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.

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