Saturday, December 31, 2005

I take all the wrong things way too seriously

I lay in bed searching the bare winter branches outside my window for faces. And in the cracks on the ceiling I see them. Contemplative, and without resolution I lay there, sweat beading tiny on my chest.

It must be vacation has gone on too long. That always was my problem. And I do the things that make me feel sick, little betrayals like how I spend money, or don't return phone calls, or start solving puzzles when something is pressing and big and meanly important. Sometimes the piling up of tiny sins crushes me. I want to confess them, and think maybe I should convert to Catholicism because they have nice little booths just for that, and I can say Hail Mary and walk light and springy... not lay here searching in dead branches for an expression of judgment, or kindness.

So here we are on the brink of a whole new year. Easy to dismiss as just another day, just as easy to feel short of breath and vertiginous. Sometimes I can actually feel the centrifugal force of the earth hurling me forth, the blood rushing to my head.

This year I:

-kissed only one boy, blissfully
-moved in, and liked it
-was killed by a bear (just a little black bear)
-cried at one wedding
-got zero speeding tickets and missed zero speeding ticket court dates
-flew off the handle at least three times
-was a jerk twice
-was nominated for and won HOTTEST BLOGGER and had creepy Sci-Fi erotica written about me
-was nominated for and lost Foot Model Contest
-ran 833.57 miles in three pairs of running shoes(more then three hundred miles short of my goal which I set without accounting for 18 credit terms, vacation, family or holidays)
-ran one marathon, two half-marathons and one ten mile race, setting PRs in each
-ran a 10k with my baby in hotheat, finishing side by side
-killed two fish and one frog
-attended one writers conference, was not discovered
-drove 1350 miles for the holidays
-nearly died from heat exhaustion in Eastern Oregon
-rode a scant three century rides (sorry dad)
-bit off and chewed 48 school credits
-boarded two planes, two boats, touched six states, camped, hoteled and couched.
-met one real life blogger

(does that cover it?? Hardly, but friends are arriving...)

But tonight!! I shall redeem myself of all small evils. Tonight the fruition of my goodness... have plotted a love affair between two wonderful people who have never met each other till tonight. They will come here, eat my bruschetta, drink my champagne and fall wonderfully in love for the rest of their lives. Shhh...

(am light and springy!)

Thursday, December 29, 2005

Fickle

Today a stubborn streak of ill-will, kicking shins and pinching babies. Running was barely enough to settle me into a book. I read for five hours. Reading has been my escape since I could. I never read anymore, I skim. I cant remeber having time for fiction at least. Just how-to and what-is books.

I went out with a friend for sushi in the evening, ate stale a cream puff for desert and came back to reading more. GOOD GRAVY I say, GIVE ME GRACE!

Tuesday, December 27, 2005

Free and Clear Please

Six hundred miles of holiday traffic, crappy coffee, sudoku puzzles, fog and turn signals, sleeping reclined, cramped neck. This morning three hundred miles away I woke up to the sound of heavy rain again and again and again. And shushed sounds of my Dad getting up for work, woke enough for shuffling under the tangled sheets for the warmth of my BF sleeping. He rarely snores. I couldn't ask for more.

ACTUALLY I COULD ASK FOR A LOT MORE. I want people who are easy to love, who make the right choices that lead them to happiness and dying in the company of loved ones or not in great lonliness and sorrow. At the very least.

Everyone thinks they know what is best for them, ask for my advice then look at me patronizing... drink more, smoke more, fuck the wrong person more... head inevitably to-ward a cliff, dangle precipitously, scorn me .. and if feels like a wound.

I am arrogant to think I know what is best for you. Yes. I said it.

Like my friend Kate, she calls me heartsick all the time, always late at night, always. It will always be the same. I don't know how to care for you, am so useless.

Under those tangled sheets, halfway here we talked in the dark about who will come to a bad end, how we know, and love them still. Sometimes you let people go, mostly because you don't know how not to, or simply have no choice.

Twice in my life I went to other towns with a picture and a rumor, searching for people who had lost themselves. HAVE YOU SEEN THIS PERSON? HAVE THEY BEEN IN HERE RECENTLY??

Once was with a friend, searching for her father who carried a bowsaw forwith to kill your enemies for he knew they were many and he had none himself...

Another time with my friend Amy we found someone maybe we should not have. Brought him home. Brushed him off. Put him to bed. Two days later I woke up to go to work, found the steering column in my car in sharp plastic pieces torn, found things broken into smaller and smaller pieces, wires exposed, metal bent. In the back seat my friend, curled small. I WAS GOING TO HOTWIRE YOUR CAR AND DRIVE IT OFF A CLIFF INTO THE OCEAN.

Enraged I almost spun into oncoming traffic, left him curled there sick and sad for my whole shift. Tried never to care again, but it was a slow climb down.

We shared the same birthday, though I am four years younger, and are both uselessly left-handed. We were never lovers, though we kissed once on an ill-advised impulse resulting in my roommate trying to run me over with a late 70's model two-door car and chucking a beer bottle at me, not accounting for the physics of a fast moving car.

Years earlier he had taped, one page per word The Days Run Away Like Wild Horses over the Hills onto his walls, savored the sorrow of empty bottles and closed curtains. I should have known better a long time ago.

Years later his two front teeth were punched out of his face when he knocked on the wrong window of the wrong house in a blackout, father of a daughter in late night hours. Sam and I, we wrote a fan-zine for him but had to keep undoing love for him more and more.

He was brilliant, he was writerly, and coming to a bad end. Last time, patience wore thin, I had just moved to Portland, myself treading thin my friendship with Sam... we took him out to the bar and he tried kiss us each, offered to fist fight and steal our things. Maybe he pissed in the corner and probably punched the wall.

It was the end of many things then, that time. A six month funeral for friendships and naivety, and a really painful realization of burden, credulity exhausted.

Even my mother had prophetic dreams, three hundred miles away but I never revealed how. I cant imagine I was easy to love.

where did all that come from?

-------------

Six hundred miles, and Christmas many times over. First here, his parents, his brothers, my fathers, a nights rest, my mothers, more... all in a short 36 hours.

The caring and interwoven complicatedness in heavy rain and mountain passes, holiday traffic for three hundred miles, my anxiety growing heavier and heavier.

In the new year I want no-one to worry me.

Friday, December 23, 2005

Thin Skinned




There are still pink spots on my collarbones where they wore to bleeding during a half-marathon in October. Today I ran in a v-neck... am smiling! It is apparent to me that my skin is in dire need of a coat of varnish, some industrial grade lacquer maybe, something to protect me from chaffing and insults.




Katrina gave me frogs for Christmas. During Thanksgiving Bob froze to death during a cold snap in which the dogs water bowl did not melt for almost two weeks. Full of feeling for me, she brought me the frogs to fill the tiny fish-shaped hole in my heart.

The frogs are totally awesome.

BABY LOOKIT MY FROGS, KATE GAVE EM TO ME. I NAMED THEM MR.CATE, MR.TREDWAY AND MS.LAMB*

OH, NICE... BUT I ONLY SEE TWO FROGS, WHERE'S THE THIRD?

THERE ARE ONLY TWO

BUT YOU SAID THERE WERE THREE...

NO, I JUST SAID THOSE WERE THEIR NAMES. I COULDN'T DECIDE BETWEEN THREE PEOPLE I WANTED TO NAME THEM AFTER SO I JUST GAVE THEM ALL THREE NAMES.

*Those are not the real names I gave the frogs. The fake names used here are the real names of two teachers and the attendance lady at my high school. The first was hugely impressed with me and I totally failed him, the second was pointedly unimpressed with me and I stunned him, the third was totally unimpressed with me and stayed unimpressed with me for the duration of my HS career, chasing me through the halls with pink slips.

-------------------------

UPDATE*UPDATE*UPDATE*UPDATE


in repose

He swims spastically then retires on his back on the surface which freaks me out to no end. Poke, *bob* Poke, shed a tear *float to the bottom* I lift the lid of the toilet seat *sniffle* he swims spastically again.

Later, he died.

The other just swims spastically. I guess it is good I never revealed the names I chose cause I wouldn't want to jinx anything good.

Wednesday, December 21, 2005

Solstice

Seven miles have run and one mile from home, waiting to cross six lanes of traffic in the pouring rain an old man says to me YOU LOOK LIKE A HEALTHY KID, ARE YOU TRAINING FOR SOMETHING?

One hour and fifteen minutes earlier, after throwing my jacket in a lightweight tantrum my boyfriend says YOU HAVE AN ANGER PROBLEM

... AH. DO. NOT...

Three days ago I found an empty chapstick tube in the drier, hurled it dramatically across the room cursing. I have an addiction to chapstick, have like, 10 tubes in various pockets that occasionally make it into the drier where they melt and ruin three expensive running shirts, my favorite *irreplaceable* band touring shirt and a sexy tank top with greasy wax stains.

I get the finger too often when I drive. It gives me a thrill.

Sad songs ruin my day.



Yeah, I guess I am training for something. I need this rain, this lowflyingbirds... same I need this running to keep my sizzle from flaring up. I am constantly training for a better day. I wish I could step outside my body, walk along side myself, hold my hand. I will put my finger between my shoulder blades to straighten my posture, whisper in my ear how things are, and are not. Will see love and notlove, will see how perfect is frailty.


Love and Luck

Tuesday, December 20, 2005

One last double check before we left the house BABY CAN YOU SEE THE DORK IN ME? ITS NOT OBVIOUS IS IT? Just to be nice back I assured him we wouldn't talk about writing or blogging, but I totally lied.

It was all posted here first, most of it is true...

But Brandon is way prettier then I am. He was hiding behind a pole in the Triple Nickel so he saw me first, starting off the evening Advantage: One Child. He approached not bearing scissors but hands stuffed in his back pockets, earnest and disarming.

Too bad I am totally suspicious of people that nice. I watched too many teen romance movies about the popular kid dating the weirdo on a dare, falling in love pretend, widely exposed for sham, maybe later falling in love for real, love somehow reinforced by humiliation... that never really happened to me but my friends ganged up on me in 6th grade. I never got over it (am keeping a list ladies).

We left the Triple Nickel for the Sapphire. Got down to blogging business, drank Spanish coffee, ignored everyone. It is true, we missed StoryCorp, and what we would have talked, we talked.

StoryCorp, we could have save it all for posterity, Bacardi 151 it will be new all over again.

It is true also, the Sapphire waitress ran out after us on the street, undertipped and not havin' it. She was sassysad about it which chapped me cause it was an honest mistake, honestly.

(We came less than a dollar short of 15% on the bill, big tragedy in the tangle of figuring that we did by candlelight
(I did the math later and while I never leave less then 20% (cause what the 'ell do you think I do for a living) my sorrow is not great)).

Brandon ran off.

We met them at The Pub at the End of the Universe, talked still more. Still? At the end of the night I am deeply fond of Brandon and Kevin both. Kevin has a great poker face and I only caught him in a semi-eyeroll once. But it could have been the smoke.

Neurosis, that word, though out of favor with the medical community is keenly succinct to the self-conscious writer. I can neither accept or express admiration with ease. Thank god we meet up face to face sometimes, leave feeling fairly well adjusted in concert or in contrast.

AGAIN?

AGAIN. AS SOON AS IT SEEMS APPROPRIATE

DEAL.

Monday, December 19, 2005

You're waiting for me to go first, right?

I am a hurricane of busy. My socks are all over the floor. There are people waiting for me across town. I only blog late at night anyway.

Yesterday was a birthday party and a going away party but I didnt go to the going away party because the blizzard, and the need for calm in my head. I will blog late tonight.

Saturday, December 17, 2005

Ruffled

Wednesday was party no.four, but what a day! I met Sam for lunch, later on, Kate for dinner. I took her to a two-part party, in the appetizer apartment and the entree apartment. I like pretty people, I like laughing pretty people, abundance of food and generosity and dim lighting. These are my friends I love for the sake of me... not getting-togetherness for school or work or etiquette. So this was the best party yet, brief as it was I stayed.

But even still, holiday parties have me feeling over stimulated and over exposed. The next two nights I spent in, bustling around the dirty corners of my house with the heat cranked and a cup of scalding tea, sleeping long and deep, late into the morning.

Friday was frozen. The perfect day for a 10 mile run; dry, cold, brilliant and sunny. After three miles I found my stride, and lost myself finely, running. Finally. I haven't been on a run longer then six miles since the Seattle Half-Marathon, and before that, the Halloween Run-Like-Hell Half-Marathon. Now on vacation, the only thing I have been dreaming of is long hours running and writing.

Today, again perfectly tart, froze and bright for a long run. I ran 10 miles to brush down my feathers, for meeting perfect strangers you hold in blatant admiration is graceless and I would probably bonk heads or spill a drink in his lap if I didn't run it out of me. I probably will anyway.

Wednesday, December 14, 2005

What Did You Want to Say?

Tonight was Christmas party No.3, a low cut shirt and highboots (deliver me on your doorstep six foot three). When I arrived I was ushered to food, crafts and body glitter. LET ME GET THE BACK OF YOUR NECK, YOU SIMPLY NEED ORANGE GLITTER. I made three snowflakes, sculpted a Fimo pebble, and let the dog drink out of my spiked punch.

It was mixed bilingual; English and ASL, adults and teenagers, hearing and Deaf. One thing I love about the company of interpreters is the full access to the best of both languages, expression through language intrusion.

YOU KNOW, I WAS *sign*, AND AT THAT TIME I REALLY *sign* *sign*, AND WE FELT *sign* SO WHEN WE FINALLY *sign* IT WAS *sign*. REALLY.

There is no comfort like ease in communication. At least for me, who often hunts precision by circumlocutorily stalking meaning, tending to start with, for example, WHY THIS UPSET HAS SIGNIFICANT HISTORICAL PRECEDENT... because one can never be UNDERSTOOD enough.

It is true though, there gets to be a point where that need becomes so disruptive one is simply better off picking daisies and humming off key, investment/return wise. I mean, I have never been important enough to hedge bets, or push the envelope... its not like failed communication with me will result in someone pushing the red button and blowing Earth to bits. Ya know? Better, usually, to walk away, make daisy-chains.

And another thing, I like getting older because I improve simply by lacking the stamina to ruin.

For what I bring (little) and under what constraint (free of), tonight was simple and unfettered. Damn Good.

Saturday, December 10, 2005

Watch Over Me


watch over me

Tonight was Christmas party #two, on the heels of #one at which I wore a fancy dress and did not win the center piece.

Part one, the wind blew fierce. Blustered me from the classroom where I held my breath till my lungs burned with the anxiety of final exams, exhaled panting and flushed. I was never flappable till now, damn this fierce wind.

From school into traffic, into the nick of my time into my dress, drippingwet hair, make up in the dome light, heater blasting till my curls are springy and dry. The only shoes I have to match my dress are summer shoes, open toe platform sandals that I hiked down dusty river banks in. I am an indelible yet faint aroma of blackberries and warm lazy currents and campfire. I am haunted by my shoes.

The party has no impact on me. I am vague yet polite. Eventually everyone has circulated past the host bar enough that fancy no longer matters. I sneak out to the car and change my clothes. I never go anywhere in a fancy dress without a secret stash of pants. The party is on a sprawling estate and in some cluster of buildings I find a restaurant where a dear friend of mine works. I have not seen her for more then six months. We hug and hold hands and promise to call and then the wind blows me back to the banquet hall where no one is the wiser. Me, and my inpants confidence. I drink more wine and have a headache in the morning.


watch over me.

Though I have little to do with the religious traditions that have brought her through the millennia, I have always had a thing for Mary. I think she would have liked me, and been nice to me, fed me soup and told me everything will be alright. This term has carved a yawning chasm in my chest cavity. I could really use some of that kindness.

Christmas Party #two I cannot convince you it is what it is. An enormous mansion, a full size sleigh on the porch, two tiers of balcony, solid hardwood beams with servants quarters and secret servant stairwells and simply sagging under the weight of Christmas decorations. A minimum of two full size Christmas trees per room, every nook and cranny and flat space filled with Christmas antiques and creepy Christmas dolls, movie set decorations, Christmas records, statues, dishes, games, knick-knacks, books... year-round even. The collection is easily worth a million dollars. I didn't take pictures, I didn't take pictures last year. Now the house is sold, the new owners mingling with the guests and the collection will be sold bit by bit.

The snack table was vigorous and the bar was open. I sat under the upside-down Christmas tree, baleful in the glow, shouldered through the crowd, till I finally settled in to watch The Nightmare Before Christmas in the maids quarters. There is a certain point where opulence becomes prohibitive... awesome, but ultimately useless.

Welcome, the frenzy! Happy Holidays!

Wednesday, December 07, 2005

Oh schadenfreude, come read my blog

I was in the store today buying thank-you (forputtingupwithme) cards when I realized I was hearing three Christmas songs playing at the same time. Do they thing they will get me to buy three times the crap with three times the guilt at three times the interest rate?? When will we figure out Christmas, like old growth forests and native speciation, has fell victim to the tragedy of the commons, along with our dignity and inherent value. Uuh.

As you know, as I have told you I interpret for a s*ciol*gy class in a mock placement, fake internship, practicum... whatever you call it. And you should know this is very hushhush as we in this field take our confidentiality very seriously, as we should, as I do. But I find this class very hurting.

As it happens this same class was the first ever class I took after a series of dropouts, move-ons and whatevers, long suffering the pedestrian ennui and reticence inherent to my expansive personality. I finished my last HS class with a .08 and had since failed to impress anyone. After a particularly egregious transgression for which I felt I owed focus and discipline as a form of atonement, I registered for classes at the local community college.

Learning one of the classes I was trying to get into was full, and looking behind me at the 10 million people in the registration line I stuck my finger into the catalogue and registered for a s*ciol*gy (whatthe??) class on an entirely different campus. At the end of the story I finished with a final grade of 102% after correcting the teacher on a deducted point during final exam , and causing a near-riot during small group discussion earlier in the term. Still, being much younger the class never impacted me as much as it seems to now.

Now, are things new and painful. We watched this video I thought I will put my hands in my face THIS IS SO INTENSE and I felt so sad I stayed hands in my face. Interpreting this causes little earthquakes where spurs grow on my spine and plates in my skull shift and I think I AM KIND AND WELL INTENTIONED BUT IT MATTERS NOT BECAUSE I AM OF AN EVIL GREATER THEN MYSELF… and I have always felt I am the sort to survive a nuclear holocaust but am dismayed to learn really I am like tissue held together by evil and vapor.

You too should watch this video and maybe also should make an ass of yourself in a large class of people.

And other renewals I learned.

Like the federal government collects data on hate crimes but does not include crimes against women because so overwhelmed they would be. And in NY they studied aspects of committed murders and found that more then any other group women were "“multiply killed"” meaning they were abused in so many ways in was impossible to determine the cause of death. Beat, stabbed, shot, bludgeoned, kicked, shoved off a building, drowned, and then run over with the car after being poisoned. And more often these were witnessed by children (compared to other murders). Really, this doesnt even scratch the surface.

I don't, but if you demand it of me I will try to hunt down citation. But enough about sorrow. After all the end of the term is so near I can taste snow. At this point I have finished with two classes completely and have little of the remaining three left.

I passed half the QE much to my amazement considering I went into the test set in my failing ways, convinced certain death wasn'’t something to get too worked up over. Now I see how dangerous my speedball, expect failure but accept no infraction or weakness along the way. Perfection in the pursuit of failure. What the f*** is wrong with me.

That said I have to humbly accept that what feels like reasons to me are actually excuses. I am lazy. I am responsible. No matter how many protestations and resentments I have developed, categorized, and railed against.

Fact.

But now I will have the time to look inward, at the ugly wrinkles in my neglected life, my atrabilious family, unwatered house plants and ill fitting wardrobe. I cant think about the details. I make lists, and lists, and lists and chip away at them never lingering long looking at the suffering details. In all regards am cantankerous, yet surprisingly bouncy and optimistic.

Last week I showed one of my favorite bloggers judybluesky how to post pictures and am waiting patently. I'’ve yet to see a single one. Go bug her.

I am gonna go bake zucchini bread and practice my witticism for Brandon when he comes to visit.

Thursday, December 01, 2005

Oh Dear

I just lost a post I have been writing for two hours. It was the longest post I have written in a year. I am sobbing, my dog is whining. We are in great sadness. Life will never be the same. I guess things get more important as you get older.

*welllll, sniffling actually*

Thursday, November 24, 2005

Kisses Kisses Kisses for each of you



Happy You, Whatever you Celebrate. Tofurky day!

I am leaving in a few short hours for Bellingham Washington... surely a deviance from my tiny memory of tradition. On the way back down I thought I would stop in Seattle and join them for a half marathon Sunday morning. Wish me luck. Love your knees and ankles. That is my suggesting for Thanksgiving. How often do you???

Tuesday, November 22, 2005

Hello Kitty



As far as I am concerned my vacation started about five minutes ago when I saved my work and closed MSWord. I have a 12 hour day of class tomorrow but that is a formality. Everything is turned in and what more do I care?

Somehow eight weeks have passed since the start of the term. I, catapulted through time/space with my hair in mess, cds scratched, books dogeared, underfed, bad-dreaming. The world that does not revolve around me is fragmentary and lonely. The world that does revolve around me is suffocating and static. I cannot believe I am so fucking mediocre.

Be failed. You are unrequited love, you are a life cut short, you are we'llneverknownow, you are romantic and lovely, you are fragmentary, suspended, you are wine and candle light, you are tragic and brilliant. Potential untapped is endless potential. Thats my MO, I dont like proof, I like tragedy. I failed the QE, I am sure of it.

That is uncomfortable and honest. That is accountability and nakedness. Sigh. Be Failed is a directional verb.




Today I came home and found this note on my mailbox. Together we cajoled Willie down from the shed roof with a rattle can of kitty treats. She is voluptuous and well-fed. She has cost me and I am suspending her food-chain rights.


Saturday, November 05, 2005

Kill Your Darlings

I am not giving up the blog yet quite simply because I have been invited to be a consulting member of WHIS… er TEQuila, um WHISQUILA CON ‘06. Plus today is the Deconstrutionist second anniversary.

Things aren’t so great. I got a 7/10 on a paper and I have never gotten a C on a written assignment. The cruel news was broken to me over the class discussion board that night. The rubber cork popped out and I fell to my knees and cried and cried and washed the dishes and cried and thought about how a 70% is only one percentage point away from 69% which is a D so I cried harder and I have never cared if I failed something before probably for this precise reason that the terror of failing is great and wrenching and then I hiccuped and swept up pine needles and decided to delete my blog.
(hic)
And then I cried during my videotaped midterm the next day and my instructor was so nice I cried more and then came back 45 minutes later and gave the best interpretation of my life.
(hic)
And then later other people started crying in class too for their own miserable reasons but misery loves company and I cried some more.
(hic)

After the drama I went home with a pint of whiskey and the fantasy. To my surprise and silliment this morning the whiskey did nothing to solve my problems thought the tinkling ice and all did make me feel satisfyingly iconic. This morning I woke up with a genuine desire to blog and am sitting quite naked at the computer right now feeling less like a black and white movie star and more and more like a slightly dehydrated though perfectly capable human.

Ironically, and unmoviestarlike enough, I was researching the role of interpreters in addiction treatment settings for a research paper while whiskying myself. It quite takes the glamour of a husky voice right out of the bottle.

Today I reason that the paper maybe is really worth a mere ten points, and overall assignments are worth only 10 percent of my grade. And I don’t really give a shit specifically, per se, but that the straw fluttered down from on high. (Yeah the last straw. Forgive me, I am not above using a cliché once and awhile). 24 hours later the panic is out of my system.

(There is something to be explored here. I used to chop off all my hair if I ever reached a critical point. Then ran around being mistaken for a boy till it grew out.)

And I have to say, Jen, Jill and Brandon are the kickingest-ass people I have ever not met in my life. That is true for everyone I stalk on the internet, who come here and comment and are kind and smart and make me feel impressed with myself that quality people actually like me. I really truly deeply robustly emphatically appreciate you guys and I cant wait to drink you under the table.

So I am not leaving entirely even though the desire to be iconic struck me once again when all three applauded my style, LEAVE THEM WANTING MORE they said. The problem is, I want more. More spotlight and adoration?? My numbers are admittedly small but satisfying... but really, I have to write. I have to write like I have to breath like I have to run. So I am merely going dormant for the remainder of the term... maybe a quick post during Thanksgiving. I will return the archives and keep the comments on. Please email me if you like cause I like it.

“What causes problems is a problem” eventually means the same as “Kill Your Darlings”.

Friday, November 04, 2005

Kill your darlings. - William Faulkner

Wednesday, November 02, 2005

One Fine Day... and then more rain


Run Like Hell half marathon.



It is really that bad. My collarbones are bleeding for two scabby nights now. They are pointy and useless, snag on my shirt collars and I erode...friction+moisture

Would mole-skin work??

There are other problems. There are 586 people in line for the potty four minutes before the start-gun, but chip-time solves that. My time does not start until I cross the start line. I reach the very back of the pack, hundreds of people surge forward.

One and a half miles later we are surgically bisected into two writhing bodies of sweaty runners by a locomotive train. The lead pack runs on. We chill, October dawn sweat, icy air. The train it is huge and creaky, groaning car after car, graffiti and sparks. In gaps I can see the road clear and cold, wide open ahead. I wonder if I can leap between the cars.



Plus my bird killed a cat. Err, no.

Today my brain is hurt. I was in consecutive interpreting classes from 8:30am to 6pm, including a knock-kneed practice Qualifying Exam and rustling leaves, typing through lunch and bumpers all the way home. My faith is shaky and my language skills run dry. I cannot imagine the miracle of communication. It is myth.

Sunday, October 30, 2005

Hot tea and microfiber

This is a half-marathon morning, 13.1 miles. It is cold and dark and damp, not even the least bit light out. The starting gun is an hour and a half out. I am well slept, hydrated, carbohydrated and flexible. My insides are smoothe, not jagged and shard like. I am morning, I am off to the races.

Thursday, October 27, 2005

Am Full of Useless Feeling

Tuesday I found $180 in my wallet that I had forgotten about hidden in that pocket with fortune cookie fortunes, coffee punch cards and I Saw You's torn from the paper that I wish were me. Today I found three ten dollar bills in a pair of jeans. Am I lucky or is something wrong with me? I am inclined to think a little of both.

I like where I am going and how I do it, struggling with and for myself nevertheless. A man once told my mother I wasn't a pretty girl, would never be pretty but I would be a handsome woman. SEND HER TO ME WHEN SHE IS 24.

I wonder what else I have forgotten, and how it will come back to me. I have lost fortunes.

The beer delivery man today came during the rush. More then one of you drinks during your lunch break and while he stocked, I unstocked. He turned to me and said I HAD TO COME DURING YOUR LUNCH RUSH and he said YOU HAVE NO IDEA HOW HARD IT WAS TO FIND YOU and I got prickly and weird feeling.

But really I think he made an incomplete joke.

(cue harmonica) Nobody knows the aloneliness of the 18 credit/20 hour week. My cat chirps like a bird, that's the most conversation I get. I am afraid of people. They are afraid of me.

When I was ten I went to a five cent Christmas production for children. I was so moved I gave the lead role two quarters in my pocket that was my great fortune and she was stunned notwanting, gaudy pink costumed cheeked and lifesize candycaned. If really, when I die, that is one I need to see again. Cause I cant imagine myself when I was less brittle then now.

I walk a fine line. Stupid and inconsistent, terrified and belligerent, totally anonymous and flagrant and resentful and skittish. I should have been a breaking down machine. I should have been one or the other.

Wednesday, October 26, 2005

Getcher Hot On

If you want to party like I do first of all get yourself a WhirleyPop Popcorn Popper. Best. Ever.
(Thanks Mom!)

1 Tbsp of Oil
1/2 cup of popping corn
One tiny single drop of 600,000 Scoville rated hot sauce
Med-high heat
Grind like hell!

One caveat, the cooking experience is similar to a light dosing of pedestrian grade pepper spray, or snorting a small line of cayenne powder. Let the dog out first.

When the popcorn is done popping, remove from heat, put your whatevers on and get down, get down.

Sunday, October 23, 2005

Study Break

The process of writing a research paper is elaborate and complex. I start with a few relevant articles, a highlighter pen, a cup of tea. I read, notice the floorboards, dust the crawlspaces, polish the houseplant leaves... I have concocted a new recipe for scrambled eggs and fish sauce, trained the cat to sit, stay and lay down, and have overcome my neurotic resistance to blog writing.

-----------------------------

Where I was going with last nights monologue...
I know it eventually involved a pair of ill-fitting plaid pants and how it happened that I never wanted to know my rock stars again.

The pants, I wore them in second grade with argyle socks because my mother was doing very little consulting at that time. She was more of an impassive well-wisher who occasionally rocked out to Aretha Franklin.

In fifth grade I made myself a pair of pants from a white sheet, safety pins and clumsy stitching. They were an imprecise imitation of clothing. I actually wore them twice. I hope when I die my life really does flash before my eyes. I would sorely love to relive those moments.

-------------------------------

Dish washing singing in a furious imitation of sexy and plain old embarrassing.
lalala...

I`M YOUR PRIVATE DANCER
A DANCER FOR MONEY
I`LL DO WHAT YOU WANT ME TO DO
I`M YOUR PRIVATE DANCER
A DANCER FOR MONEY
AND ANY OLD MUSIC WILL DO

DEUTSCHMARKS OR DOLLARS
AMERICAN EXPRESS WILL DO NICELY - THANK YOU
LET ME LOOSEN UP YOUR COLLAR
TELL ME DO YOU WANT TO SEE THE SHIMMY AGAIN

*shimmyshimmy*
*splash*

I am a stupid word-user

They say you are born with X amount of taste buds and all through life they die on you and never grow back till one day you find yourself eating spinach and thinking it is the best thing you ever ate. Tonight spinach-eating was eight years old again but I liked it. Oh man. I spend an amazing amount of energy controlling my urge to throw tantrums. If I seem subdued or...

----------------------------

I have no memory of writing that. It must have been a couple days ago.

Last night Okie Mark and I went to see Calexico with Iron & Wine at the Roseland theatre. It was complex and MULTIFACETED and made me feel complex and multifaceted... so much so that I found myself scribbling in the dark notes that would only baffle me today. At one point during the show I counted 12 people on stage.

In various combinations and manifestations:
5 guitars
1 steel guitar
2 drummers
3 drum sets
3 singers
2 horns
1 xylophone
1 accordion
1 beard

It was a long day, yesterday. I got up at 7 to go running across town with an interpreter friend who is just starting to run and likes it when I join her on the track. So I do.

Eventually, in our paces we drifted away in the morning fog. Alone I collected drops of mist on my eyelashes, tried to marry them into alligator tears by blinking hard. Surface tension.

I ran several miles and finished with a rush quarter mile lap at 1:32 then one at 1:45. I felt cheeky pink and euphoric.

It became hot and sunny and dried-leafy in every lee. This fall is spicy and aromatic. We don't get many falls like this. We get mush and leaf slime. Maybe that was the old days.

I went home, wrote an annotated bibliography, packed rice and beans and spinach into my bag, water bottle, tea, 553 pens and all my books of lists.

I love pens and lists and have both in abundance, at all times. I love tea too.

And I love interpreting. And I love that I love it because last year I was a wax statue and I felt brittle and melty at the same time. Last year was an impulsive marriage I didn't want to own up to. This year I am really in love.

Sign language interpreting is difficult in some very unexpected ways. For example, listening is passive. You don't have to try, your brain doesn't have to try, your ears don't use muscles in the process. If you are in a class you can drift out and snap back to attention when you hear the words MID-TERM with little effort.

Sing language reception is not passive. Reception requires the use of muscles in the eyes, and expression the use of your fingers, hands, wrists, forearms, biceps, shoulders, neck, face and even often core muscles. Additionally, because of their different, and thus compatible modalities interpretation is done simultaneously. That means an interpreter must be able to master the art of being both receptive and expressive at the same time. Woah.

If the interpretation is done from English to ASL, for example, the interpreter listens to the ongoing message, processes the meaning and intent of the speaker and then recreating the message in an entirely different language while they speak on, while also maintaining enough distance behind the speaker to conceptualize and contextualize the information in order to not skew the meaning.

This is an incredibly complex mental task. Anyone who has learned a second language knows intimately that there is no word for word, concept for concept linguistic equivalent between any two languages. So for accuracy the interpreter must, by the nature of language, listen long enough before beginning to interpret to know what is actually being expressed.

The whole process puts you in this weird state of mind, Zen-like, hyper-aware and unconscious at the same time. If I interpreted something for 45 minutes and you asked me to summarize what was discussed I would be hard-pressed to tell you.

Anyway, I spent the rest of the day in classes, interpreting or talking about interpreting. Its what I am always doing, incase you were wondering about the stuff I don't write about. (there is lots)

My last class ends at 630 on Friday night and this time if year it is already getting dark. And nobody is on a campus on Friday afternoon, Friday evening it is a graveyard.

On the way home I ate edamame and tried to throw the pods into open car windows at stop lights.

My BF is camping for three days with his brother and other unsavories in the middle of eastern Oregon wilderness. Power baby, to you. I hopped the bus and rolled downtown in style.

When I was young, improbable, mystified, theoretical, perplexed, adrift, bewildered, and spellbound... when life became vexatious, when life floored me which it often did, always did, I used to ride the bus downtown at night, especially during the winter. I wandered the streets of downtown Portland for hours smelling the city, insulated and poignant, the 15 year old kids selling heroin, the squeaky clean nervous, the profoundly dirty explicit, the effluvia of the business workday, the impalpable emanation of order. Invisibility, chaos, quantum theory, and absolute normalcy. What I projected meant very little, but it meant the world to me. Still.

This night... I never thought one night would be the last night wandering like that in obscurity. It just happened to me like birth and hair growth. This night, last night the streets were brick and covered with the tiny yellow leaves of the decorative trees they plant through the bus mall downtown. And it was silent and loud, squealing tires, jarring, public fountains. Fucking seamless and awesome. Like this whole diorama from my youth.

I felt likely to want to wander but in fast paces went to meet Mark for the show.

Mark likes whiskey, and while I have no cavil towards drinkers of whiskey, I generally don't tend to gravitate towards the drink myself. Unless I am with Mark. Then I have a few and generally become disoriented and fairly amenable.

I leaned against the balcony, midthigh, pressing forward with my stupid thoughts on that point of physical leverage, my conundrum that I could actually become invisible, dare to feel the same thing that everyone felt, be the same person...

OMG I just realized it is 4:18am and am shocked out of knowing where I was going with this anyway. Damnit I have a paper to write tomorrow.

Wednesday, October 19, 2005

You Win!



10,000 visitors on this day, the 19th of October in this year of our lord 2005!

Jen from Run Jen Run just added a superpower to my secret list of superpowers:

hyperbole
hair shedding
lung capacity
list making
iron stomached
and now...
imaginational



I feel very well rounded indeed! Plus, for years I have been trying to subconsciously program my body into believing I have amazing regenerative powers. You see the inherent conflict, you know, like, who's watching the hen house???

Anyway, so far all wounds heal the usual way.

Plumage

I am trying to do homework in the computer lab and the geeks are discussing plot lines for Final Fantasy... and glitches in the emulator version of star feilds when you do 99999damage.

It is kinda like having an inner-ear infection... an inaccessable hurt in the brain that stunts all forward thought when thought is most needed.

Now they are reabsorbed into the game itself. Arrow keys taptaptap and tinney sounding techno music from tiny inadequate speakers.

I wish I had my camera.
I wish I had my camera.
I wish I had my camera.

Monday, October 10, 2005

Portland Marathon 2005




Saturday morning I went downtown to pick up my race packet, runners bib, timing chip, souvenir program, pamphlets, race brochures, pill samples, crispy soy snacks, commemorative poster and maybe a singlet on sale at the Sports Expo.

Meanwhile, my curly haired friend Stephen is always on the make and called me during downtown traffic navigation at which I am a champ to ask where to take his hottie date for dinner on a brokeguy budget. I hummed, and thought and tried to parallel park while running through a list of north side restaurants I found tasteful and putout worthy.... and would you fucking believe it???

I mean, I am on a one way street and pull up to a one way, meaning left turn only and on the right corner the guy is pulling out and leaving his parking spot so I put on my right turn signal (a direction I cannot turn into unless I intended to park) and hit reverse opining the virtues of fusion cuisine when some asshole in a Mercedes, back window busted out covered with cardboard, slips into my spot whilst making eyecontact with my yelling self.

I whipped my car around the corner into a parking spot fortuitously fifteen feet away. I jumped out of my car and ran ten feet up the street YOU ARE A F*CKING *SSHOLE, YOU STUPID D*CK, F*CK YOU while he stiffleggedspeedywalked off in his hulking Bluto frame. (Ahem. I am not proud of my dirty mouth and don't set myself up as an example for young ladies or gentlemen who I presume don't read my blog anyway) I forgot entirely the live phone call in my hand. Am I ever ashamed?

And while Stephen was amused and demanding to know what precipitated the sudden litany of crude expression I could only think how great we tend towards moral-centricity in our friendships or I would never have friends.

Anyway, an hour and a half later I walked back to my car to find a parking ticket and a note taped to handle of my car door. Oh the beauty and the irony, but the grossness of his sexual offer I wont repeat. If I hadn't been so intent on perming his hair with my foul language I would not have forgot to pay for parking. Forgot I did.

HI SEXY SORRY I STOLD YOUR PARKING SPOT - MAYBE I CAN BUY DINNER AND (bleep)UR (bleep) CALL ME

The culmination of events was satisfyingly entertaining to me. I went home to rest my running legs.



The YOU ROCK is post-marathon cardstock from Sam who is ghostlike and legendary.



Of course, the night before I didn't sleep a wink. Maybe for ten minutes. I was so excited I felt sick. In the morning we held hands and got wove into the phenomenal crowd till the tide took the runners from the spectators. That's me with the stupid grin saying goodbye.

I don't even know what to say. I mean, you cant cry while you run because it redirects your primary respiratory priorities. I really don't know what to say.

NEVER AGAIN. NEVERNEVERNEVER AGAIN. I think was the first thing I said outloud when I crossed the finish line. And being prone to revisionism am certain I meant to say NEVER AGAIN WITHOUT PROPER-ER TRAINING. NEVER AGAIN WITHOUT DOUBLE THE TRAINING MILEAGE. NEVER AGAIN WITHOUT THREE TIMES THE HILL WORKOUTS.




Completing a marathon is an accomplishment, spiritually, physically, emotionally, and intellectually. Like learning to swallow your pounding-heart pride when you get swooshed by fat grannies who have been running for 25 years but look like they couldn't even knit for 26.2 minutes.

And putting one foot in front of the other 79472164 gazillion more times after you have realized the most painful and unfufilling thing you could possibly do is put your foot down one more time.

Floating in and out of physical awareness, numb and unnumb, feeling every single screaming, reeling cell...

...numb, unnumb actually differentiating which cells don't hurt to find the last positive spin on the experience THIS ISN'T SO BAD, MY BELLYBUTTON FEELS FINE, THE SKIN ON MY ELBOWS FEELS FRESH AND MY EARLOBES AREN'T THE LEAST BIT TIRED




Somehow I pulled a little more magic out and kicked it to the finish line with a 173 heartrate, once it was in my sights. I am such a novice. Marathon Number 3 is gonna be so kick ass.

I gotta say though, not one single blister, no black toenails that consequently wont be falling off in three months, the weather was perfectly cool and overcast, no significant chaffing except for my collar bone, no puking (like that gurgling treehugging weakkneed dude at mile 23) and no death on my part. I improved last years pace time by :59 seconds a mile, and finished 25:36 faster, knee stuff and all.

This morning I woke up considering a dream theory that I could map a catchy tune out of my DNA code. Maybe a little pick-me-up ditty when I feel vaporous and without presence, a theme song for the dark moments on the marathon course. It would only be 46 notes right? Something easy to memorize, with magical restorative properties. Musical juju.
How much does it cost to get your DNA mapped?

Then I realized my legs were 103 years old and I thought I might have to use my elbows to make it to the bathroom. I stayed home from classes and iced each leg joint 63 times apiece. My legs were only 52 years old by sundown. Things are looking up.

Friday, October 07, 2005

Can't fight this keyboard anymore

Its the night before the night before the marathon and I already cant sleep. I spilled an entire cup of hot tea on my keyboard and lap this morning, and yelping explicatives, been exorcising the ghosts in the machine since. Key by key by key, apart and back together.

The process exorcised all the delicate considerations in my head too, how I was profoundly moved by the sight of a near empty parking lot at dusk, how I am stretched thin across the expanse of my own duality.




There is a split second of reckoning while you process the heat in your lap you aren't yet feeling and a cocktail of shock, annoyance, disbelief and anticipation. I imagine the moment of a death unexpected is much like the realization of scalding tea in your lap.

Once I fell out of a truck doing stupid teenager things that seemed like a good idea until that very moment and it was the same moment... para-awareness for a half, of a quarter, of a millimeter, of a nanogram of a second... then the second passed and I was actually being dragged by the truck.

Sometimes I am at the top of the basement stairs and my long white work apron swishes menacingly around my ankles and I think

...this precarious life...

But time and time and time again I find myself mundanely at the bottom of the stairs immersed entirely in the weary task of restocking beer for the next shift. Forgetting the rose pedals at my funeral.

There are ghosts in my machine, no matter how tender my efforts. The space bar, arrow keys, the goin'places keys fucken takin' me across the screen. Shit. Someone of dubious computer esteem told me to throw it in the dishwasher. THAT ISN'T VERY TENDER AND WORRISOME, NOW IS IT?

Wednesday, October 05, 2005

Something better to do

My heater broke down, house is cold and Willie has a catbite abscess on her tail. It isn't cute, all shaved and all, and I have to do awful disgusting things to keep it clean. My foot started hurting yesterday with little or no provocation and I am icing like a maniac with only four days to go. I went to Costco today and ate lots of free snacks, bought two jars of pickles and some glucostamine. So far, school is nothing like last year. Things are immensely improved, partly because the number of interpreting students has shrunk from 26 down to 8. I ate 15 grape tomatoes today, but right now I am eating popcorn with hot sauce and brewers yeast and garlic salt. Mymy but I love garlic. Jim Harrison claims that civilized people consider garlic a vegetable, not an herb.

I had shitty dreams last night about Marathon day. It was morning and I was in the small house my family lived in on Main street in Ashland when I was growing up. I was trying to get dressed and everytime I found one article of clothing I lost another. When I looked for my shoes they were under a huge pile of clothes. I had to dig through the pile but they were the wrong shoes. My real shoes were under the new pile I had just made from the old pile but now it was even bigger and messier and those shoes weren't mine either.... just a brokedown pair of tennies with frayed laces. And this kept happening no matter how neat I tried to be, till the house was a total mess and the marathon was almost starting and I was going to be late and runners were starting to pass by on the street outside my window and all I had were more and more pairs of cheap dirty drugstore sneakers with wornout heels. I couldn't find my shorts, the startline was getting farther away, I lost my skin ointment (for chafing) and the only shirt I could find was cotton... I was very anxious and very sad.

I pep talk myself but it seems to be a discouragingly useless endeavor. I swore I would be in bed by 11, dishes cleaned, abscesses drained, homework done, floors swept. Instead I am sitting here with nothing done feeling airy and not the least bit compelled to start acting tired. *sigh* When will I learn??

Saturday, October 01, 2005

Sociological Imagination

Last night all night I just ached, my toes cold, bones knocking, dreams stiff and sore. It was too hot and extra groggy in the morning, the coffee he left on the bedside table tepid. I am vaguely irritable and wandering around in a huge grey robe staring out at the rain. The only thing I woke up excited about was an old Sociology textbook I know is buried under volumes of zines and scene pamphlets that I for some reason feel obliged to hold onto, toting from place to place till they crumble to dust. The textbook has some anchor in the murky sleep, but it eludes me.

I hate the immemorable notfunness of the inbetween moods, biding time and cotton-mouthed till I feel sparkly and poignant again.

Thursday, September 29, 2005

Sorry, get your own jollies!

For the sake of peace and tranquility in my domicile I am quietly dropping the whole footy thing. *THUD* I have been asked to weigh my love of storytelling against my concern for the feelings of others. For me, the story is sacred, and while I hope this is a hazard I rarely have to navigate in my writing "career" it is a reality of sharing my life with the whole world... all ten of you... um, if I want anyone to share their life with me.

Besides, till now it was Foot Fetishists 1, BF 0 and I feel obliged to at least even the score. Tied 1:1.

And the questionnaire was totally boring. Hello! Yawn! The scandal is all on this side of the keyboard. And rest assured, I am out here full force making an ass of myself, tantruming and nicemaking on a regular basis just so to bring you an entertaining perspective of the world around me.

===========================

CRAp, I had my heart squeezed out of me the other evening when I was leaving the store with cheese, thinking about my cheese and a toy poodle lunged at me against the glass of the drivers side window in the car next to mine. I squealed and *almost* peed, cursed in an unbecoming manner.


I had parked my car the wrong way in the diagonal spot and my driver side was next to their driver side from where the poodle was manning security. Edison was in the back seat of my car, securing nothing. I rolled his window all the way down and eased my car forward a little until the two dogs were lined up. GET HIM EDISON, GET 'EM Edison fluffed up a bit, leaned out toward the poodle window and URF-ed and growlburped.

The poodle went wild, fogging up six inches of glass. He slipped off the arm rest and fell onto the drivers seat. GET 'EM, EDISON, GET 'EM Edison ARF-ed and wiggled a little bit. The poodle lunged back up from the seat against the glass, little corkskrew curls sprung around his nose.

I looked up just then to see this dude right there, walking up between our cars, probably watching as he had walked across the parking lot, probably just starting to figure out what the hell I was doing. *ohshit* I slid down in my seat and drove away in what can only be described as a slink.

Theme-blogs get monotonous anyway.

Monday, September 26, 2005

Hold That Thought

I know, I know...

Sunday was too short, each moment the last moment of summer and if I could just linger without provoking time I thought maybe I could draw it out a little longer.

I was on campus at 7:35am this morning only to be told that none of my classes started till noon today. I went home and got two more hours of sickly sleep, woke sweaty with a pounding headache and knock-kneed nausea, what if I puke on my teacher the first day?. They already know me so I guess they wont mind as much.

When I got to class I was pleasantly surprised to be cheered and WHEW WE THOUGHT YOU DROPPED OUT-ed... cause I still haven't registered, thus wasn't on the rollcall, and I was actually supposed to be there at 9am, so the speculation and sadness proceeded me. Even small, tiny, ittybitty loves make me happy. I felt the nausea sorta ease off and lightened up a little bit out from under my anxiety.

But, see, I just cant muster up a decent post here about feets right now. I am just gonna say hold that thought.

Friday, September 23, 2005

Too chilly for swimming.

We are going camping up on the Salmonberry river one last time. I should stay home and practice getting up early, or practice sitting in one spot for a long time without falling asleep. I am never prepared for the new school year.

B'sides that, I just got back from my last long training run before the marathon. 21 miles. My calves are sore. Those two bumps on my collarbone always get chaffed by my shirt collar so I wore a bandaid there, and the fuckin' band-aid chaffed me.

Sunday: The Foot Questionaire.

Thursday, September 22, 2005

READERS POLL!!!

1. I deleted some a bunch of old drafts off of my blogger account that read like a bong hit, taking you nowhere. Such as this one:

it seems like there is a fundamental lack of officiation in the storytelling around here. I mean, if I tell you

2. Willie is limited use cat, but she finally caught a mouse, which makes her vaguely esteemable.



3. I took a bath with my camera tonight.



+is not waterproot+



4. I live in poverty



5. But my toes are prismatic.

Which brings me to my point...

I am going to put this one out to you guys.

A French foot-fetishist with endearingly crappy book-learned English and predictable French verb-conjugation asked me to fill out a foot questionnaire. All the questions are foot-oriented but not specifically erotic.

I think that I might answer the questions if I can post the questions and the highlights of the dialogue, here on my blog.

What do you think???? I need some advice, am begging for your input.



My bath water got very murky...



Then I showered clean.



My stupid, I mean, limited-use cat fell into my tubasudsyness



And licked her self dry.

6. A hellish school/work schedule starts this Monday, after one more year of which I will be L.L. Bean pipe-smokin debonaire with squeaky-clean floor-boards.
    • M: School, 7am-7pm (commuting time included)
    • T: Work, 11am-3pm
    • W: School, 7am-7pm
    • Th: Work, 11am-3pm
    • F: School, 7am-7pm
    • S: Work, 11am-11pm
    • Sun: sleep, sex, coffee, run, homework, bagel...
    The horribleness of this schedule is that the BF is monitoring air quality in a high-rise downtown where the remodeling schedule must not interfere noisily with the schedule of money-making tenants like lawyers... um, meaning that he is leaving for work an hour before I come home every night, and coming home a few short hours before I have to get up. It is gonna be stressful, and lonely.
    It seems like just yesterday I was running in the Gel-Cumulus Vl...

    Already they have 413.12 miles on them. Way below my goal but with very few junk miles logged.


    behold... the Asics Gel-Cumulus VII.

    They will be marathon ready after this week, including a 20-miler on Friday.

    I hope.

    Friday, September 16, 2005

    Can We Be OVER IT Already?

    Recently the BF had an encounter with a neighbor that ended with the ladies present taking a walk in the garden. Ya know? They were uncomfortable, decided to stroll among the begonias and hydrangea bushes.

    As it happened it was in passing, on his way to see Hot Rod Dave up the road who still does not know, and would be dumbfounded to learn that chicks don't dig hotrods like they used to, just like they don't wear poodle skirts anymore.

    So the neighbor, a friend of a friend whose son once tried to undress me with his eyes at Hot Rod Dave's BBQ in late June rests an elbow on the fence and says HOWDY-DO NEIGHBOR and the BF stops, says BE DOIN' FINE, HOW-DY-DO? and before you know it the weight of the world is upon these two men, squabbling and differing in all sorta manner.

    Like this. The neighbor says BUSH IS A GOOD MAN. Says CARS CLEAN THE AIR. IN FACT, IF YOU TAKE YOUR CAR AND DRIVE INTO THE CITY THE CAR ACTUALLY CLEANS THE AIR. THE AIR THAT COMES OUTTA THE TAIL PIPE IS CLEANER THEN THE AIR THAT GETS DRAWN INTO THE INTAKE. FACT. GAAT-DAMMMN LIBERALS.

    HMMMM, says the BF (an environmental scientist), NEVER HEARD THAT ONE BEFORE. And it starts to get tense, starts to feel ugly.



    Who are these people and how can they endure the ever increasing emotional and intellectual contortions necessary to keep believing what they believe? Why do they want to? How can they live with the cognitive dissonance, the pain and the stress. Stress is acid, breaks down the tissues of the heart and crucial areas of the brain.

    I for one, have had enough. We are an adolescent country, we are swaggering dicks, we don't know everything. Having survived my own youthful arrogance, uselessness, knowitallness, stressness I am eager for us all to grow up and move on together.



    (He never seems to get exasperated with me, though last weekend he fairly sighed and observed THE WORLD HAS NO SHORTAGE OF PHOTOGRAPHS OF SEAGULLS)

    Casting

    Tomorrow I have an 18 mile training run planned. What am I doing up at 1:22am posting photographs of molten metals? If left to my own devices this is just the time of night I start to wake up and produce.


    hotness

    The learning curve is steep.


    tongness

    I love the words. Slag. Blast Furnace. Ingot. Crucible. Melting Point. Lost Wax. Oxidation. Alloy. Slurry. Fun words.


    earplugging


    pouring moltenness


    ingot impurties

    I baked a caramel apple pecan pie the other day and had a molten-goo-in-your-mouth moment cause I couldnt resist. My desire to touch metal 9354231 degrees hot was as strong, but by now I have learned a thing or two about consequences.

    It is so pretty.

    Thursday, September 15, 2005

    Me Barbie, You Ken

    I registered for the Portland Marathon the other day after I found out they had re-opened registration to allow for another 1000 runners. At least I think that is what it read. I whipped out my credit card so fast I broke all the sound barriers and was confirming payment before I ever knew for sure.

    Thing is, I am not sure if I am ready. No doubt this last year of time and a half credits in school took all the readiness out of me. By the time June rolled around, relaxing my way out of the residual school stress chopped off another month of training, as did weddings and bike rides and camping and finding water in which to behave like a lily-pad and then acting like lily-pad, submerged to the tip of my nose.

    I kid. I froze incrementally, flailing in the swift, un-lilylike water. Lilies do not grow in the rapids.

    But anyway... I know I am not marathon ready. I know I can run a marathon, its just that I cant run it the way I want to run it. But that holds true for every part of my life and I tend to not let it stop me.

    I am so excited. Have you ever gotten butterflies in your tummy when you heart was already beating 163 beats per minute, six miles into an eight mile run?? It is a really weird feeling. I am not sure if it is safe. I cant shake the adrenaline of knowing the marathon is only a few weeks away and I may keel over dead with that awareness.

    Can you believe I need a new pair of shoes already? Seems like just yesterday...

    ====================================

    Otherwise we are gonna start casting metal. Yesterday we got the custom-made tongs to handle the crucible, chased each other around the house with them. I thought maybe I would make some bronze slug handles for my garden gate. I don't have a garden gate, yet.

    We made a foundry practice run with a Ken-doll head. Whatcha think?
    (the BF has consented to be photoblogged again)











    ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

    I had dinner with my girlfriends tonight after I got off work. Five of us cooked and drank wine in a little post-divorce basement apartment just aching with self-awareness and potential. The lighting was sublime and the company was tonic. And of course, the food was fun but the cooking was even funner. I have been such a domestic homebody nerd all summer. Why am I not out feeling vital everynight??

    Yet, I am so happy here, at home. Its new to me.

    Tuesday, September 13, 2005

    Struck By Lightening

    I turned down the pirate party pot-luck with the heavy-duty lesbians and classmate light-weights who count your drinks for you. I appreciate them one and all, quirks even, but for the chance to shack up in a tent with my baby for two more days... well... the choice seems obvious to me.



    T'was the right choice, even though all the meteorologists foretold of pouring rain and thunderstorms. We were not tented and tarped up one short hour before the deluge began. To the north the beach was dark and seamy, to the south, pink and hopeful. Stormy skies make me feel so lusty and pained. I wish I had a palette of colors so vivid as those in the shadow of a thunderhead at dusk. I would paint my clothes on.

    True to my word I can start a campfire in a squall on the Oregon coast with no kindling, and only a damp crossword from the daily paper. Under the tarp we ate hot cheesy potatoes and played cards, our feet an inch deep in mud, timing the span between the huge splashes of water that rolled out of the tarp over our heads when it pooled too deep.

    After the sunset the lightening. After the thunder the rain. After two hours the storm just drifted away like a puff of vapor and the stars came out. We stoked the fire up, didn't say much. Didn't even complain.



    We woke to a perfect morning. Hiked to the end of the cape with only minor theatrics. Nothing so dramatic as falling off the cliff, just shreeky heartstop handfluttertothroat every time a slug snuck up on me. I am ridiculous and foolish. We had to share the tiptop of the cape with an elderly Swedish couple surrounded by strong musky flowering bushes which confused my senses and make me vaguely irritable.

    I am stingy and resentful and want to make-out ten thousand feet above the tranquil ocean without Swedes munching on apples behind me.



    I worry that I will not be able to decompose when I die. I want to be immortal. I want to photosynthesize, roots wrapped around my bones and leaves spread to the sky.

    As far as I know, the only way to become bio-mass is to get murdered and buried in a shallow grave in the woods. This frustrates me.



    I will think more on it later. An acceptable solution is not immediately apparent, yet this is very important to me.



    I cant take credit for this picture. It was the BF who gasped and grabbed the camera. Who will eat the moldy dog turds if not the lowly slug?

    This is the major hitch in my plans. I know I can't pick and chose my decomposers but if I could, for the record, I prefer worms and microbes. Thank you.



    The south end of the beach was covered with the half living debris of an enormous land slide, just before the cliff wall.



    Then the sun set. The end.



    Not really.

    By necessity we drive all through my old life and past my old house and by design I feel ghostly and the wind blows through me. I say a thousand little prayers and tell outrageous stories that exhaust me and help pass the time on the road home.

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