Thursday, November 30, 2006

'The past isn't dead. It isn't even past.' — William Faulkner

We spent Thanksgiving in Nevada: Tofurky, vegan loaf, sweet potato pie, trimmings and all. Clark was a good sport being a dedicated carnivore second only to being a ravenous eater. FILL ME, he says, AND I WILL BE JUST FINE. We were well fed, it is true.

I only took pictures in Virginia City. It occurs to me now that there are no pictures of my family, assuming at the time of course that it would be superfluous in light of the 3745 pictures my mother took of me kicking sage brush alone.

The road to Virginia City has all the earmarks of decay, of a former life being reclaimed by the desert. It is therefor all the more surprising to crest the hill into town and find it swarming with tourists. High up in the mountains, the town is exposed and cold. It would have been a brutal life, that. We wandered around reading plaques, which I have no tolerance for. I hate plaques... nothing makes history seem more dead and irrelevant then a plaque. It hurts to roll my eyes at them reading every sign post in freezing dry cold.

For the first, and perhaps only time in my life I threw dice in the casino with my mother. She brought $30 to the table and one little chip at a time amassed a $9 fortune. Tricky that girl. Clark and I lost $30 each before we peeled ourselves away from the craps table and went back home to eat cookies and chocolate.

Now, we are back in Oregon and back at work. I have one week left of my internship and am already filling out job applications. My my my, all the promises I have made to myself due upon successful completion...

Most favorite, I will get back to running more then 5 miles a week, more like 30 miles is what I need to keep me sane. I might blog more often, even if there is nobody left who cares. I will call my family and tell them I love them.

*I love you*

Oh yeah, my blog is three years old now, actually three years and twenty five days-ish.

... or 26,921:30 hours.

Saturday, November 18, 2006

Other things I write

I am writing endlessly endlessly about the act of interpreting, apparently so complex and tricky it requires no less then four thousand, two hundred and ninety four words each week to capture the experience. I use lots of formatting to make it look fancy and intersperse my writing with games of solitaire to alleviate my boredom. I turn in the same words every week, painstakingly rearranged, all the thousands of them.

But it is time to get ready for work now.

I worked late last night, busy busy Friday, and slept late into the day. Finally, I jerked myself painfully out of REM sleep and walked around pink like skin under a scab, something not ready to be exposed to the waking world. In my dream, I became aware I was dreaming, spoke frankly of this knowledge but still struggled to negotiate my reality as if all these creations were not of my own making. I dreamed I failed the QE, that pipes broke and water fell, that people could not be cajoled to make sense all in a sparse and unsatisfying landscape. It is not only beauty we crave. Discomfort, ugliness and sorrow are nourishing and even better, are reliable. I dream about sign language among other things.

I have been livejournaling in total privacy. When I was nine-ish years old wrote a story about two little girls, one of whom finds passage into a photograph and into a world where pictures were habitable, contained dimension. Looking back now it seems perhaps best to write in that she takes up photography... my character, who discovers this entrance does so when she backs up against the wall where hangs a picture of a ship at sea and find the back of her head wet. Maybe she should step forward sputtering and coughing up salt water. It is a whole ocean after all. But I digress. Why am I livejournaling anyway, why in total secrecy?

I am still untangling all my nervous reasons.

Wednesday, November 08, 2006

Order in the court

This time around, I didn't let myself become emotionally involved. In part because six years under the current administration has convinced me that the world wont end in one day. The human body, singularly and in this case collectively, can sustain massive assault and still draw breath. This revelation is stunning in both the comfort and the disappointment it causes me. Maybe after all, I will not be slain by a thousand tiny cuts.

I didn't become emotionally involved in part because two years ago the elections nearly killed me. I was a house on fire, full of hurt and fury and lots and lots of feeling. Big, indigestible, intractable feeling. There is no way I could survive that again, so I did not dare try. This year I hunkered down and was prepared to stay hunkered. I did not volunteer, I did not drive around picking up ballots, I did not browbeat anyone to register. Besides being cantankerous and opinionated, I actively did nothing. Yelled at the news...

But I voted and hoped little. And today, though I am not a Democrat I do feel some relief that they have won control of Congress and if they begin impeachment proceedings I promise to change my party affiliation for one whole election cycle. Yay! Let the trials begin!!


It rains still. We float farther out to sea.

Monday, November 06, 2006

Can you imagine??

The earth moved. I suspect maybe we have broken off from the mainland and have been carried away on the rising waters. It has been relatively painless and will, I hope, usher in a renaissance for Oregon.

Last night I had dreams that life here was winding down and still, the people who mattered I could not gather all together. We had broken cords protruding from our backs. Exposed and unable to speak we crept about slow in the moonlight to the sound of eerie, chilling birdcalls. This left me wide-awake.

Friday night Clark cracked his sternum. I did not reach in and tear out his heart. No, no. I won’t tell you how recently, but I have given up the desire to inflict sorrow on other people. Sometimes these things happen in other ways; mechanical bulls, battering rams, tetherballs... There is peace in this house.

He was forced however to defend his wounded chest repeatedly fighting fierce and terrible battles with my cat who thinks a reclined person a wonderful spot upon which to rest. Meanwhile, stoned on pain pills he is a very effective housekeeper, chasing after me with a clothes hamper and drink coasters. But I am never home anyway. I am too busy out in the world faking it.

So far, it seems to be working.


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