hope

I hate it that this blog turns out to be about Subway half the time. I'm sorry. But today, I was in line for breakfast. The new place I work isn't far from a Subway, and it isn't that I love the food, it's that I'm cheap, and it's easy. Or I'm cheap and easy. You decide. Anyway, it was slow, Subway being a lunch place most of the time. Who thinks of Subway breakfast. Well, I do. So I'm in line, and I'm walking this Subwaif through my many choices (I'm developing a taste for jalapenos, by the way...) And in the end, she begins to do what they always do, which is to dump the ingredients in the middle of the wrap and wad the wrap around it, rather than organizing the filling in a strip down the middle and rolling it like a burrito, which it sort of is. So I think, hell, it's slow, I'm taking a chance. So I tell her that from my point of view, its easier to eat a long narrow thing than a wad of filling wrapped in something like a gathered evening bag made of oat flour, or whatever low carb ingredients they use. It took her a few tries before she understood, and it was hard for her. She was very uncomfortable letting me get a way with something that was open on one end. I assured her I could manage it and drive and talk on the cell phone and put on make up. My dream is she will tell her coworkers and the word will spread like wild fire, franchise to franchise, until uniformity reigns.

packing

Finding boxes is different than it used to be. Cardboard furniture could be to blame. I'm not saying it is for sure, but it's possible. Used to be I'd scope out a grocery store and figure out what day bananas were delivered. Among the mobile poor, the midnight movers, banana boxes were the ticket. If you couldn't find a place to rent to you, you could live out of those boxes for a long time. Occasionally there was slimy residue left in the boxes, bleeding, I think, from the stems. But it was easily removed with the paper liner.

Novice movers try to find big boxes. They usually do this only once. After finding a refrigerator box and cramming the entire contents of the kitchen including small appliances, the rock collection and an entire library of hardcover books into it, moving the box to the dodge van becomes an issue. But if boys are involved, and when aren't they? they will keep trying until there is a fight.

These days, most large stores hire someone to break down the boxes, and get some sort of kickback for recycling. I'm not against recycling, don't get me wrong, I just appreciate good boxes and hate to see them go to waste. Yesterday I walked past a box bin at the local grocery store and it was a cardboard bonanza! I filled the bed of my truck and drove home slow.

I have three wooden pear boxes left from my teens -- crates -- and they are full of books already. They double as furniture, still, have since the late seventies. Early seventies. I forget how fucking old I am. When I was a kid, I lived in pear orchards. We picked, packed, sorted, canned, thinned, and lined boxes for pears. Bosc, Comice, D'Anjou, Bartlett. In late spring and early summer, we built forts out of the boxes, big as houses. It was where I first thought about kissing. I don't think I stole the boxes, but then again, not alot seems like stealing to me.

Bailey's New Family

I forgot to mention that the dog is living up north now. Been there a week today. It was a slow adjustment, relatively speaking. He has issues. Turns out he won't eat in the house, but must be fed outside. We learned that after a three day hunger strike. He is calm and quiet, a departure from pitbull mania. He is Lassie, for god's sake. You got somebody in the well? He's your man... Otherwise, he's furniture. Carpet. Kurt thinks his nose makes a great sock holder when getting dressed in the morning. Bailey is happy to help. Happy may be an overstatement. He's adjusting, I'm told. He gets to go for rides in the canopied pickup, which is more than he got from me. I am the original bad pet owner. They walk him several times a day, and of course, everyone in the neighborhood loves him. Good boy. I'm right behind you.

endings

I'm packing. Lorretta is here, a witness to the end of life as I've known it. Its easier with her around. I pull out of my stupor and realize time is actually passing, and what was months is now month. one. one month to tie up all the loose ends of this life I've lived alone for so many years. 22. I counted. I don't count Bob. Why would I? B.O.B. or Blob when we were mad at him. He was a rocket scientist, and has actually gone on to rocket science. I don't remember how long or when we lived together. It went on too long. There is the suppository story, one I can't really tell except in a more secure setting. Suffice it to say I can be mean. There were men, but no live-ins. So sharing should be interesting. I am considering the things I pack, and from my best observations, accumulation is the outcome of aloneness. Not loneliness -- I still maintain they are very different things with vastly separate outcomes. I was lonely the last couple of years, but decisively and purposefully alone for all the other years. Why??? I think because I lived for too long with a man who wouldn't shut up. He talked to everybody about anything, and in the absence of an audience, I'd do. If I didn't listen, he belted me, so the incentive was there. So I have enjoyed the relative silence of my life. That is changing now, and I'm ready to talk again on a daily basis if need be. I went to a family gathering this weekend, and a work gathering. Both on the same evening. Both felt like endings. In both places I considered the distinct possibility that it would be the last time I was with those particular people. But then isn't that always the way? I don't really care. I'm outta here. I've overstayed my welcome and I'm beyond ready to go. It's funny how that is. Once my decision was made to leave, the meaning of things shifted. What I need to take with me, changed. And the realization that much of my acquisition was based on the fact that no one else got a vote. I want it: therefore it's mine. Toddler mind running the show. Want driving the bus.

Apologies

I've fallen. I've become the happy in love writer, and my blog, and anything else word-related, has suffered as I have not. I've not wanted to believe that suffering begets good prose, and don't, but I am distracted and less self-involved (or more, you decide) and not cranking out the cranky verse of my past. Ah, well... the pain'll come 'round again, I have no doubt. Truth is, nothing has changed at Subway, men are men the world around, and there is plenty to critique. My running commentary about the Low Carb Revolution bored even me, but I went to yet another Subway shop last friday and my interest was revived. It's all about the jalapeno's. I may have given y'all the impression I don't like jalapenos -- not so. I just don't like them on non-Mexican food. So there I was, standing in line, thinking it would go well. I was face to face with this chick -- not in the drive-thru -- an advantage most times. You may as well know in advance that I ended up with jalapenos on my wrap. And I just didn't have the strength of will to fight city hall. There are better women who would have, could have, and won. But I was tired and hungry, and really really didn't give a shit. I had ordered a fajita wrap anyway, which, in a stretch, could be considered on the border of Mexican. But aside from the rest of the order, she asked what I wanted on it. "Onion and green pepper," I said. She reached for the dill pickles, which I don't think should be included at all, except on the side. Ever. So, I nearly swatted her through the glass, "NO!! No Pickles!! Peppers!" I shrieked. Once you get that dill juice going, you're fucked. So I averted that catastrophe and she reached for the pepper shaker. Okay, I think. Okay. Stay calm. Pepper is okay. Why not? But I know in my heart of hearts she ain't gettin' it. So I say, NICELY, "No-- I mean, yes... pepper is fine, but I also want green peppers." After all, it's a fucking fajita or something like it. Peppers are one of the key ingredients. But you've been reading along long enough to know what happens next... she reaches for and grabs a huge handful of jalapenos. Well, they're sort of gray-green. I figure, what the hell. Today I live in acceptance. I never did get green peppers. And she never knew she didnt' give me any. I think that's the rub. They -- the subwaifs -- remain happily unaffected while I have compromised my fucking Christian salvation for my thoughts. "If you've thought it, you've done it..." or so said the preachers. That single statement could be blamed for many a boundary crossing act on my part... that, and "oh, well, fuck it." Those preachers didn't know shit about Jesus. Anyway, the other problem is, that they don't understand the symmetry or fundamental beauty of the WRAP itself. She picks up the knife and before I can stab her with it, cuts the wrap in two. Now, i have two leaking wraps rather than one burrito-thingy. Has she never been to Taco Bell? Do they cut their burritos in half? Jesus. I'm unwrapped.

monkey on the porch

I have toy monkeys. Stuffed, mostly -- a couple of glass and ceramic ones. People think I collect them because I like them. For me, they are simply reminders of the one that lived for so long on my back. The fiance has a stuffed monkey, an old one with plastic face and hands and yellow organ grinder clothes. When Nicole came home from school today, someone had left another monkey on the porch. Pinned to the monkey was a note that said something like: "Hello, My name is Mr. Baggs. I used to live in the attic with your Auntie Florence, but she died in a flood and now I have nowhere to live. Your house looks cozy and warm. Will you be my new family?" Now, the letter was longer than that, but you get the idea. So, I told Nicole to lock the door and don't open it until her dad gets home from work. I've seen all of the movies. Dangerous animals come out from under the bed, their heads spin around and shit flies. See for yourself.

I'm tired. Left P-land at 4:45 this morning. Helluva commute. Made it on time, but I was really sleepy. I'm almost done making that drive.

North

I am here. My house in Portland. I have a diamond ring on my finger, something I never wanted. Only now, it seems my hands have been empty for so long. I don't know how a ring should fit. It is a small solitaire, set in white gold. I haven't worn one since I sold my sister-in-law's jade and gold ring for a big bag of crank in the early eighties. I finally copped to that small indiscretion. Shit, I sold the farm.

Out to Sauvie's Island yesterday for the day, passive fishing. I had a license for the day so he could have an additional pole in the water. More unspoken rules about beach fishing: There are two kinds of cops... State police, who check licenses; and fish cops, who check the number of fish caught daily. Its not easy to chat it up with cops. I don't know if it ever will be for me, or him. They stop by, and after the formalities of licensure, seems to me they wanna hang out awhile, shoot the shit with the (mostly) boys. But everyone is cautious. Especially with the Staters. But it turns out there is reason to withhold information even from the fish cop. He saunters by in his UPS brown uniform, and I overhear the conversations of the fishermen. They ain't coppin' to shit. He wants to know who's caught fish, who's let 'em go, and they ain't saying nothin'. Turns out he can shut the season down early if a certain percentage of a certain kind of fish are caught. So, in the interest of a longer season, mum's the word. Again, the newbies are out there yapping away about who caught this or that and how big was it, blah blah blah. Embarrassing. Hooked a two foot shaker, a baby sturgeon. Like a pale spiked catfish, bottom dweller, like most of my old friends.

I tore into the front yard today, beds of azalea and calendula, rhodies and camellias. My fiance sprinkled bone meal in my wake. Real bone meal, fresh from the pound. I don't know why it seems better to buy it from walmart in a box. It isn't like I knew the animals, but the occasional chink of metal is disturbing.... On another note: Why do people choose the plant containers they do? It's a mystery to me, as is so much of yard and garden art. Such an enormous trend, and one that I have been sucked into from time to time, more as the recipient of garden-related gifts that my own purchases. I want to plant a hydrangea at the front corner of the house. I don't want to go home. Home... a relative term anymore. Where I am. Where he is. Where we are.

learning

the things i've learned this year: 1. what i think bears little relationship to reality. 2. a beautiful sanctuary is hollow compared to loving another human being. 3. don't look away; don't blink; don't flinch. 4. information gathered in isolation has little use when other people are in the room. So, all in all, its been a pretty good year.

Bailey is moving to Portland tomorrow. I will follow him shortly. He's been to the groomers, shed 50 pounds of hair, and will ride in the back of my truck without complaint, i hope. Unless it rains, which, if Scott the rain guy is right, it will. In that case, it will be me and him in the front. I should get a sheet out now to cover the seat or Lassie hair will coat everything. I was going to load the pickup with some stuff, but couldn't get it together.

False Spring

More fun with contractors. What's the problem? Somebody once said that if we didn't have time, everything would happen at once. I doubt it was Stephen Hawking, and if it was, he's never built a big building. In a nutshell (nut the operative word) there is no flooring, all of the furniture has been delivered. Without the flooring, the plumbing can't be installed, the kitchen isn't finished. It's there, though - - the entire kitchen, miles of stainless steel cabinetry sitting in the middle of the floor. The floor that must be covered. Ah, construction. The concrete is buckling, the walkway out back is steep enough for a wheelchair to get up enough speed to do some real damage. They'll never make the corner. I suggested a brick border to derail would-be speedsters. This is great experience if me and my beloved ever build a house.

It was a beautiful day in Talent today. Clear blue skies, an unconvincing wind. We have a false spring most every year. This might be it. Usually it's warmer than this, so I'm not sure this is the real thing, or rather, the false thing. As I consider the reality of life up north, I know sunny days will be even more precious. Its okay. I'm an Oregonian by birth. Water rolls off my back. My hair looks like shit, but oh, well.

Things I need to do: leave behind the miles of paper I will never need: copies of bills, tax booklets from my first job. I've lived here forever. I'm not certain, but I think there are times in life when taking stock, losing dead weight, are called for. I call them "dentist's office times." That may not make sense to anyone else, but if you could see my home, my little palace of garage sale treasures, carefully selected from lesser shit, you'd begin to understand. There are times when I want to get rid of everything and make my house look like a dentist's office: monochromatic, one or two carefully matched prints. A plant. I never really make it, but I do manage to clear it out from time to time. And it's time, folks. I think poverty drives accumulation. Either the memory of it or the fear of it, if there is a difference. I was good at being poor. I have this red chair. The red wine chair. To say it is time worn is the height of understatement. My friend Cooky and I stole it from a GoodWill box back in the eighties (I'm claiming Statute of Limitations). I saw it first, or was faster. I'll never tell. Anyway, there we were, in our nurse's aide uniforms, stealing that chair and a wheelchair -- our initial target. We worked at a nursing home and somebody needed a chair. Our mission was somewhat altruistic initially (although I don't believe in altruism, it is easier to use the word than explain my convoluted belief) but our motives were exposed as selfish and sinister almost immediately. "Dibs!!" I shouted. I wonder if "dibs" means anything outside my immediate family? Its how my brothers always got over on me. They'd yell "dibs" and grab the best seat, the last cookie, you get the picture. Anyway, Cooky bought it, and I got the chair. Point is, that was better than 20 years ago, and I still have it. My beloved asked me, in passing, ever so carefully, if I was going to give it back to Cooky. Never.

sisters

I could take this opportunity to explain my day, my work day, the importance of furniture arriving on time, of flooring and countertops, of fire alarms and stainless steel shelving, but what fun would that be?

My best friend was over here with her ex husband. Lorretta of soulwake She says she can tell I'm leaving. She would know. Things are just a little off kilter here in the old sanctuary, the place where stray dogs and wayward men have tried to lived, but died in the unforgiving climate of blind neglect. No.... that was another life, another time. This sanctuary, so long in the making, is empty now. Already. I'm going to fold clothes and do my last year's taxes, make dinner for one. I don't know how to move alone. I don't know how to end a life and begin a new one. I just want to leave it all. I won't, of course. But the terrible spot on the floor, the blemish, the evidence, is pushing me out the door like a fist. I am done here.

I just spoke to my sister on the phone. My only sister. I want to disappear from my family and have nothing more of them. Only my son.

Willow Bar

sunday night again. comes around once a week. lazy day here. didn't get out of my pj's until noon, then off to hunt and gather. As I consider my upcoming move, I think of things i will need to live with a man. a net lingerie bag. i don't want my silk panties banging around with his carhartts and grease rags. He is fishing today. The beach at Sauvie's Island is beautiful. i hope the link works. i'm winging it. asha won't help me until she gets her fucking hat back. some friend. if you can't see the link, let me know.

So beach fishing goes like this: you, or the man of your dreams, pounds a pvc tube that is attached to a stake into the sand near the water's edge. it is important not to get too close to nearby fishermen. the cultural norms are learn-as-you-go, nobody tells anybody anything, and you have to look like an idiot from time to time during the first year. trial by fire. If the neighboring guys don't say stupid shit and offer you a beer, something is wrong... rethink the setting of the stake. Once place is established on the obscure heirarchy of beach fishing, bait the hook with something shiny-- big earring looking lures, watermelon colored spinners, and fling it with all your might into the mighty columbia. Then, and this is important, place the bell. Far as I can see, the bell is an important choice. The bell is then attached to a stick or something, and the stick slid into the second or third eyelet on the pole. The bell is placed to ring easily, the stick to stay in place until the pole is yanked from its holder to set the hook in the unsuspecting Chinook. Then, the bell should fall just as easily to the beach rather than the water when the pole is moved. You have to smear stinky shrimp juice on the lures or the fish will smell MAN and decline the bait. like swimming watermelon are convincing.... anyway. THEN YOU WAIT FOR THE BELL. all the rest of the stuff takes about ten minutes. waiting takes all day. You sit, under an awning of some kind you hope, and wait for that bell to ring. Or someone else's. One bell and the whole beach goes nuts, all the fishermen inspired by one man's good fortune, or near fortune, to sit another eight hours. And even so, it's a 50/50 chance of getting a native, which has to be thrown back. The fun part about Sauvie's Island, is the ships that come by. The wake created by the barges are so intense they make the bells ring, and if that wasn't fun enough, watching the newbies run like mad for the bell is really great.

Footfalls

Since August, my life has changed. I used to see it stretching before me, a vast plain, uninterrupted, rolling miles of similarity that I called sanctuary; but now it is as though I walk in mist, in shadow, and what is in front of me remains a mystery, as though there is no floor until my foot touches down, no next day until I awaken to it, shiny and secret and unknown, a permanent edge I am forever stepping off of, into midair -- an explorer in my own life, Marco Polo and the treacherous edge of the world. The only thing catching me, giving this new world substance, is him. And this is love. This is what it means to love him. And all my life I have waited for this not-knowing, this uncertainty.

day lilies

I think I'll plant day lilies up there. There is a small farm in Murphy, Oregon. Was. I don't know if the old lady is still alive or not. Her name was LaVerle, I think. You could bring your own shovel and dig clumps of any kind of day lily or almost any other digable perrenial she had going. I don't know what it is about old people and color. I've thought about this some, and have concluded it must be failing eyesight that contributes to the abysmal taste of the elderly. LaVerle's house was Peptobismol pink. There was a cement pond on the property which she claims her husband built. It's deep -- more like a swimming pool, really--painted with thick turquoise pool paint. The flowers fade into the background of the circus-like atmosphere: day lilies of every color, primroses, hollyhocks, glads, you name it. The day I was there, LaVerle was looking for a single white primrose, apparently rare. LaVerle gets around in a motorized wheelchair, spades and pruning shears hanging from arm rests, seedlings and other starts filling the wire basket on the back. She navigates the property on exposed aggregate walkways, again, painted here and there as though the painter was indecisive or using up old cans of bright tempera paint. I know it wasn't tempera, but it had that chalky, primary quality to it, and you know how I exaggerate. If you don't bring your own shovel, she'll let you use one, but that way she'll know you're a newcomer and you'll be in for the tour. Luckily for me, I was with Julie, who knows her way around Murphy and had been through the tour. .

The best day lily I got was the Chicago Star. Its bright egg-yolk yellow, with a bloom as wide as a man's hand. I'm digging it up to take with me for Valentine's Day, and I'm taking Bailey with me. He can move in first, and see how it goes. It'll be me and Watson, all alone at the farm down here. That way, the dog won't have to endure the lonliness of my trips away, and he can keep Nicole company. We already have lilacs... purple and white, and rich dirt and azaleas and a huge rhody out front. Home.

marriage

I should blog this, I guess. I've been avoiding the difficult, stating the trivial. Always after the easier, softer blog. He wants me to marry him. I've been sort of married once. My son's father. We said things about being together forever, then he gave me to his best friend for the night. A biker ceremony. The guy's name was Mike Ireland, a tattoo artist with a ZZ Top beard and a chrome front tooth. The whole thing left me a little cold. Not Mike necessarily -- he was fine, as bikers go. But there I was, once again the common denominator in the strange events of my life. We'd just pretty much gotten away with attempted murder (I drove the getaway car) and it was all so romantic, joined by blood and vengeance and bits of leather.... So, all things considered, with my sweetheart today, at least my expectations are in check. If I get to sleep with him on my wedding night I'll be ahead of the game.

I don't know why I tell these stories. They're all true.

So, I'll marry him, move away to the rainy north, and live in an old neighborhood with root-buckled sidewalks, with rhododendrons and shaded porches strangling with wisteria. I'll marry the wild boy of my dreams, the man with thin skin and exposed heart, and we'll rebuild the old house to make room for all my clothes and I hope my memories will stay outside.

groundhog's day

I wonder, now that we've all seen Janet Jackson's right breast if there will be six more weeks of winter?

Twenty six years ago right now I rolled some guy's el camino just up-river from Star ranger station. I went through the windshield, left wrist first. Rolled it twice and endo'd it once. Endo. End over end. Big bad wreck. The hard part was I couldn't find my baby when it was done. It happened so fast. I was drinking whiskey for the first time since my baby was born. I waited a month to the day, it felt like the mandatory waiting period before a divorce becomes final. I'd done my time. I had stopped by Sherman's to show him the car. He appreciated Fords. So I lit up the tires leaving his place and he told me later he had a bad feeling. I didn't. I had a good feeling. I was listening to Sentimental Lady by Fleetwood Mac, singing along. Then there was a fog bank, maybe, or I closed my eyes. Hard to say for sure. There were three of us in the cab. I think my sister found the baby. I remember he was still referred to as "the baby." He hadn't even become Marky yet, let alone Mark. Thank god he bounced. My bouncing baby boy. He is still bouncing....

Clinton Street Theatre

I don't know how many of you have been to the Saturday night showing of the Rocky Horror Picture Show at the theatre on Clinton Street. But then, how could I, possibly? Well, we went, and I'm not sure what I was expecting. A movie, I think. Mostly we were sitting with young people in black clothing, metal attachments, ubangi ear plugs, facial glass, post-apocalyptic fashion statements straight from the mind of Tim Burton or Waterworld or Sid and Nancy. It was a festival for the personality disordered... A "look at me!/how dare you look at me?" extravaganza. As a teen I was more subtle. I think. I could be wrong. Then the show started. Here's the thing. I'm going to pass along a tip to those among you who would not otherwise be hip to this tradition. You'll thank me later. Or, you could thank me now. Send money. Personal checks are fine. So the show starts and they go through some peremptory statements to prepare the dainty and misdirected for the level of profanity and potential for now-legal nudity. There is no adequate preparation, really. Then the question comes: everyone stand up (we did) now, everyone who has been to the show in the past six months, sit down. (we sat down, lying of course. I'd never been there before in my life.) Those left standing were then identified as virgins, and called up to the stage for the week's deflowering. What followed was like Star Search only not really. It was like reality TV without the remote. But I'd paid my six bucks and was getting my money's worth. Eventually the movie did start. I'd never seen it. I know that's a pretty serious pop cultural oversight, but there I was, a virgin in hiding. I'd heard there was a fairly dedicated cult following but didn't know how far it went. For most lines in the script, there is a shouted response from the audience, like when Johnny Carson used to say, "It was so cold..." And the audience would yell out, "how cold was it?" only mostly it was profanity, which I don't mind, but also don't find all that creative. Sometimes the word fuck is explanatory, sometimes its the only word that really conveys the message succinctly, but in this case, it was fucking ridiculous. Idiocy. But fun. The movie was great. Tim Curry was remarkable. The movie, however, was a bit hard to follow, given the extraneous "performance." It was like this: actors acted out the movie in full costume (some better than others) at the same time the movie was running, all of this competing with shouts from the audience as they did the equivalent of a responsive reading without a prayer book. If you've ever been to a protestant church, you'll understand the reference. Seemed a lot like a three-ring circus to me-- the movie, the actors, the shouters and the virgins. It lasted three hours. You can go any Saturday night and check my facts.

It was a nice distraction from the dog thing. I don't know many other pitbulls but I had to get to know this one, and did. It was not only emotionally, but bureaucratically difficult to put the dog down. We're both country boys/girls. We've killed things -- seen things killed. Been killed. (No, not really.) But having now grown up, or become older and less willing to manufacture bad memories, my sweetie decided to do the right thing. It was a difficult decision. It went from, "fuck it, I'll just cap him," to the decision to go to the pound. The pound. Why do they call it that do you suppose? Because they impound your pet? Because they weigh the dogs? Charge by the pound? I was just wondering. But turns out the pound doesn't euthanize pets anymore. Not unless you do a dump and run, call him a stray and abandon man's best friend. (boy on the porch's worst enemy); but that didn't seem right. There wasn't much about it that did seem right. So, on to the Humane Society. But you have to make an appointment two weeks out, then they tell you no, they'll only euthanize if adoption is unsuccessful. And the dog's a biter. He's gotta go. Passing the problem off on someone else and pretending it goes away just doesn't work for me. Farm world. Chicken killer. And the last resort is the family vet, high dollar euthanizing-- unless we resorted to what we used to call "half a ride" (there and not back). He went to the vet. But no dice. They only euthanize for medical reasons. Does the boy on the porch qualify? we inquired. He does not. After some debate, some tears, the receptionist (reminiscent of the guard at the emerald city) goes back to ask the wizard if he'll kill the dog. Only in this story, the wizard agrees. It did my cynical heart good to see an old man do the right thing when he didn't have to. I felt like sending him a thank you note, but what do you say? Thanks for killing my boyfriend's dog so fast. It was really great. ? I don't know what that blue shit is they use, but it works.