Wednesday, August 31, 2005

The Great Foot Fight

You'll love this one.................

When we got back from the first camping trip, the one in which I was killed by a bear and paddled with snapping turtles through twi-lit reeds in Montana, I was shocked to turn on my computer and find that over eight hundred people had visited my blog in one day, almost five hundred the next day, a hunnert and fifty the next....

Over the following week traffic inevitably dwindled back into the silent obscurity to which I am accustomed. Like most bloggers I get a lot of random visitors directed to my site but very few of them find what they are looking for and probably even fewer return. Of course I have kept a list of some of my favorites exactly because there is always something better I should be doing.

heart flutters (100+ x)
Pathological liar (5x)
speeding ticket (4x)
homemade/buy coke spoon (2x)
french inhale (3x)
getting stood up (8x)
let me shop and nobody gets hurt (3x)
mansfield toilet (8x)
patron saint of hobos (4x)
fuckshitup (2x)
chicks with big tits (12x)
"why I don't smoke pot"
personality defects
80s headband
monkey smelling finger + video clip (3x)
what does waxing philosophical mean
over age 50 dominatrixes
the bride of the bearded lesbian
its not meant to be
"Delayed Sleep Phase Syndrome" + gay
whatever major looser
bums and freeloaders
portland oregon tweekers
chugging a half pint of vodka
floorboard shave pubic hair
tweekers poems
shoulder riding dominatrixes
feline pain killers
elephants ass
New house construction makes one an alcoholic
wanting what you cant have
livid bliss
death by boiling
considered shoplifting
surrogate lover

Plus variations on the theme of personality disorders and spiritual cleansing, toenail injuries and shin splints, and of course tons of Asian porn seekers.

Anyway, when I checked the referral for all this traffic I was amused to find that images I had posted had been discovered and entered into a foot model contest on a foot fetish message board.

(okay, so I exaggerated a little bit)

My boyfriend however, is not an internet person and although he reads a little bit of online news, can send attachments by email and knows how to check his account balance, the internet remains largely a murky den of inequity. Lo! a place inwhich nobody is who they say and nothing is what it seems, where lurking forces of perversion and evil lay in wait to destroy the lives of the vibrant and the wholesome, the air breathers and sunshine dwellers who linger too long in the web....

Much to my chagrin he was outraged by the incident, and the stunning force of his ire left me with no choice but to defend to the death foot fetishists and photobloggers everywhere. He went so far as to tell me to remove the one unrecognizable photo I had posted of him in which he is seated in a chair across the vast expanse of lawn surrounded by day-after party wreckage from our July BBQ. FINE.


He didn't, until he went to bed before me. In a inconsolable huff I fluffed the couch cushions and made my bed there which prompted another flurry of argumentation and an eventual passionate reconciliation.

Today I remain one of the only message board posts without a single reply, buried on page 9 out of 20 or more pages of foot model nominees. It is hard rejection and a bitter victory. That old familiar feeling...

The next day we picked berries, apples and french pole beans. The pole beans I fried with sea salt and rosemary, and served with pasta and fresh homemade vegan pesto. Extra extra garlic. With the apples we baked apple crisp, marinated the apple slices in a half cup of triple-sec and doubled the brown sugar oaty-crust.

The berries did not get baked into a pie before the next camping trip, and they did not get baked in a pie after because just today I found them growing spots of mold. My pie-makin' sleeves were all rolled up too...

Berries are very expensive at this time of year I discovered. I went home and decided I will use my pie crust to bake a tart apple pie, tart apples being in abundance, and will send the berry-replacement funds (and some) to New Orleans instead where very few fresh anything is being baked.

I watched Bush give his speech today in which he laid out plans for the hurricane Katrina relief effort. Thing is, it was already taking place, has been for two days before he even decided to cut his vacation short and be bothered with the responsability of showing up.

So he gets on the television and takes credit for the coordinating and serious-taking and sorrow-face-making... During the entire speech I was stunned to note that he never once mentioned CONSERVATION, as in maybe the rest of the country should try to CONSERVE oil and gas usage during this difficult time. DON'T EVER STOP CONSUMING. NEVER. I am a little young to remember but isn't that a standard presidential request during these times of crisis?

Friday, August 26, 2005

Family Camping Trip

Gifford-Pinchot National Forest

We are camping again for three days in the Gifford-Pinchot National Forest. I am watching huge flakes of ash rise up from the fire and flutter down into my coffee. Out under the forest canopy I am torn up about survival and the weight of my life on the world around me, the dirtiness of living and the privileged elitist insularity of modern liberalism. You think my -ism could save the world?? Go grow something with your bare hands. Better yet, go kill something with your bare hands and eat it.

Hmm, Its too bad I ruined my good hiking boots
. I pay attention to these simple regrets. They are easier. Old runners aren't that bad to hike in anyway.

Indian Pipes do not photosynthesize.
They are ghostly and cadaverous.

The forest floor is still covered in volcanic ash from the eruption of Mt. St. Helens. After 25 years there is barely a full inch of new top soil covering up the violence of the past. The terrain is jagged and sometimes breaks open a million feet above a rocky creek and a vertical drop that gives me enough time to think... if I were falling. I wonder if I could jump out and grab the top of that cedar tree on the way down.

photosynthesis free

My boyfriend is an environmental scientist. He tells me there are more living cells in a dead tree then in a live one. The inside is just structural dead wood. I believe him. When the whole thing dies it nurses microbes by the kajillions... mosses, underbrush, seedlings, roots and insects... all the new life.

There are dark places deep in the woods.

and sometimes a ray of light.

I remember the forests of West Virginia, fluttery with mayapples and their particular pungent muskiness that I haven't smelled since I was four or five years old. They don't grow here.

Who needs light though?

Besides that there is nothing in my past that I can even romanticize. My first day of school, my manymanymany homes, my virginity, my first love, second love, thousandth crush, millionth date, remote icequeen, lazy slob, wannabeeverything,nevernothing. Why do people love the past? I shudder at the thought.
If you read one of those books about dealing with impudent children and stubborn old people you could probably get me to behave well. But I am drunk on the power to dismiss people entirely from my life.

The creek is ice cold and when I pop up the air is so warm I momentarily think my bottoms have washed away in the current. I grab at my ass and find it is still clothed. I cant see yet because the cold water is still in mid-splash, that is how fast this thought is.

I cant remember them, from one to the next.

Monday, August 22, 2005

Condensed....I lost steam for telling the story after I got to day two.

I kept a trip dairy but am going from memory. I always blow the punchline, well laid plans are laid waste. I don't even know where the dairy is and forgot to write down the final mileage. It was, like, 1800 miles I guess.

LAST WEEK, FRIDAY NIGHT. We packed, couldn't sleep, alarmed up at 4:21am and were on the road by 4:40am. First had to return some Soprano videos and mail bills which makes for sharking through parking-lots in eerie ways at the wrong sort of hours on meth heavy thorough-fare roads. It is dark and silent and busy and nothing you are doing feels right.

I admit it. I live very close to THE UGLIEST STREET IN THE WORLD. *sigh*

THEN WE'RE ON THE TRAVEL-ROAD We drove through swarms of bugs and gradual light. The Gorge is windylumpygreen and not as pretty as you know it should be when you are hungry for food and adventure and you want to feel openroad-good but really you just want to wake up on your smelly pillow to your oily coffee pot in five more hours.

The truck stop in Biggs is cold and the mushrooms are canned. The tomatoes are cooked into the omelet with their browngreen stem. Nature omelet. The waitress bring you untippable change and you have to walk through the dining room, and into the convenience store/gas station counter just to get a few lousy one dollar bills so you can walk back to leave her a resentful 17%.
But they still have phones in the booths!

I'VE EATEN The sunrise is much prettier now and I chit-chatter all the way to Idaho in a really endearing manner. At least this is how I remember it. I am the perfect co-pilot. We veer in and out of bi-roads and county lanes, from freeways to highways, onramps and junctions. I know the roads like a shaman. I know where camp-fires are restricted, and when to pull over. I sense blood-sugar levels and cooler/ice ratios on a scale undetectable to the mortal man. My timing is divine. I bring us home to Priest Lake, the last campsite at the last minute. I start the fire with a dirty word. God I am good.

The dawntime and daylong splooshing of bugs on the windshield has another, more sinister effect. The bigger, hardier bugs catch the jetstream over the windshield into the top of the upturned canoe and fall stunned into the bed of the truck. Weary blissninnys, we unpack our gear. At the same moment I find a live butterfly in the truck bed, in repose and shock-calm, He gets stung by an inreposeandshock-calm wasp. I pick up the butterfly, thinking it is dead. It slowly opens and closes its wings and rights itself in the grooves of my fingertips. OHMYGOD, HEY BOYFRIEND, COME LOOK AT THIS.

(as it happens enamored with one of my earliest childhood memories of a huge butterfly landing in my open palm... not the earliest memory in which I find the huge West Virginian moth that everyone said was dead and I said it was sleeping and made a bed for it out of tissue paper till its wings fell apart., dusted away...)

He yells OUCH and drops his bag and I yell louder I SAID COME LOOK AT THIS, COME HERE. And he yells OKAY BABY I WILL BUT... and I yell GETYERASSOVERHERE and feel like a jerk and say, ARE YOU OKAY, OH BABY, LET ME SEE, HERE QUICK LOOK AT MY BUTTERFLY and then I lift my hands to the heavens as the butterfly slowly regains life and drifts off my hand. God I am a jerk. The back of the truck is littered with half-dead wasps who lay landmine-like till you are exploded.

I got mine a couple days later in Montana. Late afternoon gold, pontificating at a slight angle, 80 canoe-laden-miles-per-hour and the split second after I feel the feet-tickle on my neck I feel the sting In my neck right where the god-given breeze has been whooshing me through the window.

He paddled...

But, we canoed there. Slept well. Ended up at Thompson Lakes the next night where the waters were so calm and beautiful. I paddled but really I just took four pictures of my paddle every time it came out of the water. He paddled cause he likes me and the turtles and the reeds and the still stillness. We made dinner and roasted peppers.

More then I did...

The next morning I saved another stunned butterfly from the bed of the truck, set it on a stone by the lake. It was early and so cold the water was warmer then the air and the lake was wispy with mist. I tried to photograph it and the minute I went to get batteries a little chipmunk ran up and chewed it to unsentamental bits. Didn't care for the wings. Left those.

But the real money is in the art, not the labor... right?!

ANYWAY, ITS GETTING LATE. I HAVE TO PICK BERRIES TOMORROW. ...on.and.on...We went to Glacier. We were pissy and starting to smell. Early morning, I saw a bear in camp. My brother and his wife came up from Missoula. We paddled around turquoise glacial lakes and told Mom stories. I got killed by a bear that next night, in the dark, had to pee, knew they were there. Died and got back into the tent pounding and dreaming of grizzlies all night.

Hiked, fished, narrowly escaped, paddled, cursed, sunsetted, drove long hours,got secretsecrets.
It is way past my bedtime.

So I learn to be humble

And put the head of my enemY on a stick FORSOOTH...


All the ways I am lucky


I am a world class relaxer...

A total Zen baby.

All the bugs love me, even the ones I love.

You Shall Be Unkilled By Bears!

And have an abundance of Food

and Wine.

Thursday, August 11, 2005

Hill-Billy girl

I went to see Hank III at Dante's on Tuesday night. I swear the bass player was medicated or bored cause he looked sane and didn't scare me. The transition between country and Assjack death-metal normally happens after a break but they busted out the new persona right there on stage, which I found fascinating. I didn't stay long after though.

Hank baby!

It was a mixed crowd, hip and toohip and mullets and goatees and WOOHOO! spillalittlebeeronyeroldlady fun. Its too easy.

Who the fuck am I to judge anyone though. I can chop firewood and start a fire in a tornado. I swim in rivers, even if I don't throw my empties into the current. I was raised in the boogan backwoods of West Virginia after all. My family drank and fought loudly, my brother punched holes in doors, I had lice two times, wore boys handmedowns and used clothes, ate government cheese, fought on the playground and was poorly behaved in restaurants. I would be denying my roots if I claimed to be entirely Portland HipUrban Aristocracy anyway.

No kidding!

Anyway, I am leaving tomorrow for a week and a half with a canoe and a tent and a dog and some hiking shoes and a head full of pretty words. I am supposed to be packing coolers not dicking around on the computer. Besides, thats three new posts in two days. Yo.

Five minute fiction

I found this crumpled in my green plastic beach bag. If its just gonna end up in the river, it might as well end up here. The Bean Burrito Story!

John used to eat Taco Bell bean burritos in nine bites. I counted. He was pretty consistant, bite chewchew bite chewswallowchewchew bite. All together it was about a minute and nine seconds for each burrito. He was really skinny then and didnt have wirey grey hair at his temples. He ate without evident pleasure but with considerable need. I dont know, even now, if he has ever eaten a meal that was prepared with great care. Last time I went to visit him all the shelves had been removed from his refridgerator to accomodate a plastacine sculpture of a naked girl. There was a bag of stale McDonalds french fries shoved behind the statue and a door rack full of gluey, discolored conidments. I tried to throw the fries away but was greatly protested. He heated them in the conventional oven and ate them with the thickened door sauces. He never was well cared for. I was never up to the job, even back when I wanted to be.

Wednesday, August 10, 2005

Muscle bound heart

50 beats per minute. WHAT'S IS YOUR HEARTRATE? I squint and don't know where I am. He likes to sit on the edge of the bed and tell me I am beautiful when I am naked and nowhere from a dream. UM... He goes to work and I stay asleep, even though we talk I stay asleep. He tells me later what I say. I sing too he says but I bet its the same tune, something musicalearless I made up when I was sleeping. A song I don't remember when I am awake. I peek at my wrist, my heart leaps up to 56 beats per minute.

70 beats per minute. I leap out of bed. Its 10am and I was furious and appalled when he insinuated that I slept in past 9 every single day that he went to work.

88 beats per minute. I am at the computer. According to Karvonen if my resting heart rate is 50 at my age, and I am female then my MAXIMUM HEART RATE is 189. If I am a man it is 190. HOWEVER, conventional research says one should calculate heart rate zones based on 220, and I have read more recent findings that says if you are a chick then you should subtract your age from 226. I don't know what is right. It could be shoplifting from a meganational or my aging girlheart... I have never had a clue.

101 beats per minute. I always cheat on warm-up and cool-down time. I am a goldplated warm-upper. I hate gold. I hate people who fake gold even more then the people who flash the real thing. If I walk up a slight uphill for a minute and a half does that count?

156 beats per minute. Overshot.

129 beats per minute. Undershot. Fucking irritating.

I change my goal. I thought I might have a 60-70% day but maybe I will have a 50-60% day, or a 70-80% day. G-damnint. I cant dictate my heartrate.

Up the hill. Its not in me to take it easy coming in and it is a half mile uphill from either direction. 189 beats per minute. I am at my hearts maximum capacity. I cannot possibly be any heartier. CANT. I cross my finish line, a white rock at the stop sign at the top of the hill. I don't stop though. At least I walk.

I have stretched it and shook it and kept it fresh every way I know how. This day is so good I hope my heart keeps beating forever but I am in no hurry.

Tuesday, August 02, 2005

Pretty boys can fight too

Lets get this straight...
Edison would have you know that the pitbull dog that got a chunk of his ear was pinned down twice by him. The dog would not stop attacking though. Edison felt that once dominance was established the fight was over, no need for anyone to get hurt. It was while the dog was so pinned, and two full grown men were trying to intervene that it got ahold of the tip of his ear and wouldnt let go.

Little bastard loser dog.

For the gazillionth time

I did it again. I swear to myself I am going to be a better person. I swear that I am never going to say something stupid again, never something insensative or thoughtless, as I have such a knack for doing.


Then I panicked. How the hell am I going to make it a lifetime saying notstupid unbaddumb things?


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