I am working on a longer piece of writing for the first time in quite awhile. In the past I have been hamstrung by pre-publishing it here, so will not, but may use this space for something besides my running commentary on the mundane. It is a tenuous connection, a thread at best, and I follow it with trepidation and respect. I know it can disappear under the most unlikely circumstances, say happiness, maybe busy-ness, but I am not particularly happy right now, and thus the fertile ground for being somewhere else. I wish it were not so. And, as always, I don't really care. Whatever mystery unlocks my fingers and moves the pen, I'm for it.
Jane moved into the unit. Her eyes are big, like those bears or monkeys or whatever those little animals are that live in the rainforest and stare out from their vivid green perch. She is bent, and mobile, and pissed. In her chart, the place of all truth, she is characterized as paranoid, but she is also right. She's been caught being who she is. Captured. Snared by the uneven net of bureaucracy and locked away. Does she have Alzheimer's Disease? It doesn't seem so to me, and I think I know a little bit about that. She has lost command of language to some degree, but not of communication. Understanding her is much like playing a combination of the games Taboo and Charades, but she's good at it, and gets her point across. It only took me a few minutes yesterday to get that what she wanted was Famous Amos Lemon Cookies. Most people with Alzheimer's don't even know they like cookies until you put one in their mouth and their eyes get big and they go "mmmmm." Jane's eyes are always big.
Does she need somewhere safe to be? Yes. Should that place be locked? I'm not so sure. I think, from all I can figure, is that she is one of those odd little yard sale ladies who always has a perma-sale going in front of her trailer, with treasures only she understands, and a firm grasp of what things are worth.
Friday, September 28, 2007
Tuesday, September 25, 2007
reality tv
Well, I'll admit it right here: I watch Survivor. I always have. There was a time when I tried not to for a season -- I think it was the second one -- but I did end up watching, and have since. It was the first reality TV, unless you count COPS, which I don't, and won't. Or Road Rules, which I also don't. But could. But don't, still. I like to think I'm old school about reality TV, but I just don't think its been around long enough to have qualifying material. We don't exactly unplug the phone, but we aren't happy when the phone rings Thursday nights between 8:00 and 9:00.
Survivor was always about regular looking people with fairly regular jobs thrown together somewhat randomly -- although we all know some casting went into it -- and sink or swim, they hung in together on the island. Now we have the silicone babes, the overtly gay mormon boy, the black grave-digger/underwear model, the anorexic blonde, an old guy named Chicken, a christian radio hostess, and some other people I can't remember, but nearly all chosen for looks or wierdness. Nothing regular.
Now we have a new season. This is the first time it has been a blatant wet t-shirt contest. There has almost always been a decent looking male and female, and somebody strutting around in their next-to-nothings, but not like this. I am notnotnot against breasts or nudity, but I think it detracts from an otherwise great contest if human behavior. I know I know you'll tell me how shallow I am, and you'd be right. But I like to be tricked, entertained. I liked the game. I prefer subtle.
Survivor was always about regular looking people with fairly regular jobs thrown together somewhat randomly -- although we all know some casting went into it -- and sink or swim, they hung in together on the island. Now we have the silicone babes, the overtly gay mormon boy, the black grave-digger/underwear model, the anorexic blonde, an old guy named Chicken, a christian radio hostess, and some other people I can't remember, but nearly all chosen for looks or wierdness. Nothing regular.
Now we have a new season. This is the first time it has been a blatant wet t-shirt contest. There has almost always been a decent looking male and female, and somebody strutting around in their next-to-nothings, but not like this. I am notnotnot against breasts or nudity, but I think it detracts from an otherwise great contest if human behavior. I know I know you'll tell me how shallow I am, and you'd be right. But I like to be tricked, entertained. I liked the game. I prefer subtle.
Thursday, September 20, 2007
frank fishing
We (he) drove out to Cascade Locks to buy fish from Indians. We watched Frank bring in nets across the bow of his mossy, 16 foot fiberglass boat while his wife sold fish from the bank--a parking lot bank beside the locks on the Columbia. His boat had no windshield. I guess it would play hell with the net. Big nets. Nice fish. Cheap, for fresh fish. Once we got ours home it looked to have been bit by a seal, so we lost a little in the middle. It was a steelhead, to smoke. Most of it is now in brine, and we'll eat some tonight, cooked in coconut butter and lemon, with a blend of red, brown and wild rice and some fresh picked tomato salad. MMmmmmm. Its not salmon, but smoked steelhead is my favorite. I got all I could off the carcass to use for omelettes and chowder. It was their last day of fishing for the week. They get to fish when we whities don't.
I felt pretty white purchasing a fish from an indian. Its not like we got it for beads or anything, but still, it felt a bit city-fied and touristy. I was nearly compelled to explain to Frank's wife that, although we may at this point in our evolution be living in Portland, we are really just country folk, momentarily lost in the city. And while this is true, I don't know that explaining to an Indian that we are, in fact, rednecks from the Rogue Valley, would have improved our standing or offered any comfort or commonality. Race is so difficult for me. I am so white. I overcome it intellectually, but at no time was I unaware that I was dealing with an indian, and as such, wondered if he knew the fish had been bit and spoiled. Old wounds run deep. But at the bottom of it, we are both gypsies.
But what got me most of all was not the ingrained racism, which I think is a product of vision and history, but the way I see certain people: artists who make their living as artists, writers who make their living as writers, Indians who make their living as indians. It is a one-dimensional view at best, and I romanticize it like I do anything that is other than me.
So, you can imagine my dismay when she, the loyal and nameless wife of Frank, fish monger and authentic indian, pulled out a business card. And all of my assumptions, my romantic notions of what it means to be other, clattered to the asphalt, a feral breaking sound that in the end, made us more alike than not.
Now, my belly full of fish and rice, I am posting on my brand new computer with Windows Vista. I like it. I'd venture to say I love it. In my view, it is the first new version in a really long time that actually seems like an improvement. I'm sure there is a good reason why it is awful and I should hate it, but so far, the little notepad gadget on the desktop is my favorite. Remember, I'm the girl who bought a car once because it had a fan that moved from side to side automatically. I'm easy.
And cheap.
So, the coming of age procedure is behind me (ahem) and I'm all better. Just fine. Nothing was wrong. I'm glad to have all the major systems checked out. I know just enough to be dangerous, and that can be nerve-wracking.
I felt pretty white purchasing a fish from an indian. Its not like we got it for beads or anything, but still, it felt a bit city-fied and touristy. I was nearly compelled to explain to Frank's wife that, although we may at this point in our evolution be living in Portland, we are really just country folk, momentarily lost in the city. And while this is true, I don't know that explaining to an Indian that we are, in fact, rednecks from the Rogue Valley, would have improved our standing or offered any comfort or commonality. Race is so difficult for me. I am so white. I overcome it intellectually, but at no time was I unaware that I was dealing with an indian, and as such, wondered if he knew the fish had been bit and spoiled. Old wounds run deep. But at the bottom of it, we are both gypsies.
But what got me most of all was not the ingrained racism, which I think is a product of vision and history, but the way I see certain people: artists who make their living as artists, writers who make their living as writers, Indians who make their living as indians. It is a one-dimensional view at best, and I romanticize it like I do anything that is other than me.
So, you can imagine my dismay when she, the loyal and nameless wife of Frank, fish monger and authentic indian, pulled out a business card. And all of my assumptions, my romantic notions of what it means to be other, clattered to the asphalt, a feral breaking sound that in the end, made us more alike than not.
Now, my belly full of fish and rice, I am posting on my brand new computer with Windows Vista. I like it. I'd venture to say I love it. In my view, it is the first new version in a really long time that actually seems like an improvement. I'm sure there is a good reason why it is awful and I should hate it, but so far, the little notepad gadget on the desktop is my favorite. Remember, I'm the girl who bought a car once because it had a fan that moved from side to side automatically. I'm easy.
And cheap.
So, the coming of age procedure is behind me (ahem) and I'm all better. Just fine. Nothing was wrong. I'm glad to have all the major systems checked out. I know just enough to be dangerous, and that can be nerve-wracking.
Wednesday, September 19, 2007
Tuesday, September 04, 2007
why
I blogged for three and a half years without an audience. I just wanted a space to record stuff that would not be lost if my computer crashed, which it did from time to time back then.
Having some of you stop by from time to time is unnerving to me still, but I'm not against it. I never intended the blog to be a social thing, and I go through the human stuff about failure if there are no comments, but I'm not in therapy over it yet. I don't so much care what it looks like anymore, thus the canned template. For me, the jury isn't really in yet about linking to others. I just do what asha tells me to, as grand puppet master of blogland.
But the thing is, I write or I'm cranky. I'd like to say that where I write doesn't matter, but I have found, and blogged about my findings, that this venue is little more than a vent for good writing, is NOT real writing, and speaking for myself, certainly not my best. But just because it takes me hostage and requires time and attention like any other habit and I've had some, I cannot say it prevents me from writing. But it is true that I do not write, have not written anything of substance, since I started blogging.
And perhaps before.
Roy, I'd have posted this on your comment page, but didn't want to take up the room.
Having some of you stop by from time to time is unnerving to me still, but I'm not against it. I never intended the blog to be a social thing, and I go through the human stuff about failure if there are no comments, but I'm not in therapy over it yet. I don't so much care what it looks like anymore, thus the canned template. For me, the jury isn't really in yet about linking to others. I just do what asha tells me to, as grand puppet master of blogland.
But the thing is, I write or I'm cranky. I'd like to say that where I write doesn't matter, but I have found, and blogged about my findings, that this venue is little more than a vent for good writing, is NOT real writing, and speaking for myself, certainly not my best. But just because it takes me hostage and requires time and attention like any other habit and I've had some, I cannot say it prevents me from writing. But it is true that I do not write, have not written anything of substance, since I started blogging.
And perhaps before.
Roy, I'd have posted this on your comment page, but didn't want to take up the room.
Monday, September 03, 2007
ride interrupted
We took the motorcycle out for a long spin today, out to Mt. Hood and around the base of the mountain and back around into Portland. We only fell over once, and that wasn't bad. I remembered from times gone by to mind the tailpipes when scrambling out from under a falling motorcycle. No scooter, this one. It's big, and heavy, and the next time we pass a yard sale down a steep gravel driveway, I'm thinking we'll take a different tack. It was a helluvan entrance though. Stop drop and roll. And the yard sale wasn't even all that great. But it was real. It was their own crap. No complaints from me.
Had breakfast at the Black Rabbit out in Troutdale, at the Poorfarm.
Had breakfast at the Black Rabbit out in Troutdale, at the Poorfarm.
Sunday, September 02, 2007
truth in yardsaling
This post has been a long time coming. I am a dedicated yard saler. A "one man's junk" officianado. And here is a fairly comprehensive list of what annoys me:
1. Perma Sales. These are ongoing sales where they drag out the shit and leave it there, rain or shine, sheets of plywood on saw-horses covered with blue tarp and last fall's fallout. It is clear these people visit other yard sales, bring the crap home, reprice it, and this brings me to the next category...
2. Re-Sales. Often found in perma sales. People who have closed out an, oh, let's say, a christmas knick-knack store, and have all the twinky little shit nobody wanted anyway and the big thing is, they DO NOT sell it at yard sale prices.
Let's clear one thing up. Yard sale price: 25 cents. Period.
3. The ULTIMATE YARD SALE!!! When you finally find the place six miles later due to poorly placed signage, no parking and frantic traffic, you find three hot pink My Pretty Pony dolls with matted hair, melted christmas candles, a set of hot rollers and 8 track cassette tapes.
4. Antique Sales The price goes up. I take similar issue with Vintage or Retro. Anything plastic or avacado green or mandarin orange or chocolate brown is now retro.
5. Yard sales that are MILES from where you find the sign. Over the river and through the wood. Buy local.
6. Garbage Sales. Just like the name implies. They are trying to make enough money for garbage bags and a dump run.
7. Crack Sales. Scary. The people having the sales never make eye contact and cannot stop rearranging the tables. Do not come up behind them to ask a question. People come by in bad cars dropping off bicycles and firearms while you peruse the silk flower arrangements that keep changing.
8. TMI Sales. There is a balance somewhere between, "Hi, thanks for coming." and "Yes, the clothes belonged to my sister but she ran off with this guy who lived next door and I don't really have room to keep her stuff and her kids are in Louisiana now because we think the guy jumped bail." or, our favorite from the Vancouver area... while looking at a computer, my husband asks why there is an evidence tag on the case. "Oh," comes the reply. "We got the computer before we knew my dad was a pedophile. But he's in jail now. I think its okay."
9. Things people should not say at yard sales:
"It was sixty dollars new." Yeah. Well, thanks for the fascinating history report, but this is not JC Penney, and I'm not paying half price for the crap you'll be hauling to Goodwill at 5:05 today. 25 cents. Take it or leave it.
"I really hate to part with this." But you will. Say it with me: 25 cents.
"Yeah, it works great. Oh, wait. Hey, Honey, get me the..... " All together now: 25c
"Yeah, if you just fix the ____ it works great!"
"Its an antique."
"I was always going to fix, paint, etc."
"Oh. I guess it needs batteries."
10. Things people should not sell at yard sales:
Photographs. I've dedicated entire blog entries to this practice. It is like selling the souls of your ancestors to strangers.
Underwear. Need I say more?
Items made of wax.
Canned food.
Eighties chrome-framed disco art, specifically pink and grey calla lilies.
Broken shit (see above).
1. Perma Sales. These are ongoing sales where they drag out the shit and leave it there, rain or shine, sheets of plywood on saw-horses covered with blue tarp and last fall's fallout. It is clear these people visit other yard sales, bring the crap home, reprice it, and this brings me to the next category...
2. Re-Sales. Often found in perma sales. People who have closed out an, oh, let's say, a christmas knick-knack store, and have all the twinky little shit nobody wanted anyway and the big thing is, they DO NOT sell it at yard sale prices.
Let's clear one thing up. Yard sale price: 25 cents. Period.
3. The ULTIMATE YARD SALE!!! When you finally find the place six miles later due to poorly placed signage, no parking and frantic traffic, you find three hot pink My Pretty Pony dolls with matted hair, melted christmas candles, a set of hot rollers and 8 track cassette tapes.
4. Antique Sales The price goes up. I take similar issue with Vintage or Retro. Anything plastic or avacado green or mandarin orange or chocolate brown is now retro.
5. Yard sales that are MILES from where you find the sign. Over the river and through the wood. Buy local.
6. Garbage Sales. Just like the name implies. They are trying to make enough money for garbage bags and a dump run.
7. Crack Sales. Scary. The people having the sales never make eye contact and cannot stop rearranging the tables. Do not come up behind them to ask a question. People come by in bad cars dropping off bicycles and firearms while you peruse the silk flower arrangements that keep changing.
8. TMI Sales. There is a balance somewhere between, "Hi, thanks for coming." and "Yes, the clothes belonged to my sister but she ran off with this guy who lived next door and I don't really have room to keep her stuff and her kids are in Louisiana now because we think the guy jumped bail." or, our favorite from the Vancouver area... while looking at a computer, my husband asks why there is an evidence tag on the case. "Oh," comes the reply. "We got the computer before we knew my dad was a pedophile. But he's in jail now. I think its okay."
9. Things people should not say at yard sales:
"It was sixty dollars new." Yeah. Well, thanks for the fascinating history report, but this is not JC Penney, and I'm not paying half price for the crap you'll be hauling to Goodwill at 5:05 today. 25 cents. Take it or leave it.
"I really hate to part with this." But you will. Say it with me: 25 cents.
"Yeah, it works great. Oh, wait. Hey, Honey, get me the..... " All together now: 25c
"Yeah, if you just fix the ____ it works great!"
"Its an antique."
"I was always going to fix, paint, etc."
"Oh. I guess it needs batteries."
10. Things people should not sell at yard sales:
Photographs. I've dedicated entire blog entries to this practice. It is like selling the souls of your ancestors to strangers.
Underwear. Need I say more?
Items made of wax.
Canned food.
Eighties chrome-framed disco art, specifically pink and grey calla lilies.
Broken shit (see above).
Friday, August 31, 2007
children of the corn er
You never know what you're going to see on Clinton Street. I hope I never move away. Last night we were sitting on the porch, minding our business and that of our neighbor's, when many people began to walk by. This is not terribly unusual for our neighborhood-- it is a walking place, the bike lane and all that-- but there were so many and they began to congeal just short of the corner with a few lingering in front of our place just out of sight. I motioned to K and he stepped off the porch to look. Some of the people looked up at us, so I asked what was going on.
"Nothing bad," came the answer.
Okay. Now we are fully engaged. Inquiring minds and all.... So off the porch we jumped only to see a crowd on the sidewalk standing in a circle, under the streetlight, taking pictures of a girl who was blindfolded and wearing a pointed birthday hat. The flashes continued to go off as the procession passed our house, leading her by the hand.
And me without my camera.
"Nothing bad," came the answer.
Okay. Now we are fully engaged. Inquiring minds and all.... So off the porch we jumped only to see a crowd on the sidewalk standing in a circle, under the streetlight, taking pictures of a girl who was blindfolded and wearing a pointed birthday hat. The flashes continued to go off as the procession passed our house, leading her by the hand.
And me without my camera.
Wednesday, August 29, 2007
one luau and a funeral
It is always of great interest to me watching intact families, or at least families that appear to be intact. I attended a funeral today. Not Peony's. I don't think they did anything for her. I think my blog posting was about it. Nope. We'll call this one Eleanor. She passed quickly and was mourned by a large Mormon family, a religion that I find odd, but interesting.
They put great stock in family, and if you join, one of the perks is getting to be in the same family again when you get to heaven. Now I don't want to say in writing that I wouldn't want my same family because I don't like very many people all that much and I already know what's wrong with my relatives, so I'd probably pick them all over again. But still, my view of life after life is more solitary than that.
Anyway, there I was, in the chapel, some bearded guy with a guitar singing "In the Garden" which is my favorite hymn, and he also sang "The Circle of Life" from the Lion King, which I thought was a little wierd, and Elton John's Princess Diana version of "Candle in the Wind" which I thought was very wierd for a ninety year old woman. I mean, that song is all about life cut short. And he sang Sentimental Journey, which was really great. I don't think I'd ever paid attention to that song before. But anyway, there I sat, my view from the rear pew more voyeuristic than not. Most of the time I spend at any family gatherings it is that way for me. I always wonder where they learned to be a family, how they all managed to keep the same beliefs, pass on traditions intact, look similar, speak without saying fuck and finish a gathering without raising law enforcement's interest.
So I sat there, considering family, mine and ours, which is really difficult for me right now, and I know it is just part of the journey, that my step-people will be adults one day and that will be a relief. I remember a time when the only good thing I could say about my son was that he did live to be 18 and I didn't kill him. So, I guess I've never really been great with teen angst. Mine or anyone else's.
We had a luau at work today. Complete with Micronesian dancing girls and MaiTais with little paper umbrellas.
They put great stock in family, and if you join, one of the perks is getting to be in the same family again when you get to heaven. Now I don't want to say in writing that I wouldn't want my same family because I don't like very many people all that much and I already know what's wrong with my relatives, so I'd probably pick them all over again. But still, my view of life after life is more solitary than that.
Anyway, there I was, in the chapel, some bearded guy with a guitar singing "In the Garden" which is my favorite hymn, and he also sang "The Circle of Life" from the Lion King, which I thought was a little wierd, and Elton John's Princess Diana version of "Candle in the Wind" which I thought was very wierd for a ninety year old woman. I mean, that song is all about life cut short. And he sang Sentimental Journey, which was really great. I don't think I'd ever paid attention to that song before. But anyway, there I sat, my view from the rear pew more voyeuristic than not. Most of the time I spend at any family gatherings it is that way for me. I always wonder where they learned to be a family, how they all managed to keep the same beliefs, pass on traditions intact, look similar, speak without saying fuck and finish a gathering without raising law enforcement's interest.
So I sat there, considering family, mine and ours, which is really difficult for me right now, and I know it is just part of the journey, that my step-people will be adults one day and that will be a relief. I remember a time when the only good thing I could say about my son was that he did live to be 18 and I didn't kill him. So, I guess I've never really been great with teen angst. Mine or anyone else's.
We had a luau at work today. Complete with Micronesian dancing girls and MaiTais with little paper umbrellas.
Wednesday, August 22, 2007
goodnight johnboy
Peony was always angry. Deaf as a post, she screeched at everyone--her children included. I suspect she always had. The children were awful. Awful. Terrible terrible children. Grown women who wouldn't visit but when they did would scream right back in their mother's face. It was a good thing Peony was deaf. Remember when the car drove through her wall? Well, she slept right through it. She lived out her last days in a tiny room with the TV set tuned to The Hallmark Channel and watched Little House on the Prairie, and Matlock, and they were her company day and night. Her friends. She is the only person in a dementia unit I've ever known to work a remote to the end.
Do not go gentle into that good night (Whitman?). It was a hard road for Peony, and who am I to judge, or even consider, why? Perhaps her body, the Auschwitzy shell that carried her through these last days, was stronger than it looked.
There is so much theory and practice about human death, about grief, about how people find a way to escape this mortal coil and move on or out or up or over.... Hospice organizations swear by people needing permission from the living to die. I don't so much buy that one. I think it is the one thing we do utterly alone. The daughters, one more terrible than the other (not because of her absence but because of her presence) sat bedside, good little new-agers, and said over and over again, "Go to the light, Mother. We'll be fine. You can go. Go to the light." But she wouldn't. Couldn't. Didn't.
I think the daughters began to take it personally when she wouldn't give it up--the ghost--and they stayed and stayed and slept in the room and kept the TV off. And Peony wouldnt' couldn't didnt' die.
So one of the women who took such tender care of her tiny body waited outside her room, waited for the daughters to leave early this morning. When they did, she slipped in and turned on the television.
Goodnight Johnboy, Goodnight MaryEllen, Goodnight Peony.
Do not go gentle into that good night (Whitman?). It was a hard road for Peony, and who am I to judge, or even consider, why? Perhaps her body, the Auschwitzy shell that carried her through these last days, was stronger than it looked.
There is so much theory and practice about human death, about grief, about how people find a way to escape this mortal coil and move on or out or up or over.... Hospice organizations swear by people needing permission from the living to die. I don't so much buy that one. I think it is the one thing we do utterly alone. The daughters, one more terrible than the other (not because of her absence but because of her presence) sat bedside, good little new-agers, and said over and over again, "Go to the light, Mother. We'll be fine. You can go. Go to the light." But she wouldn't. Couldn't. Didn't.
I think the daughters began to take it personally when she wouldn't give it up--the ghost--and they stayed and stayed and slept in the room and kept the TV off. And Peony wouldnt' couldn't didnt' die.
So one of the women who took such tender care of her tiny body waited outside her room, waited for the daughters to leave early this morning. When they did, she slipped in and turned on the television.
Goodnight Johnboy, Goodnight MaryEllen, Goodnight Peony.
Sunday, August 19, 2007
Saturday, August 18, 2007
almost
There are not enough sofa pillows in the world to make me comfortable on this leather. I fear it will be some time until I adjust to the simple lines, the blocks of neutral brownblack that I sit on these days. I move from piece to piece, testing the view--the red wall vs the windows--and I still don't know. Shall I use the ottoman? Then I consider what luxuries my problems are. I spent the better part of last week shopping for-- no, obsessing for-- just the right carpet to soften the floor for my precious little feet. It is absurd. I used to live in cabins without floors for god's sake. I swept hard packed dirt. I decorated it. I did. And loved it. So, the more affluent I become (or appear), the more absurd the distance. And the more relative the distinction. Simply having does not civilize. I know that is a poor excuse for a sentence. Sue me. But my point is made. Accumulation is not proof of existence. But the way I go about it, you'd think it was.
After visiting all of the rug dealers, I found a white rug. Cream. Not quite white. Shaggy, but not like the shedding one that is now back upstairs in the garret, home of the unwritten novel. It is an uneven shag. I bought two of them, a mute attempt to hide the gold carpet that underlies the entire room. It didn't work. The gold is there. And there to stay.
I know this is crap. I know this doesn't matter. One time I bought a going away card for somebody and it said, "Remember all the trouble I've caused you?"
and on the inside it said, "I'm almost done."
Well, I'm almost done. I'm almost done bringing home sofa pillows and table runners and dolls without heads and carpets and copper pots and red paint and copper paint and shamelessly returning anything I don't love. Almost.
Until next time.
Sunday, August 12, 2007
one red wall
It has been a busy weekend. I painted the wall, after twenty years of saying that red is psychologically the worst color choice. But, psychologically speaking, who gives a shit? Its the only color I loved. Terra Cotta Tile by Hewlitt-Packard or something like that. Benjamin Moore. That's it.
So I painted the wall. I am vascillating about sofa pillows. And all of this is meaningless. I hopped on my scooter this morning. Husband off doing the Bridge Pedal. The Burnide bridge was closed because of all the cyclists, so I had to cross the Hawthorne Bridge and I hate going across that metal grate on my scooter. It feels like I am driving on Wesson oil. It is terror. And terror in slow-motion this morning because everyone else in the world also had to use the Hawthorne. So, I lived, and drove on up to 23rd for a little tiny bit of shopping. NW 23rd, where the homeless girls wear perfect tatters and smell of Shalimar.
I found one great thing, but couldnt' bring it home on my scooter, so left it in the hands of the merchant and will go back with the truck later. Now, does this mean I wasted gas? Dammit. I am certainly wasting money, but I have wandered shop to shop for weeks now, since the furniture came, to find just the right thing to fill a vacant spot in my living room. And I finally found her on 23rd. No surprise to you shoppers out there. But I have to see everything before I am sure. It is a rusted metal doll manekin. Is that spelled correctly? It is only about two feet tall, so not like the real thing. But she is bald, and almost scary. I love her. I can make hats for her on holidays. I'll work up a little two-inch tall witch hat for halloween. Just you wait.
So, there's my wall. It brings the room back to some kind of life after killing it with coffee bean black furniture.
I posted the picture of Ida on that post if you want to look back.
Thursday, August 09, 2007
tunneling
there is no way around but through
A tunnel on Highway 20 near Diablo Lake.
The pool is up, the sarongs out of the summer box and hanging in the closet, the air conditioner in the window, and I am ready for summer. I think I missed it. I think it was summer here while we were away on that road trip. It has been mostly cloudy since. Hardly warm enough to use the pool, haven't used the a/c at all, my hot montana tan has faded to Portland white.
Our camp at colonial creek on Diablo Lake.
Olympic rain forest. Don't stand in one place for too long.
A tunnel on Highway 20 near Diablo Lake.
The pool is up, the sarongs out of the summer box and hanging in the closet, the air conditioner in the window, and I am ready for summer. I think I missed it. I think it was summer here while we were away on that road trip. It has been mostly cloudy since. Hardly warm enough to use the pool, haven't used the a/c at all, my hot montana tan has faded to Portland white.
Our camp at colonial creek on Diablo Lake.
Olympic rain forest. Don't stand in one place for too long.
Tuesday, August 07, 2007
drizzle
Raised by wolves, it is in me to ride in the rain, to ride, no matter what. To endure. To get on the back and shut up. And now, with my own vehicle.... You bought it, you ride it. You made your bed, you sleep in it. What a crock of shit. Bikers.
I'm not a biker anyway. I'm a scooter-er. I'm a nearly legal, nearly adept, nearly safe, scooter rider.
I don't even like to be cold. I got up yesterday morning to a weather report of possible drizzle and I was taking no chances. I drove. Don't get me wrong... I love my scooter. A woman at work asked me if I'd named it yet. I haven't. I hadn't considered it. It has Milano stamped on the side, so why would I give it another name? I think that is a teenage girl thing. Name your vehicle. I remember Billie Bohannon who named her olive green Pinto "The green Burrito." No.
The advantages of driving, so far: NPR, heat, metal surrounding me, and a clock. I'm surprised at the number of times I want to know what time it is. It doesn't matter. I don't need to be at work at any certain time. I can do whatever I want whenever I want to. But seems I like to keep track of things like the passing of minutes from home to coffee shop. Oh, and coffee. It is hard to get coffee on a scooter, and impossible to drink it. I can eat CrackerJacks while riding, but that's as good as I've got so far. And I can't talk on my cell phone, but not for lack of trying. The helmet gets in the way. But I know I know I know, I don't need distractions. I need to keep my eye on the side streets and parked cars.
I'm getting better at the scooter. I can almost release my deathgrip to wave at other scooters. There is, apparently, a sisterhood: Hell's Bell's. I won't join, but its nice to know they're out there. Actual motorcycles don't wave at scooters, and scooters don't wave at cyclists. We have our standards.
So according to Gwen, I don't have to tough it out and ride in the rain. I don't have to do anything I don't want to do except work, and truth be told, I like my job. I like working. I'd have little to complain about otherwise. They give me money and I need money, so it works out.
About twenty years ago, a little more, I made my first counseling appointment. (Yes, this will be a tiny little peek into my psyche. Hold on. It'll be great, really.) She asked me a bunch of questions. I can't remember what I was twisted up about at that time, but based on my answers, she asked me to write down the higher moral code I (apparently) was thinking I lived by. It went something like: (drumroll)
Blood is thicker than water
Don't cop to nothin'
There is honor among thieves
Walk tall
Don't blink
And this crock of shit included things like riding in the rain and wearing dead men's clothes.
Why do I mention all of this? Because it bothers me when I feel like a big baby for driving my truck in the rain, which is what any normal person would do. Right? Any normal people out there???? Hmmmm?? Higher moral code my ass. It was a man's list that women were supposed to live by that included learning to take a punch without flinching.
Remember flinching?
Well I do.
I'm not a biker anyway. I'm a scooter-er. I'm a nearly legal, nearly adept, nearly safe, scooter rider.
I don't even like to be cold. I got up yesterday morning to a weather report of possible drizzle and I was taking no chances. I drove. Don't get me wrong... I love my scooter. A woman at work asked me if I'd named it yet. I haven't. I hadn't considered it. It has Milano stamped on the side, so why would I give it another name? I think that is a teenage girl thing. Name your vehicle. I remember Billie Bohannon who named her olive green Pinto "The green Burrito." No.
The advantages of driving, so far: NPR, heat, metal surrounding me, and a clock. I'm surprised at the number of times I want to know what time it is. It doesn't matter. I don't need to be at work at any certain time. I can do whatever I want whenever I want to. But seems I like to keep track of things like the passing of minutes from home to coffee shop. Oh, and coffee. It is hard to get coffee on a scooter, and impossible to drink it. I can eat CrackerJacks while riding, but that's as good as I've got so far. And I can't talk on my cell phone, but not for lack of trying. The helmet gets in the way. But I know I know I know, I don't need distractions. I need to keep my eye on the side streets and parked cars.
I'm getting better at the scooter. I can almost release my deathgrip to wave at other scooters. There is, apparently, a sisterhood: Hell's Bell's. I won't join, but its nice to know they're out there. Actual motorcycles don't wave at scooters, and scooters don't wave at cyclists. We have our standards.
So according to Gwen, I don't have to tough it out and ride in the rain. I don't have to do anything I don't want to do except work, and truth be told, I like my job. I like working. I'd have little to complain about otherwise. They give me money and I need money, so it works out.
About twenty years ago, a little more, I made my first counseling appointment. (Yes, this will be a tiny little peek into my psyche. Hold on. It'll be great, really.) She asked me a bunch of questions. I can't remember what I was twisted up about at that time, but based on my answers, she asked me to write down the higher moral code I (apparently) was thinking I lived by. It went something like: (drumroll)
Blood is thicker than water
Don't cop to nothin'
There is honor among thieves
Walk tall
Don't blink
And this crock of shit included things like riding in the rain and wearing dead men's clothes.
Why do I mention all of this? Because it bothers me when I feel like a big baby for driving my truck in the rain, which is what any normal person would do. Right? Any normal people out there???? Hmmmm?? Higher moral code my ass. It was a man's list that women were supposed to live by that included learning to take a punch without flinching.
Remember flinching?
Well I do.
Saturday, August 04, 2007
ida
The furniture arrived. Out with the old and in with the new. The problem is, everything is old. I do know enough not to buy a new house to go with the furniture, but it is dramatic, and dark, and oh so yummy, and I just want to look at it and little else. I call it the "dentist office" phase. Nothing but the sofa and a coffee table book.
During the garret project ("a [garret] does not a novel make..." see ashabot) I bought a fuzzy white rug to tangle my toes in while writing that fucking book that will not write itself. Yesterday I gave up and brought it downstairs for some contrast. Fuzzy is fuzzy. It sheds worse than Sid. I'm pretty sure its going back upstairs in a lower traffic area. Much lower. I haven't been up there since the monkey clan took over. They scare me.
So, now I'm trying to bring some color into our life. Menopause beige with espresso brown is putting me to sleep. Add to that a white rug and not much happens. Subtlety is over-rated. I'm looking for Mexican vases. I may have one around here somewhere. Why wouldn't I? I have everything else. The sign says, "You can't have everything. Where would you put it?" but I do -- and it won't even sell at yard sale prices.
^j^
I am the angel of death. I signed four people up for hospice last week. I was upstairs in one of the storage rooms (in a nursing home the storage room takes on new meaning) looking for Hawaiian flowers to put on a bulletin board. You really never know what you might find. I noticed an old suitcase, falling apart, old photographs and ivory baby brushes spilling from tattered edges. You know how I am about old photographs. So, I peeked inside, which was wrong, but not that wrong. And I am prone to wrong behavior in case you didn't know.
I was looking at the handwriting, that perfect, calligraphic penmanship typical of the twenties and forties, and soon realized it belonged to Ida -- one of mine. You might wonder why, if she is still living, why her belongings are squirrelled away in the storage room. Why?
When people come to live in a dementia unit, as a rule they do not come unwillingly but rather unknowingly. They come with medical records and a social history. As you might imagine, they have not written this history with their own palsied hand. The story is a mash of questions that do not accurately describe that life, that ninety year span filled with horses and hay bales and dances at the grange. It is a regulatory requirement and little else. It skims the surface of memory. No. It doesn't even do that. It is someone else skimming what they think are the important elements of history.
Favorite food
Favorite kind of music
Morning person or night owl?
The worst thing I can think of is someone else telling my story. Well, again, I exaggerate. The Minneapolis bridge thing is worse.
So, Ida has this history, and this short list of numbers, and it is easy to say that nobody cares, but something happened in her life, something that estranged a daughter and cut off a son. There is a brother, but he is so old he probably stopped keeping his own pictures. Old people know better than I do the transitory nature of memory, and of memories. They understand the boxes of photographs left at yard sales.
I remembered, then, asking her brother what to do with her things when we had to clear clutter out of her room so she could have a roommate. So this was the clutter I had removed. I didn't realize. And he had told me to give it away. Don't sell it. Give it to someone who can use it.
So I took a picture back to Ida.
I held it up in front of her and asked, "Who is this?" because occasionally, if you sneak up on Alzheimer's, it gets the answer right.
She said, "It has my face."
I cried. The picture, which I will post, is of a young woman at the absolute height of her beauty, running through a hayfield holding the reins of a huge Percheron horse.
Ida was so alive. I said, "I can still see that beautiful face."
She said, "I can see yours."
And the moment passed. Ida was one of the four.
During the garret project ("a [garret] does not a novel make..." see ashabot) I bought a fuzzy white rug to tangle my toes in while writing that fucking book that will not write itself. Yesterday I gave up and brought it downstairs for some contrast. Fuzzy is fuzzy. It sheds worse than Sid. I'm pretty sure its going back upstairs in a lower traffic area. Much lower. I haven't been up there since the monkey clan took over. They scare me.
So, now I'm trying to bring some color into our life. Menopause beige with espresso brown is putting me to sleep. Add to that a white rug and not much happens. Subtlety is over-rated. I'm looking for Mexican vases. I may have one around here somewhere. Why wouldn't I? I have everything else. The sign says, "You can't have everything. Where would you put it?" but I do -- and it won't even sell at yard sale prices.
^j^
I am the angel of death. I signed four people up for hospice last week. I was upstairs in one of the storage rooms (in a nursing home the storage room takes on new meaning) looking for Hawaiian flowers to put on a bulletin board. You really never know what you might find. I noticed an old suitcase, falling apart, old photographs and ivory baby brushes spilling from tattered edges. You know how I am about old photographs. So, I peeked inside, which was wrong, but not that wrong. And I am prone to wrong behavior in case you didn't know.
I was looking at the handwriting, that perfect, calligraphic penmanship typical of the twenties and forties, and soon realized it belonged to Ida -- one of mine. You might wonder why, if she is still living, why her belongings are squirrelled away in the storage room. Why?
When people come to live in a dementia unit, as a rule they do not come unwillingly but rather unknowingly. They come with medical records and a social history. As you might imagine, they have not written this history with their own palsied hand. The story is a mash of questions that do not accurately describe that life, that ninety year span filled with horses and hay bales and dances at the grange. It is a regulatory requirement and little else. It skims the surface of memory. No. It doesn't even do that. It is someone else skimming what they think are the important elements of history.
Favorite food
Favorite kind of music
Morning person or night owl?
The worst thing I can think of is someone else telling my story. Well, again, I exaggerate. The Minneapolis bridge thing is worse.
So, Ida has this history, and this short list of numbers, and it is easy to say that nobody cares, but something happened in her life, something that estranged a daughter and cut off a son. There is a brother, but he is so old he probably stopped keeping his own pictures. Old people know better than I do the transitory nature of memory, and of memories. They understand the boxes of photographs left at yard sales.
I remembered, then, asking her brother what to do with her things when we had to clear clutter out of her room so she could have a roommate. So this was the clutter I had removed. I didn't realize. And he had told me to give it away. Don't sell it. Give it to someone who can use it.
So I took a picture back to Ida.
I held it up in front of her and asked, "Who is this?" because occasionally, if you sneak up on Alzheimer's, it gets the answer right.
She said, "It has my face."
I cried. The picture, which I will post, is of a young woman at the absolute height of her beauty, running through a hayfield holding the reins of a huge Percheron horse.
Ida was so alive. I said, "I can still see that beautiful face."
She said, "I can see yours."
And the moment passed. Ida was one of the four.
Monday, July 30, 2007
gone in 60 minutes
I finally dropped the price of my living room furniture on craigslist from what I think it is worth to what someone might actually be willing to pay, and they did. Immediately. Some guy from Hillsboro swooped in and got it within an hour of posting. As he was loading it into his truck, I said something insipid like, "Enjoy" and he said, "Oh, I'm just putting it in the kid's playroom."
What? My fabulous mission oak set? First of all, their poor little heads will crack on the arms.
Oh well, they're not my kids.
So, it is gone. My first set of really great furniture. It was a watermark moment for me, to sit on things no one else had used.
In a different time, I would have gladly given my last and only twenty bucks for them in the shape they're in, Sid-scented and everything. I loved this stuff. I used it up. Today, (and yesterday, and for the forseeable future) as I am trying to pick out throw pillows to go with the new leather set -- which is driving me insane at this moment, because now I want to rip out our carpet and redecorate completely -- I don't want to go too formal because I really would have to redecorate, and I'm sick of the early garage sale look my house always seems to have.... so I'm thinking awning stripe. Red and brown to go with the leather. Maybe a western flavor. So yesterday, as I'm buying these really fancy pillows with white embroidery and black wool which I will now have to return because they are all wrong, I told the girl at Cost Plus how I shed a tear as the guy walked off with my stuff. She looked at me funny and said, "Yeah, you just kind of want something new once in awhile." It was then I knew we had led different lives.
Here is a list of the sofas and chairs I remember, and as usual, liar that I am, I'll make up a few just to offset memory loss:
Oversized, long and white, a precursor to civilization. When I saw it at a yard sale, I had high hopes that I had come far enough, domestically speaking, to handle white. I was a bit premature, as I recall. Just ever so slightly.
The Pit. This was a selection of pieces, you know, that burgundy velour that everyone had. But most everyone had the whole pit. I just had the leftovers, the corner wedges and hassocks that rolled sideways on those little gold ball feet if you looked at them. And for the pieces I didn't have, I filled in with twin bed mattresses and box springs covered with Mexican blankets. Mexican blankets cover many sins.
Green Brocade: This was my nod to the 50's. I was in a pretty steep learning curve about home decorating at that point. Pink, green and cream. Very girly. Lotsa tulips.
The Red Wine Chair. I know I've written about that one before. The one Cooky and I vied for. My story is that she already had great over-stuffed blue velvet furniture and I called dibs anyway. There it was, sitting out in front of the Central Point Goodwill Box as we pulled up to steal a wheelchair for a nursing home patient. I'm sure her story would be very different, and if she would set up a blog, which isn't all that hard, she could tell you all about it.
Okay, there are many many more. But those are the few stand out in my memory. Its late and am too tired to lie.
What? My fabulous mission oak set? First of all, their poor little heads will crack on the arms.
Oh well, they're not my kids.
So, it is gone. My first set of really great furniture. It was a watermark moment for me, to sit on things no one else had used.
In a different time, I would have gladly given my last and only twenty bucks for them in the shape they're in, Sid-scented and everything. I loved this stuff. I used it up. Today, (and yesterday, and for the forseeable future) as I am trying to pick out throw pillows to go with the new leather set -- which is driving me insane at this moment, because now I want to rip out our carpet and redecorate completely -- I don't want to go too formal because I really would have to redecorate, and I'm sick of the early garage sale look my house always seems to have.... so I'm thinking awning stripe. Red and brown to go with the leather. Maybe a western flavor. So yesterday, as I'm buying these really fancy pillows with white embroidery and black wool which I will now have to return because they are all wrong, I told the girl at Cost Plus how I shed a tear as the guy walked off with my stuff. She looked at me funny and said, "Yeah, you just kind of want something new once in awhile." It was then I knew we had led different lives.
Here is a list of the sofas and chairs I remember, and as usual, liar that I am, I'll make up a few just to offset memory loss:
Oversized, long and white, a precursor to civilization. When I saw it at a yard sale, I had high hopes that I had come far enough, domestically speaking, to handle white. I was a bit premature, as I recall. Just ever so slightly.
The Pit. This was a selection of pieces, you know, that burgundy velour that everyone had. But most everyone had the whole pit. I just had the leftovers, the corner wedges and hassocks that rolled sideways on those little gold ball feet if you looked at them. And for the pieces I didn't have, I filled in with twin bed mattresses and box springs covered with Mexican blankets. Mexican blankets cover many sins.
Green Brocade: This was my nod to the 50's. I was in a pretty steep learning curve about home decorating at that point. Pink, green and cream. Very girly. Lotsa tulips.
The Red Wine Chair. I know I've written about that one before. The one Cooky and I vied for. My story is that she already had great over-stuffed blue velvet furniture and I called dibs anyway. There it was, sitting out in front of the Central Point Goodwill Box as we pulled up to steal a wheelchair for a nursing home patient. I'm sure her story would be very different, and if she would set up a blog, which isn't all that hard, she could tell you all about it.
Okay, there are many many more. But those are the few stand out in my memory. Its late and am too tired to lie.
Saturday, July 28, 2007
another yard sale day
We did it again. A long day spend peddling our trash as treasure to our neighbors. I really should have had the camera out, because let me tell you, SE Portland is ripe with freaks. Bursting. It was the day of the Clinton/Division Street Fair, and a pretty good day to have a yard sale, but our crap just wasn't moving. Ended up taking most of it to goodwilly.
I made about fifty bucks, K about one fifty. Not enough money to sit in the sun all day. Although it is good to be out and a part of the neighborhood. Still trying to sell my furniture before the new leather set arrives on Wednesday. Wednesday. That's four days. Shit.
I made about fifty bucks, K about one fifty. Not enough money to sit in the sun all day. Although it is good to be out and a part of the neighborhood. Still trying to sell my furniture before the new leather set arrives on Wednesday. Wednesday. That's four days. Shit.
Tuesday, July 24, 2007
morning after shoes
in situ
One thing is certain: Every picture tells a story. If you enlarge the photograph, you will see the stonework. It is much more interesting, I'm certain, than the story behind these shoes, which have been out front for, oh, 36 hours now. Most of the freegans in the neighborhood have passed them by, I presume, out of respect for drunkeness and excess.
Is freegan a Portland-only term? I think it refers to vegans who will break the severity of their diets only for free food, but the term has been extended to mean scavengers who pick up all the free shit left on Portland sidewalks with the intent to be re-used.
What does it all mean?
My neighbor collects sparkly dancing shoes.
She got tired of walking uphill in heels.
She got tired of walking downhill in heels.
It is a very small yard sale.
Monday, July 23, 2007
the road to the sun
I don't think either one of us would have taken it if we knew. The Road to the Sun is a two lane road (for thin cars) and we were in a pickup towing a trailer. The road is, in the immortal words of Daryl Bouie, "Steeper than the back of God's head." Logger colloquialisms... whaddyagonnado? Anyhow, there we were, driving through Glacier National Park, happy to be in America, when the road narrowed and the sides dropped away leaving a tiny, maybe twelve inch rock wall between us and the yawning glacial abyss. Was it beautiful? Well, yes, I have to admit it was spectacular, and were there a place to turn around I would have and I'd never have seen it, but there was no getting out.
So, photographer that I am, I closed my eyes, stuck my arm out the window and snapped. I got a couple that were okay, and I'm lying, of course. There were plenty of pull-outs, but us with the trailer and all. There was a length limit of 21 feet, which we exceeded by about nine feet. But they didn't say anything at the entrance, and we figured that since we were two pieces that bent at the hitch, the rules didn't apply to us. (see previous post regarding the criminal mind.) So on we went, until we were at the summit and a cop pulled us over for a too-long vehicle. So, essentially, within three days we had been thrown out of a country and a National Park.
We were not willing to turn and go back, so on we went down Highway 2, and that is when we gave up the notion of making it all the way to the Bighorn Mountains.
It was so hot. How hot was it? 104 most of the time. 90 at night. I'd brought gloves and hats. We didn't even use a sleeping bag the whole time we were gone and the only reason we used a sheet was for mosquitos and common decency, which my husband, country boy that he is, has little.
Sid was in the back of the truck, under the canopy, dying. We channeled a/c back for him and kept it liveable, but it wasn't good, and we came to the conclusion that the Cascades were the coolest place we'd been so far.
Washington Pass, summit 5500 feet or so
The overlook at Washington Pass.
So, we backtracked through Montana, Idaho and across WAshington back to Colonial Creek on the Skagit River at Lake Diablo and spent a few days there. The lake, like the river, is turquoise. It was bliss.
Next stop: Indians.
So, photographer that I am, I closed my eyes, stuck my arm out the window and snapped. I got a couple that were okay, and I'm lying, of course. There were plenty of pull-outs, but us with the trailer and all. There was a length limit of 21 feet, which we exceeded by about nine feet. But they didn't say anything at the entrance, and we figured that since we were two pieces that bent at the hitch, the rules didn't apply to us. (see previous post regarding the criminal mind.) So on we went, until we were at the summit and a cop pulled us over for a too-long vehicle. So, essentially, within three days we had been thrown out of a country and a National Park.
We were not willing to turn and go back, so on we went down Highway 2, and that is when we gave up the notion of making it all the way to the Bighorn Mountains.
It was so hot. How hot was it? 104 most of the time. 90 at night. I'd brought gloves and hats. We didn't even use a sleeping bag the whole time we were gone and the only reason we used a sheet was for mosquitos and common decency, which my husband, country boy that he is, has little.
Sid was in the back of the truck, under the canopy, dying. We channeled a/c back for him and kept it liveable, but it wasn't good, and we came to the conclusion that the Cascades were the coolest place we'd been so far.
Washington Pass, summit 5500 feet or so
The overlook at Washington Pass.
So, we backtracked through Montana, Idaho and across WAshington back to Colonial Creek on the Skagit River at Lake Diablo and spent a few days there. The lake, like the river, is turquoise. It was bliss.
Next stop: Indians.
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