual respect and understanding, and though I do not know her now, I would take the time to do so. I am sad that she is gone from my life, but to have known her and had friendship is good. The very closeness of our former relationship limits our ability to build a current relationship. It would be hard to know how to be together after so long apart, especially after the early years of bonding. That's why good people grow apart and lose touch.
Sad bunnies.
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.
Wednesday, October 15, 2008
Technology and The Devil
Four or five nights ago, I tried to post to my blog. Comcast was servicing the internet and I was unable to publish. Then last night I tried to republish the piece and again was denied. From that I decided that the update from my brain was unnecessary for the world. The devil, it seems, was in my computer, stopping me from putting that piece into the hands of the general public. Conversely, perhaps it was god. Is there really a difference?
I have found that time is one of those commodities of which there is never enough. It is always in demand, supply is limited, and there are an infinite number of ways in which to spend what little time I do have. This last week I worked at my full time job, made peach jam, rode my horse five times, walked my dogs five times, had dinner with my s/o every night but last, did the laundry, cleaned the house, and read every Op-Ed article in the New York Times. What I did not do was change my bank from the institution formerly known as Washington Mutual to a less known local credit union, write anything more than an email, call my mother, buy new winter boots.
How is it that no matter what is done, the stack of incomplete projects remains. It must have to do with technology and sleep. If I didn't sleep eight hours a night (I know its excessive but I really have a hard time functioning on anything less.), I could undoubtably finally get that novel past the outline stage. But technology is competing for my attention.
Instead of spending my few alloted minutes of "free" time doing healthy creative projects which activate the right hemisphere of my brain, I check my facebook account or watch CSI. At the end of it all, the working and the talking to people, my brian relapses it seems that the best I can do is wait until ten o'clock so that I can fall asleep in order to do it all again.
This is not living.
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.
Monday, August 18, 2008
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.
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.
Thursday, July 10, 2008
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.
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.
Monday, July 07, 2008
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.
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.
Sunday, April 13, 2008
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.
Saturday, March 01, 2008
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.
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.
Thursday, February 21, 2008
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.
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.
Wednesday, February 13, 2008
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.
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.
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