Halloween. I am waiting for k to get home so we can hand out sugar to other people's kids. I love this holiday. We carved four pumpkins: a tribute to Mardi Gras, David, the scary clown from Saw and a heart with wings with our intitials inside it. We are sappy.
Okay, so we went to the erotic, exotic ball. It was a regular whip-me-beat-me bash. We were dressed appropriately for the occasion: Kurt as Leather Boy, and me as some victorian slut. I just wear my top hat and can be anything I want because I say so. Pepe and the Bottle Blondes played, and too many men wore nets. We danced, well, he did. I moved around as best I could without losing track of my breasts, delicately trapped in their black satin bustier.
It was one of those things that you've always wanted to witness, tongue in cheek, voyeuristic as hell; but when you get there, and the other people are dead serious, its a little creepy. But the music was great.
Monday, October 31, 2005
Thursday, October 13, 2005
job fog
I am supposed to be working. The tv drones behind me, background noise, something about the entire Viking football team doing live sex shows on some boat. Go team! Now it is the weather report, a non-event. It is raining. It rains. I, personally, would like to see weather reporting limited to the surprising and unexpected. If there is a tornado in Portland, bring on the broadcasters -- front and center in their little yellow Northface jackets, horizontal, hanging onto light poles with blue fingertips, screaming the obvious. That would be worth the time and effort to watch. As it stands, if we can know with some level of certainty, the exact temperature at 8,12,4,6, and 8, I think we have taken the fun out of weather. I've said this before. I'm repeating myself.
I am supposed to be working. I don't like my job anymore. I don't want my job anymore. I'm going to actually quit my job. The moment of clarity snuck up on me in the dark, on my way through Tigard at six in the morning. It is foggy from Tigard to Sherwood sometimes. I don't know the area well enough to know what body of water is contributing to the moisture. I love fog. I love to be invisible -- wish I was -- and gliding through fog, well, I like the way I feel. Cradled in mist, each moment entering the unknown. And all this in Tigard. How often do you get a surreal experience there? I take it where I can.
But I digress.
I am quitting my job. There I was in the fog, thinking: I don't think I want to do this anymore. And then... I don't think I will do this anymore. And then. Fuck this job. I'm outta there. So the process begins again. I stay at jobs, I always have. This may be a mid-life crisis, but shit. I will find something to do. I will be a rich poet. I will publish that damned book. But what I will probably be is a consultant. The most ethereal of all jobs: a non-job. You dont' do anything. Just talk about stuff you know, tell people what they should be doing, and leave. They can do or not do what you tell them, and you don't care. You're off to the next place, telling somebody else what to do or not do. And they will or won't, and so on. I would wear expensive clothing and matching accessories.
Naw.
Oh, I'll find something to do. Just not this.
I am supposed to be working. I don't like my job anymore. I don't want my job anymore. I'm going to actually quit my job. The moment of clarity snuck up on me in the dark, on my way through Tigard at six in the morning. It is foggy from Tigard to Sherwood sometimes. I don't know the area well enough to know what body of water is contributing to the moisture. I love fog. I love to be invisible -- wish I was -- and gliding through fog, well, I like the way I feel. Cradled in mist, each moment entering the unknown. And all this in Tigard. How often do you get a surreal experience there? I take it where I can.
But I digress.
I am quitting my job. There I was in the fog, thinking: I don't think I want to do this anymore. And then... I don't think I will do this anymore. And then. Fuck this job. I'm outta there. So the process begins again. I stay at jobs, I always have. This may be a mid-life crisis, but shit. I will find something to do. I will be a rich poet. I will publish that damned book. But what I will probably be is a consultant. The most ethereal of all jobs: a non-job. You dont' do anything. Just talk about stuff you know, tell people what they should be doing, and leave. They can do or not do what you tell them, and you don't care. You're off to the next place, telling somebody else what to do or not do. And they will or won't, and so on. I would wear expensive clothing and matching accessories.
Naw.
Oh, I'll find something to do. Just not this.
Sunday, October 09, 2005
yet to be named
It is Sunday morning and this new family of mine is rising, one by one, from the basement and the upstairs. We are collectively embarking on a home-demolition project soon, staring at the wall that will come down to make room for the new, improved staircase. (I shouldn't say new family. It all seems very normal, finally-- the girls adjusted to me and me to them. I should post pictures. They are beautiful. And they, like my son, are a part of the woodwork, invisible, expected, loved. The rest of them: the inlaws, the outlaws, are more than enough, and when family expectations consume an entire weekend, aaarrggghhh. I am anxious for time alone with K and the comfortable silence of busy weekends spent together.)
Anyway, we bought a chop-saw, (unlike chawksaw, or chawktaw, or is it chickasaw? of Ode to Bille Jo-fame) and have now gathered most of the tools needed to take apart the current stairwell (exactly as wide as my ass) that originates in the center of the house, rising from first floor to second somewhat like an afterthought-- as though the second floor was an occasionally used treefort, needing only a thin ladder for access -- and build a four foot wide stairway that takes off from the foyer like it should. Foyer is a bit formal, really, it is just that the front door opens and you are in. The plan is to create a master-bedroom upstairs with a walk-in closet for all my crap. What I need is a room I can toss my clothing and close the door. On the rare occasions when I clean it, it is like christmas... finding all those lost items.
I want red boots from Born. Two dots above the o, I think. Like Bjorn Borg.
Anyway, we bought a chop-saw, (unlike chawksaw, or chawktaw, or is it chickasaw? of Ode to Bille Jo-fame) and have now gathered most of the tools needed to take apart the current stairwell (exactly as wide as my ass) that originates in the center of the house, rising from first floor to second somewhat like an afterthought-- as though the second floor was an occasionally used treefort, needing only a thin ladder for access -- and build a four foot wide stairway that takes off from the foyer like it should. Foyer is a bit formal, really, it is just that the front door opens and you are in. The plan is to create a master-bedroom upstairs with a walk-in closet for all my crap. What I need is a room I can toss my clothing and close the door. On the rare occasions when I clean it, it is like christmas... finding all those lost items.
I want red boots from Born. Two dots above the o, I think. Like Bjorn Borg.
Saturday, October 01, 2005
indian stories
First, before I get into my typical retrospective, let me list the things that have happened today:
1. I got my ship picture home, framed and beautiful. It is hanging on the wall next to me.
2. I found the bike I want: a pure black Marin 24 speed road bike. sweet.
3. Clamming opened today, and we are headed over there in the morning. Butt-crack of dawn. Which is not something that happened today, but it is true today.
Went to Eastside Sunrise this morning, then out to breakfast with the indians. We often go out to breakfast with the gang, but mostly Ronald. He's some kind of Alaskan Indian, maybe Athabaskan. Shall I capitalize Indian? Anyway, I call them Indians, they call themselves Indians, and that is what they are, so I hope that's okay with both of you. My readership. So there we were, sitting at Grandma Lucy's on 51st and Division, a wonderful greasy spoon with more decorations in the bathroom than any place I've been in a long time. Hugh came with Ronald, a Karuk Indian with something like 25 years sober. Both with that demeanor that is so appealing, so calm and quiet, absent the whiskey. And I was thinking of myself as they were war-storying. They like my husband. He has a similar demeanor, very calm and quiet, and they seem to want to get to know him, and that is something he doesn't allow too often. But he seems to like them, and so there we were. And the stories started flying around the table: "That gal Maureen that I went with for eight years who was such a good shot," and blah blah blah. And you know I have my stories. You know I do. And for so many years I have told them and told them and told them, and today, I didn't. Didn't need to. And there were spaces where they would have fit, spaces where the Indians looked over at me, as if to include the blonde, asking, "Ya know?" And I just nodded yes. And I do know. But they have no idea of my stories, of all that is behind me. And sometimes I want to wear that dark and heavy coat, memories on the sleeves, and sometimes it stays folded, mothballed, perhaps where it belongs. I have been Maureen. I am Maureen. And sometimes I love to tell my stories, but more and more they feel private and past. I wonder if telling them is a way not to forget them. I will never forget them. They live in my body like scars.
And Nicole was at the meeting (not my stepdaugher) speaking about her impending success, and after I wished her well, and commented that success was the scariest thing, she said yes. And that she keeps thinking of herself as this wild street kid and she is no longer either a kid or wild, but the wildness is in her, as it is in us, and won't be denied. I know mine won't. I guess it, like so many things, is a matter of care and feeding. Occasionally I have to do something wrong: walk on grass, refuse to take back the shopping cart, or the wild girl feels left out. So I throw her a bone from time to time. But I think its like that story about the two dogs fighting. Or you can make it wolves. Whatever. One dog is light and one dog is dark. Which one will win? The one you feed. So, that's the thought for the day. I just don't think you can starve out the dark one, and you can't make it light. And the light one can get bloated and drink too much of it's own bathwater. But I mix metaphors. I could be wrong. I so often am.
Today is raining off and on. Beautiful. My ship in the storm a perfect winter beginning.
1. I got my ship picture home, framed and beautiful. It is hanging on the wall next to me.
2. I found the bike I want: a pure black Marin 24 speed road bike. sweet.
3. Clamming opened today, and we are headed over there in the morning. Butt-crack of dawn. Which is not something that happened today, but it is true today.
Went to Eastside Sunrise this morning, then out to breakfast with the indians. We often go out to breakfast with the gang, but mostly Ronald. He's some kind of Alaskan Indian, maybe Athabaskan. Shall I capitalize Indian? Anyway, I call them Indians, they call themselves Indians, and that is what they are, so I hope that's okay with both of you. My readership. So there we were, sitting at Grandma Lucy's on 51st and Division, a wonderful greasy spoon with more decorations in the bathroom than any place I've been in a long time. Hugh came with Ronald, a Karuk Indian with something like 25 years sober. Both with that demeanor that is so appealing, so calm and quiet, absent the whiskey. And I was thinking of myself as they were war-storying. They like my husband. He has a similar demeanor, very calm and quiet, and they seem to want to get to know him, and that is something he doesn't allow too often. But he seems to like them, and so there we were. And the stories started flying around the table: "That gal Maureen that I went with for eight years who was such a good shot," and blah blah blah. And you know I have my stories. You know I do. And for so many years I have told them and told them and told them, and today, I didn't. Didn't need to. And there were spaces where they would have fit, spaces where the Indians looked over at me, as if to include the blonde, asking, "Ya know?" And I just nodded yes. And I do know. But they have no idea of my stories, of all that is behind me. And sometimes I want to wear that dark and heavy coat, memories on the sleeves, and sometimes it stays folded, mothballed, perhaps where it belongs. I have been Maureen. I am Maureen. And sometimes I love to tell my stories, but more and more they feel private and past. I wonder if telling them is a way not to forget them. I will never forget them. They live in my body like scars.
And Nicole was at the meeting (not my stepdaugher) speaking about her impending success, and after I wished her well, and commented that success was the scariest thing, she said yes. And that she keeps thinking of herself as this wild street kid and she is no longer either a kid or wild, but the wildness is in her, as it is in us, and won't be denied. I know mine won't. I guess it, like so many things, is a matter of care and feeding. Occasionally I have to do something wrong: walk on grass, refuse to take back the shopping cart, or the wild girl feels left out. So I throw her a bone from time to time. But I think its like that story about the two dogs fighting. Or you can make it wolves. Whatever. One dog is light and one dog is dark. Which one will win? The one you feed. So, that's the thought for the day. I just don't think you can starve out the dark one, and you can't make it light. And the light one can get bloated and drink too much of it's own bathwater. But I mix metaphors. I could be wrong. I so often am.
Today is raining off and on. Beautiful. My ship in the storm a perfect winter beginning.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
