Tuesday, May 30, 2006

Sorry boys...

We are getting married! He got down on one knee under the big walnut tree and asked if I would have him as my husband. The grass was wet and impossibly green and tickled my feet. I said YES, YESYESYES.

Friday, May 26, 2006

Happy three day weekend!

The skin on my palm is redhot and itchy, inflamed like a bee sting. Everything feels coarse. I conditioned my hair twice and exfoliated my face and I still felt like Grizzly Adams. The skin on my wrist is prickly and doesn't like to be brushed by. My wrist has the flu, you know how your skin feels when you get flu chills. That. I didn't expect that.

I have a severely limited range of motion which I have almost doubled in the last 28 hours. I pumped iron with a 3 pound dumbbell till my eyes were bulging and the dudes all backed off and were like IT'S COOL MAN, S'COOL and lowered their eyes to show me they didn't want any trouble. HUZZAH!

And now its raining and I am leaving for the weekend. I have some really big news, the biggest news ever broke here at Deconstructionist. Go ahead and speculate, but I can't tell the internet just yet. So don't try to twist my arm. It just doesn't bend that way.

Wednesday, May 24, 2006

Eight weeks later...

I am out of the cast, pins and all. I asked if I could pull one of them out. My doctor, who is good and who is afraid of no bone handed me the pliers but I chickened out at the last minute. I wish I hadn't. Of course, the loose pin came out the easiest. The other two resisted a little, then gushed. Blood welled up to the surface and poured out. Oof. Now I have a thin white wrist. It is unimaginative like sculpted by a divorcee taking night classes. She might get better if she studies anatomy, might sculpt with a sense of underlying structure. But not yet.

Sam called and sang HAPPY CAST DAY into my voicemail. Clark brought me a dozen long stem red roses. We are going out to dinner tonight and I hope my dress still fits. Eek!

My Dad brought my bike back to Portland with him all fixed up and road ready. I have been a good sport on the sidelines but watching people cross the finish line on Saturday all salty and rubber-legged full of hunger and thirst made me very sad and a little jealous. But my bike is back, and my wrist is healed and I won't be on the sidelines anymore.

Sunday, May 21, 2006

Everything is deep

Last night I slept so deep I even forgot that I was sleeping. I woke up once while I was still asleep and watched a dixie cup flutter over my head in a small circle on gossamer wings, ethereal and divine. I became sharp with fear and bafflement and the dixie cup spectral insect angel dissolved into ether.

I am so impossibly young and yet, so impossibly old. Wouldn't it be romantic to be dying so ... exotic and exquisitely headlong? No. I don't think I think so anymore.

When I was in Nevada I really did see rats in the dark of night, also that night sleeping deep below the surface after an excruciating week of insomnia. I was not just trying to be clever by saying that I saw them. And I am not being clever now. This is the second time I have not shaken off my dreams after I've shaken off my sleep.

Does this mean I have a secret brain tumor aneurysm which will catapult me upon demise into seraphic remembrance, so suddenly gone? Probably not.

Today my windows and doors are flung open under heavy black skies, heavy warm air, thunder all afternoon... deep rumbling thunder which makes me feel a comfort deep in my bones. We went walking at sunset and got caught in an impossible rainfall, a bonafide cloudburst. It was simply breath taking, a half a block away and the water in rivulets an inch deep.

I think I could throw my fist to those skies and draw down lightening to the rods in my wrist. It would be legendary. I would dress like a warrior goddess princess out of Heavy Metal magazine. That would be so awesome.

Friday, May 19, 2006

I'm the S.A.G. Wagon

I am not going to school. Class is canceled and I am not riding the buss all the way out there, an hour and a half each way to practice voice interpreting with low quality videotapes. I thought I might go, walked halfway to the buss stop then looped back towards home. It is overcast and muggy with just enough rain sprinkling to make my throat ache with the heady smell of late spring earth. My neighborhood is erratic, wandering, lacking consistency. There are several houses I dream to live in, deep in green yards and sheltered under heavy trees. They all have a familiarity to them, a unnamable fairytale quality. My own house is a fairy tale, a crooked cabin, rough hewn, dirty, and impoverished in all its salvaged parts, yet achingly sweet as a whole. Much like my life, despite everything.

So I am not going to school. I am back home in my tiny cabin with a lap full of cookbooks and a box fan to stir the muggy air. My father is on his way here from Medford, eyeing the skies no doubt but nevertheless resolute. He is coming to Portland for Reach The Beach, a 103 mile bicycle ride that would have been our first ride this year, could I ride. But he will, rain or shine. Tonight, mounds of pasta, potatoes and breads. I am looking for a recipe for the pre-event carb-loading, our favorite ritual.

I am winning my father over, I mean... I am hoping to win my father over entirely to the idea of moving to Portland. What's not to love? The rain? Damnit it was supposed to be idyllic and bountiful. But Dad, look! I can cook! I am a chorus of voices. I will bring you home-cooked meals on my bicycle and we will sit under the heavy canopy of trees in my enchanted house and be dry.

Don't Read This

Last night I pulled one of my pins a half an inch out of my wrist then got a case of the willies that shimmied up and down me like a body quake from deep in my psyche. I even felt a little thrill and laughed and laughed and shivered and begged to pull the whole pin out and use it to fence with my enemies who are few...

Kate shuddered and stared at me with big eyes but Clark hollered that I better not do something stupid, that I best let it be which made me laugh like an insane person, a nervous and witless insane person who can think of nothing but pinpulling.

And then, horror of horrors! I pushed that pin back in which offered so slight a friction with my own flesh it was barely detectable but I was perked and tense and I felt it sliding back into that shaft of muscle and bone. You cant imagine.

I am waiting for my doctor to call me back. I DON'T THINK WE WANT YOU TO REMOVE THE PIN YOURSELF the receptionist advised and I laughed insanely again while she waited uneasily. My most organic laughter is not in good humor. It never was.

Wednesday, May 17, 2006

The little things

I slept in until the end of forever today when I finally rolled upright, groggy and sloven. I spent another forever lounging about half dressed recounting my dream in a letter to Jill in which I was held at knifepoint to the family livin' lifestyle. It wasn't so bad after all though.

After which all I went downtown to meet Sam for lunch. Lunch with her is esoteric and high-context. She says what I write, there is no meat on the bone but she can flesh out the details only because she has a decoder ring. She may be right. I never meant to be intentionally obtuse, I just find most details cumbersome and boring. They seem obvious. But now that I am a bigtime famous blogger averaging five to ten comments per post I realize maybe I don't always make much sense, because it is bafflement that I often find commented there in.

It isn't always true. For example the other day I was telling Kate and Clark about a girl who recently married an in-tongues-speaking born-again creep. As I recall I felt strongly that in order to explain how her fiance locked someone in a room and spoke to them in some demon-ridding glossolalia I needed to start at the very beginning which was a long winded commentary about how interpreting is something that requires context which you can only get with life experience and my observation of young interpreters tended to bear out that simple truth... after which I continued to discuss the trickiness of conveying concepts cross-linguistically all the while having promised them some really good gossip. Somehow it seems, I either promised them a good story so I could force them to listen to me talk obsessively about socio-linguistics... or that I have a secret penchant for detail after all.

my new anatomy pop-up book is really neat

So here is what I am doing. Details. After we ate lunch we wandered Powells City of Books, and later, sat in the coffee shop where I was unsuccessful in convincing myself to put back some of the books I'd gathered, and again demonstrated my disdain for details with a sweeping dismissal of Oregons tax-structure.

Also, seems I didn't vote even though the ballot was mailed to me. Got snippy in class. Held a grudge. Burned some documents dating back to 2001. Regained 178 degrees of elbow. Spent hours on the phone with my mama. Left my debit card in an ATM. Thought again about buying a scooter. It is the small details that make up day to day life. Am still mystified by simplicity.

Transition and contentment

It is suddenly too hot to do much outofdoors except avoid heat. I am dizzy and invisible and full of compact and manageable emotions. Life has lost complexity. I have been dreaming about this for a long time.

There are 165.75 hours left until this cast comes off. The short cast puts the pins in the middle of a stretch of muscles with greatly improved mobility and now they have begun to hurt. I can feel their full length, I can feel where they end. If I hold my arm out like in the picture below and let my hand relax I can feel where they stay rigid against my limpiness.

But its a small thing, and nearly forgotten. Just 165.68 more hours.

Wednesday, May 10, 2006

The Final Casting Call


The fancyfreeness of the short cast is not the fanciness I thought it would be. It is a soft little arm and wont support cartwheels, hasn't a mind for joyful expression.

Much to my silly surprise the elbow wont straighten like knees when you have been kneeling for too long and try to stand, exactly like that. They ache and complain and you have to be nice and slow to get them straight. But its as if you stayed kneeling for six weeks which isn't so fast to shake out. But why would you? You'd run out of things to pray for.

Still, brought up short whatever... I have a good mind to like this free-erness. I will tie back my own hair, sign my own name, and clean the lenses of my sunglasses. There is no itch I cannot reach with my chopstick now, and if it snaps off halfway in I can get it back out no panic. Life is getting better all the time.

Monday, May 08, 2006


With the insommia again... again and again, or every other week to be closer to precise.

I am awake and eating pickled beets for two reasons other then the fact that they are pickled with means of course I will eat them. But also I will eat them because they are a lovely rich magenta color which is deeply satisfying to eat. And I will eat them because I feel sorry for beets. My BF hates beets with a virulent passion which makes me all protective and emotionally responsible for the beets. I mean, they are baby beets after all...

beet me

Wednesday I go back to the orthopedic surgeon for my 5th and hopefully final arm cast. This time they tell me it will not constrain my elbow which is like superduper great. I am so tired of this exoskeleton, straining against it, confined. I would be a really crabby lobster, or a lousy snail. It's just not the life for me.

I can feel the healing. I can twist my wrist now so that the pins sorta dance and strain against my skin. It is fascinating, if faintly disgusting. The hospital bill for surgical supplies, rent for the OR and time spent in the recovery room included a line item for surgical implants (pins): $78. I mathed it out to be about $26 per pin, about the going rate I am guessing for cosmetic body piercing. Totally reasonable, but gottamnit you pay a lot for the sterile room.

I am going to try to think like sand, that is, without the static of being. I really want to sleep. Really really.

Sunday, May 07, 2006

Little Breather

I am well into a term paper... chewing on pens, open books, illegible notes and two cups of coffee deep. I am not much of a coffee drinker, surprisingly and I feel jittery and anxious though my zen core can hardly be touched these days. HA.

I used to drink coffee by the pot like it was a religious practice, something to believe in. Over time I just drifted away. After several attempts to coldturkey myself from caffeine I found the struggle simply boring, and my return to coffee drinking each time successively less seductive. Good news I say for me as addictive behavior seems to run in my family... not only in my family but in most families and additionally seems to be the source of most unhappiness in most people. Whatever the substance.


Back to work.

Wednesday, May 03, 2006

One Man strikeupthe Band, sing the Birthday Song

I come inside, go outside, come back inside to stare at this with hopelessness.

For three days I have been trying to write how much I love you, this post that won't work... it's stupid, glib verb conjugation and whimsical disregard for the present tense.

I can't help my way with it. The present is a senseless abstract if told without expounding on context why I got here to make the connections between what failed and why it suddenly works.

I may claim, rightly, to be a sunshiny hope thinker but I am equally and without contradiction a deep dark doubter. I am certain of grander forces but I reckon with them ineptly.

Maybe there is destructiveness and a certainty that I won't allow myself to be saved in the nick of time all which makes me irritable.

Honestly, I don't have much regard for writers block. If I don't feel like writing I don't. Sometimes I write and don't much care for the results, but mostly if writing is a burden I just don't write. When the mood stops striking me I do not at all. Have not...sometimes for years.

But I want to write this because it is more then just whimsy, more then just an afternoon jog down a dusty trail or something that strikes me as amusingly disproportionate.

Now, I Can Not write about how much I Love You because it actually matters to me to say so, with convincing grandiloquence. It is so hard when you care and want to care.

When tongue tied things are best stated simply...

Friday my boyfriend turned 40. I love him for being 40 which I think is a very sexy age and one that I always thought I could get along with (if one were (forty))*.

*I always did have specific, if limited, notions of compatibility.

He was born on April 28, 1966.
Then 7 years, 8 months and 19 days pass that I know nothing about, and a few then that are pretty hazy. He was already jumping off the roof to see if he could fly by the time I was born.

The year (1984) he graduated from High School (on June 6th) I was crushing on this kid who was break dancing down the aisle of Miss Piersons 4th grade classroom. My technique at the time was to become as invisible as possible to the person I hoped to flirt with. Over the years I went through a gradual process in which things change, evolve into a different and more complex, better form.

20 years, 4 months and 1 day later a girl walks into a bar...

1 year, 5 months and 3 weeks later, 40 years have passed. That is the condensed timeline of our two lives. I am well loved and want overwhelmingly to love well.

I threw him a surprise party with the help of his brother, his parents, Katrina and his friends. To the last minute he did not know. Almost 70 people came to wish him Happy Birthday. He says it was the best birthday of his life. It was the catering and the black balloons and the unexpected fanciful nature and timing of the event but, no, it was really the longevity and the enthusiasm of friendship.

I don't feel comfortable posting pictures of people without their permission and there is no way I am going to ask for it... eek!
But Clark finally gave me permission to post his image here. So I did.

Happy 40th baby, I love you!


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