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.
Sunday, October 09, 2005
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.
Friday, September 30, 2005
home
I want to blog the letter I got today, and since Lorretta is effectively shut down until the new home scene can support a computer hook up, I thought this deserved mention:
She writes:
"...So here I am. I keep waking up in this house -- am starting to believe I live here. Yesterday I came home and played a little basketball with Adrian. It was so great to be doing this in our own driveway, shooting hoops above our own garage after I'd just come out our own back door into our own fenced backyard, rather than the driveway of some other house we were stalking -- wanting, not having -- like squatters, basketball playing squatters...."
I have always had such a strong sense of place, that when my friend is settled, I am settled for her. This is a home. And such a long time coming.
As for me, my house is not mine anymore. I signed the papers and the money is on the way. The realtor sent me a fruit basket from Harry and David, thinking the pears would remind me of home... and they did. So far away now, this girl that grew up in orchards, picking, packing, pruning, running from the lilting foreign voices of brown men, hidden in the trees on spike ladders, hands quick as birds, fluttering branch to branch, filling Mr. Peebler's canvas bags. Mr. Peebler, with leather skin and tobacco-stained chin, who drove his fucking tractor down the dirt road outside my bedroom window at five o'clock every morning, went to Klan meetings at the grange in the evening, and was always old, but died young. His daughters all went crazy. I'm sure he was guilty of something.
And now I am a Portland girl. It rained today, all day, and the commute was over two hours. It was comical, really, as I listened to the traffic reports, sitting in the clusterfuck of Dundee, knowing it would be a long slow road home.
But home I am. The weekend cometh.
She writes:
"...So here I am. I keep waking up in this house -- am starting to believe I live here. Yesterday I came home and played a little basketball with Adrian. It was so great to be doing this in our own driveway, shooting hoops above our own garage after I'd just come out our own back door into our own fenced backyard, rather than the driveway of some other house we were stalking -- wanting, not having -- like squatters, basketball playing squatters...."
I have always had such a strong sense of place, that when my friend is settled, I am settled for her. This is a home. And such a long time coming.
As for me, my house is not mine anymore. I signed the papers and the money is on the way. The realtor sent me a fruit basket from Harry and David, thinking the pears would remind me of home... and they did. So far away now, this girl that grew up in orchards, picking, packing, pruning, running from the lilting foreign voices of brown men, hidden in the trees on spike ladders, hands quick as birds, fluttering branch to branch, filling Mr. Peebler's canvas bags. Mr. Peebler, with leather skin and tobacco-stained chin, who drove his fucking tractor down the dirt road outside my bedroom window at five o'clock every morning, went to Klan meetings at the grange in the evening, and was always old, but died young. His daughters all went crazy. I'm sure he was guilty of something.
And now I am a Portland girl. It rained today, all day, and the commute was over two hours. It was comical, really, as I listened to the traffic reports, sitting in the clusterfuck of Dundee, knowing it would be a long slow road home.
But home I am. The weekend cometh.
Saturday, September 24, 2005
Trying Times
Because I am a writer, it keeps mattering to me that I am not writing as much as I think I should. And around here, the potential is monumental. I mean, there's my honey, selling his wares out on the street, and along comes this girl, for the 4th or 5th time, looking for a cheap enough bike, and she has a digital camera in one hand and the hunchback walks by dressed pretty much like Elvis. And she starts snapping pictures and he starts posing, turning this way and that with his shopping cart full of rattling cans. And I wonder: to think that I might have missed all this but for throwing caution to the wind. What sheer bliss to the lazy imagination. I see these things and i jot them down here, but only here, and I wonder if the book I'm not writing will have a hunchback character. Or the bike girl. She skipped away, delighted to have found the 80$ Schwinn road bike.
Nicole's hair. That's what my weekend has been all about. Blonde and blonder. Cut and colored and bleached. She'd look great with a shaved head, and with all that bleach, that's about what happened.
Anyway, I'm trying to write. I am trying. And you know what they say: tryin' is dyin. Just write. So, we will be accountable to one another, my literate friend and I. This thought freezes my pen. But it will thaw with use, and I will finish the story one day.
Nicole's hair. That's what my weekend has been all about. Blonde and blonder. Cut and colored and bleached. She'd look great with a shaved head, and with all that bleach, that's about what happened.
Anyway, I'm trying to write. I am trying. And you know what they say: tryin' is dyin. Just write. So, we will be accountable to one another, my literate friend and I. This thought freezes my pen. But it will thaw with use, and I will finish the story one day.
Thursday, September 22, 2005
basketball dogs
Sid finally acted like a pitbull. I'm bummed. He charged a dog at the dog park. Unprovoked. No harm done, but because he looks like Satan when he's running at you, it unnerves people in a way a lab or shepherd does not. And labs are atrocious. Labs and shepherds are notoriously aggressive at our park, but Sid is Sid. He is so visible. So, I am sad, and will have to watch him closely and bring him when fewer other dogs are around.
On our way to the park there is a pitbull owner who is an idiot. He has two remaining puppies, spawn of a giant male, who are barely fenced in his backyard by a thin layer of hogwire. They pound the fence as we go by, and I know they'll come through it one bloody day and tear my legs out from under me. I have started walking on the other side of the street. Day before yesterday two basketballs were sitting in the corner where Dumb and Dumber used to lie in wait, and I was thinking maybe my fairy godmother had finally taken my side and turned them into something similar to pumpkins, but they were back the next day. Maybe they turn into basketballs at night. I don't claim to know.
It is a gray afternoon, almost evening.
On our way to the park there is a pitbull owner who is an idiot. He has two remaining puppies, spawn of a giant male, who are barely fenced in his backyard by a thin layer of hogwire. They pound the fence as we go by, and I know they'll come through it one bloody day and tear my legs out from under me. I have started walking on the other side of the street. Day before yesterday two basketballs were sitting in the corner where Dumb and Dumber used to lie in wait, and I was thinking maybe my fairy godmother had finally taken my side and turned them into something similar to pumpkins, but they were back the next day. Maybe they turn into basketballs at night. I don't claim to know.
It is a gray afternoon, almost evening.
Sunday, September 18, 2005
later same day
Sunday. I like to take trips and get back on Saturday so I have Sunday to myself. I'm sure I've said before how much I resent and despise Winco. I try to pronounce it Winko so it sounds more benign, but it is what it is: a big box store with no soul. I know that Freddies has no more soul, I know that Hagen and Zupan's and the shiny new yuppie store down on 20th and Division... New Seasons, that's it, I know they also are without soul, but they appear to be better. The prices are so much higher and I struggle with the ultimate good of where to shop and why I care. I am seduced by the shiny aisles of well polished merchandise. My favorite Winko moment so far: we are walking down the canned meat aisle (scary, eh?) and these two guys are handling small cans of tuna, the single-serving size cans, and one guy says to the other, "Hey, just like in prison!" The delight in his voice unnerved me. I am better than no one, though my tendency toward self congratulation really shines in the big W stores. I went grocery shopping today.
The house is as clean as I intend to make it today, and there are a few hours before the emmy's begin. I hope House gets something. I like that show. I liked it last year, anyway. I am a TV watcher, sue me. But, like most good programs, they took what was good about it last year (Dr. House's sarcasm), expanded it, and ruined the show. Hopefully just the first show is so over-the-top and we can return to the ordinary level of wit. We have to have dinner with a couple of friends who got married a year ago monday. They intend to eat the top of their cake today. AFter spaghetti. The cake was beautiful. It looked like it had been draped with white chocolate, but it was actually kind of a terrible, white chocolate-flavored taffy substance that had been sort of folded around the layers. It did not taste good. And I guess it was really expensive. I'd rather have a homemade cake that tasted great.
I don't want to go. They don't want to be married anymore already. She doesn't.
I do. My husband is out with his bicycles, trying to sell them in the waning sun of early autumn. He won't be able to do it much longer except on craigslist. You can see the bikes there if you want to.
I'm going to transplant daylilies.
The house is as clean as I intend to make it today, and there are a few hours before the emmy's begin. I hope House gets something. I like that show. I liked it last year, anyway. I am a TV watcher, sue me. But, like most good programs, they took what was good about it last year (Dr. House's sarcasm), expanded it, and ruined the show. Hopefully just the first show is so over-the-top and we can return to the ordinary level of wit. We have to have dinner with a couple of friends who got married a year ago monday. They intend to eat the top of their cake today. AFter spaghetti. The cake was beautiful. It looked like it had been draped with white chocolate, but it was actually kind of a terrible, white chocolate-flavored taffy substance that had been sort of folded around the layers. It did not taste good. And I guess it was really expensive. I'd rather have a homemade cake that tasted great.
I don't want to go. They don't want to be married anymore already. She doesn't.
I do. My husband is out with his bicycles, trying to sell them in the waning sun of early autumn. He won't be able to do it much longer except on craigslist. You can see the bikes there if you want to.
I'm going to transplant daylilies.
bicycle trip
Marky went to an estate sale and bought us 4 bikes for 60.00: 2 old schwinns and 2 matched old peugeots. So we went to see him and to get the bikes. It was wonderful to get my hands on that kid, to hug him and tell him how much I miss him. I'd have driven down there to get 4 used shoes, that's how bad I wanted to see him. And I hate used shoes. that's one thing about garage sales-- Other people shoes and underwear. Why would you sell that? Although, I have to admit to taking a free new pair from a yard sale here on Clinton street. Almost new red tennis shoes. I guess it depends. If I want something, I can overlook most anything.
So, we got the bikes, loaded them up and off we went. I had cleaned my closets and donated the rest to Jolene, my friend down south, and gave away about 2000$ worth of stuff I haven't worn for the longest time. It is so hard to do. But I must make room. Not for more, but to be able to see what I have. Thus my favorite sign: You Can't Have Everything... Where Would You Put It? Truly.
I didn't get to see Lorretta, but she has a new house, and there has never been a woman more deserving of a yard than Lorretta. It is a sweet blue house on a quiet street and the yard is enviable. The potential is huge. My first of many bits of advice: have those boys pull the blackberries to the root and pour kerosene on them. (Not on the boys. And... Do not light the kerosene when finished.) I know this is probably terrible advice from an eco-standpoint. But so are blackberries. I think one of the oddest things I ever heard was the man who moved to the Rogue Valley and planted blackberries in his yard. Why, God, why??? You gotta stay on top of blackberries or they'll take your shit. They consume houses and roads. At the end of the human race blackberries and cockroaches will be the only living things. And I love blackberries. I make the best pie. No spices. Just berries and sugar and butter and flour and a tiny pinch of salt. So, lose the berries. I wanted to bring Lorretta a start of my yellow "Chicago Star" daylily, but our escape from the city was a bit dashed, and forgot at the last minute. I'll get it next time. I have high hopes for that home. It has been more than a long time coming in so many ways.
Let's see.... the trip. Sid rode in the front seat because we had to take my truck, so the front is covered in little white hairs. Stinky. We stayed at Marky's house and he was such a great host. He cleaned the house (and from the layers of dust elsewhere, not a frequent event), bought a stupid movie that wasn't available for rent: Hitchhiker's Guide... stupid. We had asked him to rent it and didnt' even watch it. He bought milk and cookies for me. Mom's favorite, he remembered. He forgot the part about diabetes. But it was so sweet of him to try to recreate our comfort, our home. I know he is uncomfortable with my new husband, even though he knows him a little, and trying so hard to make a good impression. That he wants to make a good impression impresses the shit outta me. He is doing so well, such a man now. So handsome and capable of doing life. He told fish stories, and they told fish stories, and it will take time for them to know each other. The men in my life. And for them to know and like each other is so important to me.
We headed out of town through Ruch, and ran into Bob and Patricia at the Fireman's Yard Sale. It was a clusterfuck of activity, donated crap, and rain. The early rain was welcome in the dustbowl of a southern Oregon September, but it did not bode well for sales: it poured. There were tents set up, but to little avail. Books were soaked, piles of baskets and cloth furniture dripping. I found a bowl. One. And off we went to the biker show at Provolt. Provolt used to be a narrow bridge in the road, but now it is a wide bridge, modern and sleek, and not nearly so beautiful or dangerous. The bikers were old, the bikes: okay. Nice, black, ordinary. And the cheap biker crap for sale was no different than ever. My least favorite T-shirt: "50,000 battered women and I'm still eating mine plain" Ah, bikers. So low on the food chain. They all looked alike: gray beards and handlebar moustaches, big bellies and bad taste. The old women in poorly fitting black leathers on a hot day. We looked better back in the day.
And it was north to Portland, gas 3.00 a gallon and Sid tired of the front seat and me tired of Sid. It is good to be home.
So, we got the bikes, loaded them up and off we went. I had cleaned my closets and donated the rest to Jolene, my friend down south, and gave away about 2000$ worth of stuff I haven't worn for the longest time. It is so hard to do. But I must make room. Not for more, but to be able to see what I have. Thus my favorite sign: You Can't Have Everything... Where Would You Put It? Truly.
I didn't get to see Lorretta, but she has a new house, and there has never been a woman more deserving of a yard than Lorretta. It is a sweet blue house on a quiet street and the yard is enviable. The potential is huge. My first of many bits of advice: have those boys pull the blackberries to the root and pour kerosene on them. (Not on the boys. And... Do not light the kerosene when finished.) I know this is probably terrible advice from an eco-standpoint. But so are blackberries. I think one of the oddest things I ever heard was the man who moved to the Rogue Valley and planted blackberries in his yard. Why, God, why??? You gotta stay on top of blackberries or they'll take your shit. They consume houses and roads. At the end of the human race blackberries and cockroaches will be the only living things. And I love blackberries. I make the best pie. No spices. Just berries and sugar and butter and flour and a tiny pinch of salt. So, lose the berries. I wanted to bring Lorretta a start of my yellow "Chicago Star" daylily, but our escape from the city was a bit dashed, and forgot at the last minute. I'll get it next time. I have high hopes for that home. It has been more than a long time coming in so many ways.
Let's see.... the trip. Sid rode in the front seat because we had to take my truck, so the front is covered in little white hairs. Stinky. We stayed at Marky's house and he was such a great host. He cleaned the house (and from the layers of dust elsewhere, not a frequent event), bought a stupid movie that wasn't available for rent: Hitchhiker's Guide... stupid. We had asked him to rent it and didnt' even watch it. He bought milk and cookies for me. Mom's favorite, he remembered. He forgot the part about diabetes. But it was so sweet of him to try to recreate our comfort, our home. I know he is uncomfortable with my new husband, even though he knows him a little, and trying so hard to make a good impression. That he wants to make a good impression impresses the shit outta me. He is doing so well, such a man now. So handsome and capable of doing life. He told fish stories, and they told fish stories, and it will take time for them to know each other. The men in my life. And for them to know and like each other is so important to me.
We headed out of town through Ruch, and ran into Bob and Patricia at the Fireman's Yard Sale. It was a clusterfuck of activity, donated crap, and rain. The early rain was welcome in the dustbowl of a southern Oregon September, but it did not bode well for sales: it poured. There were tents set up, but to little avail. Books were soaked, piles of baskets and cloth furniture dripping. I found a bowl. One. And off we went to the biker show at Provolt. Provolt used to be a narrow bridge in the road, but now it is a wide bridge, modern and sleek, and not nearly so beautiful or dangerous. The bikers were old, the bikes: okay. Nice, black, ordinary. And the cheap biker crap for sale was no different than ever. My least favorite T-shirt: "50,000 battered women and I'm still eating mine plain" Ah, bikers. So low on the food chain. They all looked alike: gray beards and handlebar moustaches, big bellies and bad taste. The old women in poorly fitting black leathers on a hot day. We looked better back in the day.
And it was north to Portland, gas 3.00 a gallon and Sid tired of the front seat and me tired of Sid. It is good to be home.
Sunday, September 11, 2005
disaster birthdays
I was watching the news, as I do, gasping from time to time at the boob who is in charge of the friggin' world, and I wonder what kind of party he intends to throw this year for the tragedy of 911. This should be a big day for him. I doubt he can recoup his image quite this quickly, an image which is body-bagged at this point. But I have no doubt that they'll spin out of the mire though. They're good at that.
I am so sick of political responses to human tragedy, for the irreparably slow response to the hurricane in the absence of political gain, or the perception of gain. I mean, if I was president, I think it would look good to give a shit. I wonder if we, sedated nation, will ever find a way to punish this administration. I am all about the assignation of blame, but not quite so quickly. When democrats start throwing shit balls before the rain stops, when they should be way down south in dixie humping bags of sand into the yawning gap of Lake Ponchartrain -- it makes me sad and certain that we have lost our way. Maybe we lost it a long long time ago. Maybe we haven't found it yet. Bush is an idiot. Yes. But while he golfs, the nation sleeps. Who is more to blame? I sit on high ground and do nothing but vote and feel the impotence of the despotic regime.
On the news last night was a child who's birthday falls on September 11th. Not 2001, but just the same, her parents are tortured, as people who have too much time on their hands can be, over whether or not to throw her a party on this dark day. She lives in NY, afterall.
Fuck that. Party on. There is more to life than the parade of tragedies. If this were to be the gold standard, think how many days would be omitted from the birthday calendar: Hiroshima, the sunami, the earthquake in India, or do we not weight those non-white tragedies with the same depth of concern.
It is a cool day in portland. I am delighted by the weather change. Victims of the hurricane have elected not to come here. I'm not sure why. Oregon City asked nervously whether they would be allowed to move freely in their community. White welcome mat, eh? And in the wake of it all, the Red Cross is marketing "to-go bags" little red totes with everything you need in the event of your own personal Katrina. I wonder if it includes mace for the rapists.
I am so sick of political responses to human tragedy, for the irreparably slow response to the hurricane in the absence of political gain, or the perception of gain. I mean, if I was president, I think it would look good to give a shit. I wonder if we, sedated nation, will ever find a way to punish this administration. I am all about the assignation of blame, but not quite so quickly. When democrats start throwing shit balls before the rain stops, when they should be way down south in dixie humping bags of sand into the yawning gap of Lake Ponchartrain -- it makes me sad and certain that we have lost our way. Maybe we lost it a long long time ago. Maybe we haven't found it yet. Bush is an idiot. Yes. But while he golfs, the nation sleeps. Who is more to blame? I sit on high ground and do nothing but vote and feel the impotence of the despotic regime.
On the news last night was a child who's birthday falls on September 11th. Not 2001, but just the same, her parents are tortured, as people who have too much time on their hands can be, over whether or not to throw her a party on this dark day. She lives in NY, afterall.
Fuck that. Party on. There is more to life than the parade of tragedies. If this were to be the gold standard, think how many days would be omitted from the birthday calendar: Hiroshima, the sunami, the earthquake in India, or do we not weight those non-white tragedies with the same depth of concern.
It is a cool day in portland. I am delighted by the weather change. Victims of the hurricane have elected not to come here. I'm not sure why. Oregon City asked nervously whether they would be allowed to move freely in their community. White welcome mat, eh? And in the wake of it all, the Red Cross is marketing "to-go bags" little red totes with everything you need in the event of your own personal Katrina. I wonder if it includes mace for the rapists.
Monday, September 05, 2005
solitude
...as we flew around Sauvie Island, 90 miles an hour, he stopped: 5 roses for 5 bucks, and we stuffed them in the knapsack, and now, in my living room, they are opening perfectly, the color of sunset, this Labor day-evening -- a sweet smelling reminder of my deep contentment in this life. I was reading, am reading, a book by Sue Miller. It is the one thing I have not completed this weekend that I intended to. The main character was accused of being boring because she settled for contentment. Clearly, she had not lived my life. Contentment is the highest form of praise I can assign to any moment, or series of moments. Absence of chaos. Bliss.
We ate breakfast out two mornings in a row.
We went for a bicycle ride Saturday morning, and this morning, but it was Saturday when we drove by the Road Kill Table. I spied it: a semi-mission style table, a weathered top (maybe a door nailed to the supports) that crumbled away with the slightest pressure. In my neighborhood, people just set stuff they don't want on the curb, and someone generally takes it away. My husband, hoping I'd forget about it, drove on past, but I could not forget it. That's how I know I want something: I keep thinking about it. So, we circled back around, made sure the owners were indeed letting the table go, and once again, I have a new treasure. We brought it home (I did) and Kurt made a new top for it. It is beautiful, and will be a perfect replacement for the too-frilly table I have used for about five years, that I HAD to have, that I searched far and wide and paid too much for at an antique store in Bandon. I am now rewarded with a free table. Buying wood for the top was not exactly free. Makes me glad I am not building a house.
We watched old movies: The Old Man and the Sea and Whatever Happened to Baby Jane. I remembered The Old Man... as a better movie, Spencer Tracy a better actor. I didn't like the narration, and Hemingway's writing seemed (sue me) self-conscious and repetitious. We also watched Megalodon and Monster in Law, just to keep things even.
I'll never be published. I have sinned against literature.
We ate breakfast out two mornings in a row.
We went for a bicycle ride Saturday morning, and this morning, but it was Saturday when we drove by the Road Kill Table. I spied it: a semi-mission style table, a weathered top (maybe a door nailed to the supports) that crumbled away with the slightest pressure. In my neighborhood, people just set stuff they don't want on the curb, and someone generally takes it away. My husband, hoping I'd forget about it, drove on past, but I could not forget it. That's how I know I want something: I keep thinking about it. So, we circled back around, made sure the owners were indeed letting the table go, and once again, I have a new treasure. We brought it home (I did) and Kurt made a new top for it. It is beautiful, and will be a perfect replacement for the too-frilly table I have used for about five years, that I HAD to have, that I searched far and wide and paid too much for at an antique store in Bandon. I am now rewarded with a free table. Buying wood for the top was not exactly free. Makes me glad I am not building a house.
We watched old movies: The Old Man and the Sea and Whatever Happened to Baby Jane. I remembered The Old Man... as a better movie, Spencer Tracy a better actor. I didn't like the narration, and Hemingway's writing seemed (sue me) self-conscious and repetitious. We also watched Megalodon and Monster in Law, just to keep things even.
I'll never be published. I have sinned against literature.
labor
I am resisting social obligations on this Labor Day. I don't think it is going to work. Resistance is futile. What's new?
My husband is in a white chocolate and pecan pancake coma on the couch and I am, after a crabcake benedict, feeling invigorated and accepting of diabetes as my lot in life. What a trooper, eh? Give me the inevitable, the unavoidable, and I will, upon pain of death, wander toward acceptance. Shit.
It is a beautiful weekend, and I am so fortunate to be alive, dry and with adequate housing. I hear that one of the abandoned (de-funded) schools is going to serve as housing for the people who have been displaced by the hurricane. I keep hoping this next thing, this next travesty, and the failure of big government to respond except for photo-ops, will result in impeachment. I mean, this is the south. This is his home. This should matter. I wonder. I will try to offer something to the people who land in Oregon, for however long.
We took down the pool and re-seeded the perfect circle in our back yard. I pounded stakes and strung caution tape around them in the hopes that Sid will take the hint. He is a little thick when it comes to relieving himself. Any ol' place will do.
In today's paper was a picture of a small parade down the main street of New Orleans. Now, that is heart.
My husband is in a white chocolate and pecan pancake coma on the couch and I am, after a crabcake benedict, feeling invigorated and accepting of diabetes as my lot in life. What a trooper, eh? Give me the inevitable, the unavoidable, and I will, upon pain of death, wander toward acceptance. Shit.
It is a beautiful weekend, and I am so fortunate to be alive, dry and with adequate housing. I hear that one of the abandoned (de-funded) schools is going to serve as housing for the people who have been displaced by the hurricane. I keep hoping this next thing, this next travesty, and the failure of big government to respond except for photo-ops, will result in impeachment. I mean, this is the south. This is his home. This should matter. I wonder. I will try to offer something to the people who land in Oregon, for however long.
We took down the pool and re-seeded the perfect circle in our back yard. I pounded stakes and strung caution tape around them in the hopes that Sid will take the hint. He is a little thick when it comes to relieving himself. Any ol' place will do.
In today's paper was a picture of a small parade down the main street of New Orleans. Now, that is heart.
Friday, September 02, 2005
perennials
Its that time of year. Pruning, edging, cutting back. It always feels destructive, and I like that feeling, but it is a time to be brave: they always come back better than they were.
I played hooky today. God that feels good. I drove over to SW Portland, a place I have been to but have never driven in, and found my way home. I purchased a perfectly brand new old set of matched Peugeot bikes. His and hers. Purchased in Paris some 20-30 years ago. I wonder what Peugeot means? They are beautiful, tires like razor-blades. Thin bikes. Road bikes. So fast you'll never need a kickstand bikes. I guess people with those bikes never stop because they never seem to have kickstands. What is that about? I mean, if the weight of a kickstand is going to break you, shit, do a few more push-ups, Lance. Anyway, I got the bikes cheap, and drove off to find a frame for my ship painting. I am having one made. It seems silly to spend 60.00 on a frame for a 5.00 road kill picture, but I love it. It is treasure.
Once home again, it was hard to get off the couch, but the Kaiser hospital commercials resonated in my mind: the couch is a carb the couch is a carb the couch is a carb. And I've always called it a vortex.
So I made some more coffee (which is also bad, but hell, you be perfect) and set off with the pruners. At a yard sale, we found a really tall, long handled limb-pruner which is really slick to use. Whoever figured that one out was smart. But today, I just needed the little ones. I cut back the Spanish lavendar, the roses, the slug-munched violets from springtime, and left the front bed with a bad haircut and two full bins of clippings. I still need to get to the lemon cucumbers and the roses out back. My hydrangea is blooming. It is my first. I've always loved them: single, ready-made bouquets, irridescent blue, more beautiful dry than fresh. And I guess that since I planted mine late, it is blooming late. I figured if it is a spring flowering plant and you plant it in the fall, it will bloom in the spring anyway; like fish -- they know what season it is. They don't get confused and spawn in the winter. But maybe I'm comparing apples and oranges. Probably. Everything seems a little too connected to me on the days I play hooky. The whole world makes sense.
So my flower is blooming. And it is all mine. There was a blossom on it when I planted it, but that was a hot-house flower. I can't take credit for it. I didn't kill it -- I can take credit for that.
So, it is Labor Day Weekend. We have nothing planned. That is, we PLAN TO DO NOTHING. We just want to yard sale, fix bikes, and make peach cobbler. (I am pretending not to be diabetic.) I want to read a whole book (Sue Miller, "The World Below"), put away my summer clothes, get out my sweaters, gather yard sale stuff for a weekend when other people aren't selling all their cool shit, and relax with my husband. ALONE.
I played hooky today. God that feels good. I drove over to SW Portland, a place I have been to but have never driven in, and found my way home. I purchased a perfectly brand new old set of matched Peugeot bikes. His and hers. Purchased in Paris some 20-30 years ago. I wonder what Peugeot means? They are beautiful, tires like razor-blades. Thin bikes. Road bikes. So fast you'll never need a kickstand bikes. I guess people with those bikes never stop because they never seem to have kickstands. What is that about? I mean, if the weight of a kickstand is going to break you, shit, do a few more push-ups, Lance. Anyway, I got the bikes cheap, and drove off to find a frame for my ship painting. I am having one made. It seems silly to spend 60.00 on a frame for a 5.00 road kill picture, but I love it. It is treasure.
Once home again, it was hard to get off the couch, but the Kaiser hospital commercials resonated in my mind: the couch is a carb the couch is a carb the couch is a carb. And I've always called it a vortex.
So I made some more coffee (which is also bad, but hell, you be perfect) and set off with the pruners. At a yard sale, we found a really tall, long handled limb-pruner which is really slick to use. Whoever figured that one out was smart. But today, I just needed the little ones. I cut back the Spanish lavendar, the roses, the slug-munched violets from springtime, and left the front bed with a bad haircut and two full bins of clippings. I still need to get to the lemon cucumbers and the roses out back. My hydrangea is blooming. It is my first. I've always loved them: single, ready-made bouquets, irridescent blue, more beautiful dry than fresh. And I guess that since I planted mine late, it is blooming late. I figured if it is a spring flowering plant and you plant it in the fall, it will bloom in the spring anyway; like fish -- they know what season it is. They don't get confused and spawn in the winter. But maybe I'm comparing apples and oranges. Probably. Everything seems a little too connected to me on the days I play hooky. The whole world makes sense.
So my flower is blooming. And it is all mine. There was a blossom on it when I planted it, but that was a hot-house flower. I can't take credit for it. I didn't kill it -- I can take credit for that.
So, it is Labor Day Weekend. We have nothing planned. That is, we PLAN TO DO NOTHING. We just want to yard sale, fix bikes, and make peach cobbler. (I am pretending not to be diabetic.) I want to read a whole book (Sue Miller, "The World Below"), put away my summer clothes, get out my sweaters, gather yard sale stuff for a weekend when other people aren't selling all their cool shit, and relax with my husband. ALONE.
Sunday, August 28, 2005
movie stars and yard sales
It has become our custom to rise early on Saturday and go yard saling. I read a zine called something like "trash to treasure," written by a yard sale enthusiast who attempted to describe various yard sale types, behavior of yard sailors (my term), and general what-can-I-expect? information. She missed a few things, but it was good overall, and I hope I haven't lost it. I'd like to include her url here. Well, maybe later. We are the classic yard sale couple: my husband looks at bikes and tools, I look at stuff. I love stuff. My favorite new saying:
You Can't Have Everything.... Where Would You Put It?
But this does not deter me. I try to follow the "one thing in, one thing out" rule of clutter management, but it kind of goes like this: One giant box of unsorted linens in, one broken coffee cup out. So from the perspective of mass alone, I fail. But if you've been reading along, I am no stranger to failure. I embrace it.
Okay, so what did we find on our tour yesterday? I know you're wondering.
The great thing is finding a real yard sale. By my definition, a real yard sale is one where you can get a Picasso for a quarter. Everything should cost a quarter. "How much is that?" A quarter. Now that's a yard sale. It's where the hosts are nothing but willing to make that deal. And negotiating the price is important. If they tell you the price is five dollars, and you don't ask if they'll take three, you're just not trying very hard.
The Find: For about 30 years I've been looking for a certain print. It is of a three-masted ship in a storm at night. You know the one. It's famous. And I've never found one for sale.
Until yesterday.
We drive by this yard sale in Sellwood, and there is cool shit strung from curb to porch: old shit. And I wonder if this is a yard sale or an antique sale. There is a big difference. In an antique sale they have the same stuff, but know its resale value. These guys had no idea. I always wonder why yard sales are held. There are, in my time-tested opinion, three valid reasons to have a yard sale: clutter, moving and death. This one seemed like death. A woman died, I'm betting. She, if alive, would never have sold this stuff.
So there at curbside is my painting. Now, it is not in mint condition, but I don't care. There it is. I love it. I must have it. It is in a cheesy gold frame that is held tenuously together with pink ribbon. We coast to the curb and I jump out of the truck as quickly as I can, before someone else will scoop up my treasure. Finally, I have it in my hands. My painting. My ship on a stormy sea. You can just see the moon through the clouds. One light on deck. I think they are coming home.
So I ask the guy how much for the painting. He considers my question, says, "Eight dollars." I would pay eighty, but he doesn't know this. "How 'bout five," I counter. "It's pretty trashed." He agrees. I hand him five bucks, squealing with internal joy.
I have so much shit that it is tough to make me this happy with material stuff. I have everything I want. Except this painting. And now I have it. My world is complete.
There was other great stuff, but not in the same category. And the painting is trashed. I'll have to reframe it. Clean it up a bit. No problem. I am inspired.
So off we went to Lake Oswego. Downtown Lake Oswego is the Rodeo Drive of the metro area. All of the well-tended people, just out of therapy, crowd street cafes, the lakefront. All too posh. We wanted to buy from the rich and, well, that's it. That's what we wanted to do. But it is such a protected community that they don't allow garage sale signs unless you use their own: a nicely designed, circular sign with print so small you'd have to slow down to find out where to go. We concluded that these guys don't sell, they donate.
So we left.
On the way out of town was a huge sale. They are identifed as such: Big Sale, Huge Sale, Gigantic Sale. I wonder what kind of turn out we'd get if I posted something like: "Smallish Sale, Okay Stuff That We Don't Want But Will Sell To You For As Much As We Can Get." I just wonder.
So there we were, picking amongst the ruins of someone else's life, going through the Christmas decorations and tupperware. We began to negotiate for a convection oven, the one designed by the Galloping Gourmet. It was only ten bucks. There were three women who seemed to be hosting the sale, one very old with Beverly Hills makeup: heavy too-tan base, false eyelashes and heavy liner. Her hair a Marilyn style platinum wig, her breasts high and firm. And very big. Looking great for an eighty year old woman. I don't know how we got on the subject, but she began telling us that she used to be the girl who held the curtain back for the Jackie Gleason Show. Turns out she was an old Hollywood actress, had hung out with Sinatra, had doubled for Marilyn Monroe. You could tell at a glance that she was once a stunning woman and had defied gravity to stall time. Her name was Lisa Hall. She need us, strangers, to know who she had been. And it made me think of all the people I have been, and how important they all are to me. I listened to her, and thanked her for her stories. I do love a story.
That is one of the great things about yard saling: The human beings. Like the guy who quoted the prices like this. "Two bits." I asked him what that meant. It is a quarter. I knew that, somewhere in my distant childhood memory. I could almost hear my father and my uncle, both long gone, who described value in the same way. Like the woman who sold us her radiant orange TREK while telling us about her back injury and subsequent use of Methadone. Or the old woman and her daughter Janice ("a little slow but not retarded") who sold her 6 speed bike because it made her nervous.
Anyway, there is so much to tell, but I'm tired of typing and the grandkids are up. It is Sunday morning on Clinton Street and there must be a sale somewhere.
Tuesday, August 16, 2005
closure
I don't know if it is true that you can't go home again, but I know that the times I have tried, it hasn't worked out that well. Transition is a funny thing. For instance, I swore I'd never marry the man I am so happy to be married to, then, suddenly, it was the only thing that made sense. I never believed (another example) that I could buy a house, that I was a lifelong renter, that I was in that category, that there are two kinds of people in the world: owners and renters, like lords and serfs, and I was a serf by birth. But I bought my sweet little house. I vowed I would never move, that it was MY HOUSE, my one and only house. I decried the real estate whores who buy only to sell again, who have no sense of home or place.... but love and distance combined and I have moved, only I then vowed never to sell. But now, I have sold my house, and at a tidy profit, and when I was in the valley this weekend, I stopped by for one last walk through while it is still mine.
I'm not sure now what I expected, but I think it did help me along toward closure of a distant-seeming period of my life. I walked through the house and looked at the kitchen, the perfect cottage kitchen that I designed on graph paper. I stared at the two perfect colors of green paint I mixed by hand because I just couldn't find the right swatch at Home Despot. I mixed the dark wall paint three times before I got it right.
I walked through the rooms where I spent the last years of my single life, the life I was certain would always be mine alone. And it was hard to be single that long. But the thing about the passage of time is that all of that banging against the walls of what is, what is, what is.... eventually finds acceptance. And that acceptance seems to be the key that opens the door to what is next.
And this is next.
Retrospect is good for the soul. I walked through my back yard and told Elinor, the girl who lives in my house, that my dog Spencer is buried in the far back corner and that if she plowed it up, there would be a gray wool blanket wrapped around old bones. I told her that the Peace rose in the opposite corner of the yard was planted for my mother and that the ornamental cherry tree was for my brother Marc when he died. I told her that my son built the winding rock path that leads to nowhere, and that the gardens weren't always there.
I needed someone to know. I didn't need her to care, but someone needed to know. It is how I am certain that I was there.
I have disappeared from that life, and selling my house makes it complete. But like deals are, it is not done, and the chickens are not counted.
I'm not sure now what I expected, but I think it did help me along toward closure of a distant-seeming period of my life. I walked through the house and looked at the kitchen, the perfect cottage kitchen that I designed on graph paper. I stared at the two perfect colors of green paint I mixed by hand because I just couldn't find the right swatch at Home Despot. I mixed the dark wall paint three times before I got it right.
I walked through the rooms where I spent the last years of my single life, the life I was certain would always be mine alone. And it was hard to be single that long. But the thing about the passage of time is that all of that banging against the walls of what is, what is, what is.... eventually finds acceptance. And that acceptance seems to be the key that opens the door to what is next.
And this is next.
Retrospect is good for the soul. I walked through my back yard and told Elinor, the girl who lives in my house, that my dog Spencer is buried in the far back corner and that if she plowed it up, there would be a gray wool blanket wrapped around old bones. I told her that the Peace rose in the opposite corner of the yard was planted for my mother and that the ornamental cherry tree was for my brother Marc when he died. I told her that my son built the winding rock path that leads to nowhere, and that the gardens weren't always there.
I needed someone to know. I didn't need her to care, but someone needed to know. It is how I am certain that I was there.
I have disappeared from that life, and selling my house makes it complete. But like deals are, it is not done, and the chickens are not counted.
Monday, August 08, 2005
sid
Today is Sid's first birthday!! We got him peanut butter dog cookies and a new cloth frisbee. He was the hit of the Hosford pack, as usual.
Monday, August 01, 2005
weekends
Weekend one:
My ordinary quiet Sunday morning on Clinton Street was punctuated by the high-decibel rant from the nutbag that lives next door. It had been going on all night, and by morning, I was ready to call the police. A drunk crazy man with a knife is what the police are all about. So they took him away in cuffs, and told me they'd only keep him for about four hours. Just long enough to really piss him off. He'll be back, I'm sure.
My truck has been keyed three times lately, and my neighbor Sarah (the sane one, on the sane side of our house) just had her car windows blasted out. We want to move to the hills. While talking to Sarah about crime in the neighborhood, I discovered that she designs Pendleton blankets for a living.
Weekend two:
We drove to the beach. I wanted to get out of dodge for a night, so we stayed with friends in Newberg, then headed out early saturday for the coast. I'm still in lots of pain, and things like riding in a car and turning while sleeping really get me down, so it was a short trip. There and back. Occasionally I just need to see the water moving in and out, mind of its own, to remember yet again, that I am an ant on a log, moving down a raging river. Occasionally, I believe I can steer the log, effect its movement in some way, but one glimpse of the ocean and I remember my place in the great scheme of things. I am here.
Some things I saw this weekend:
In Tillamook, the highschool ball team is called "the Cheesemakers." I think this is an unnecessary bow to industry. The least sporty team name I've run across. "Go Cheesemakers!!" Really.
We were walking on Hammond Beach and happened across a washed up bridal bouquet, lavendar ribbons and lace, tying lilies and has-been daisies into a sodden wad, washed up on the bank where the Columbia meets the sea. Now there is fodder for a mini-series if I ever saw one. I'll write it. My husband wants to move to Hammond and open a restaurant called Hammond Eggs, beside it, an all cotton clothing store called Cotton Fever. Old Junkies. Whatcha gonna do?
And speaking of eggs, we drove far and wide to find the perfect place for breakfast. Our goal was to find fare similar to that of the yuppie haven Henry's (down the street) with roasted red potatoes, perfect eggs, toasted hard sour dough, homemade freezer jam.... nestled in a cove on the Oregon coast. But we did not find it. We had bad ham, bad eggs and no choice in bread. White. White bread. Old white bread. In Garibaldi.
On another note: My son is legal for the first time in about 10 years. I've encouraged this, based on the Dylan (Bob) quote: "You gotta be honest to live outside the law." So, he can drive now, only it takes a breathalyzer to start his car. That brings the family disease into stark relief for me. Heartbreaking. He is trying to figure out now how many beers before it kicks in.... Of course, I have offered the unheardof suggestion: You could always NOT DRINK. But in my family, that is akin to treason. We Drink.
I bleached the shit outta my hair.
My ordinary quiet Sunday morning on Clinton Street was punctuated by the high-decibel rant from the nutbag that lives next door. It had been going on all night, and by morning, I was ready to call the police. A drunk crazy man with a knife is what the police are all about. So they took him away in cuffs, and told me they'd only keep him for about four hours. Just long enough to really piss him off. He'll be back, I'm sure.
My truck has been keyed three times lately, and my neighbor Sarah (the sane one, on the sane side of our house) just had her car windows blasted out. We want to move to the hills. While talking to Sarah about crime in the neighborhood, I discovered that she designs Pendleton blankets for a living.
Weekend two:
We drove to the beach. I wanted to get out of dodge for a night, so we stayed with friends in Newberg, then headed out early saturday for the coast. I'm still in lots of pain, and things like riding in a car and turning while sleeping really get me down, so it was a short trip. There and back. Occasionally I just need to see the water moving in and out, mind of its own, to remember yet again, that I am an ant on a log, moving down a raging river. Occasionally, I believe I can steer the log, effect its movement in some way, but one glimpse of the ocean and I remember my place in the great scheme of things. I am here.
Some things I saw this weekend:
In Tillamook, the highschool ball team is called "the Cheesemakers." I think this is an unnecessary bow to industry. The least sporty team name I've run across. "Go Cheesemakers!!" Really.
We were walking on Hammond Beach and happened across a washed up bridal bouquet, lavendar ribbons and lace, tying lilies and has-been daisies into a sodden wad, washed up on the bank where the Columbia meets the sea. Now there is fodder for a mini-series if I ever saw one. I'll write it. My husband wants to move to Hammond and open a restaurant called Hammond Eggs, beside it, an all cotton clothing store called Cotton Fever. Old Junkies. Whatcha gonna do?
And speaking of eggs, we drove far and wide to find the perfect place for breakfast. Our goal was to find fare similar to that of the yuppie haven Henry's (down the street) with roasted red potatoes, perfect eggs, toasted hard sour dough, homemade freezer jam.... nestled in a cove on the Oregon coast. But we did not find it. We had bad ham, bad eggs and no choice in bread. White. White bread. Old white bread. In Garibaldi.
On another note: My son is legal for the first time in about 10 years. I've encouraged this, based on the Dylan (Bob) quote: "You gotta be honest to live outside the law." So, he can drive now, only it takes a breathalyzer to start his car. That brings the family disease into stark relief for me. Heartbreaking. He is trying to figure out now how many beers before it kicks in.... Of course, I have offered the unheardof suggestion: You could always NOT DRINK. But in my family, that is akin to treason. We Drink.
I bleached the shit outta my hair.
Saturday, July 30, 2005
personal implosion
Well, I guess the good news is that I didn't die. Last post, I was happily poolside, bemoaning the pending sale of my first home. Not really bemoaning, just reflecting on the chimeric (a word?) nature of my life and times. Then, unannounced, unpredictably, there boiled a problem of surgical proportion....
It was a dark and stormy night. It wasn't. It was a fine day and my stomach began to ache.
Its funny -- I don't know if it is because I called in sick too many days at work, or played hooky too many schooldays, but any time I get sick, I just feel wrong and guilty. I am rarely able to assess my situation for what it is and go on home. I just keep working. And the problem now is that when I am at work, I am many, many miles from home or help. So, by the time it dawned on my that the ache was indeed a problem, I was shit outta luck and rush hour was on in Tigard. Me in my little Subaru, I pushed homeward through the pain.
I am so dramatic. But it hurt freakin' bad. By the time I got home, it was pretty clear that something serious was happening to my one and only bod. A call to the doctor confirmed my assessment and we were off to the hospital.
A ruptured appendix. Four days in Providence and three more scars. Its a collection now.
Notable events: Kitty the night nurse. What is it about night shift workers? I mean really. This biatch was so mean. She was more committed to my exercise program 4 hours out of surgery than Oprah's personal trainer. It was midnight for God's sake. Midnight in the hospital, me -- cut "from asshole to brisket" as my sainted grandmother used to say-- and Kitty was on duty.
I have had somewhat of a revelation about pain medication. And with my various surgeries and related and unrelated narcotic expertise, I think I would know. So, here it is (you might want to write this down) : It doesn't matter what you take as long as you like it. Nothing really works. Some just make you feel a little happier.
They started me off with morphine, which I hate, except that it was the impetus for the Stones' song, Sister Morphine, which I love, and it always looks like fun in the old confederate soldier movies on the battlefield. But it isn't fun at all. I read an article by (speaking of the Stones) Keith Richards, bemoaning (my word for the day) the absence of drugs that make you feel good. (A complaint aimed primarily at Prozac and other buzz-less substitutes for good ol' narcotics.) At any rate, there I was, armload of morphine and ... story of my life, it is not enough. When I have said this at various times during my drug-inspired life, I have been lying, but NOT THIS TIME. shit it hurt. So they gave me more. But that's the thing with morphine. There is not enough. It never feels good. And I guess I'd have to admit here that feeling good is in large part my goal. To not feel bad.
So we moved on to dilaudid (pronounced by many: dilotta). Now historically, this one has been on my hit list for years. My list of favorite all-time drugs. But that was back in the shootin' days. I remember selling them at a local bar (they used to bring 25 bucks apiece), and offering one to Jesse the Fly Fisherman. I said, "Hey. You want to buy a dilotta?" He said, "Dilotta? Is that like a buritto?" I said, "Yeah, only more expensive. A dilotta bell-grande." Poor Jesse. He had really long hair but really wasn't in the same junkie groove as the rest of us. Anyway, prior to this hospitalization, I don't think I had ever actually taken dilaudid by mouth. Pretty sure not, or I wouldn't have been so happy with their second choice. It made me mad as a hatter. Madness, not anger, tinged with agitation and verbosity. You can imagine. Anyway, they sent me home with sixty (count 'em) dilaudid, and like a good junkie, I took them as ordered for about 24 hours and finally figured out they were making me insane. Then we flushed them down the sink. 25 bucks apiece. I don't care how long you been clean... that hurts.
So I called the doctor back and said they were too strong. And this is the point of my story. We addicts DO recover. Was a time when the notion of a drug that was "too strong" did not exist for me. The closer I could push myself, my body, to that perfect edge where death meets life, the more successful I felt. The near-death experience was my goal. Daily. So, I backed up to vicodin, which I can take or leave, which makes me a little bit happy, and takes pretty good care of the pain.
And that's the story of july 21-29 in my life. I'm home, in pain, and healing.
There has been a firm offer on my house. And counter offers coming in. Whoopee. It is going to sell.
It was a dark and stormy night. It wasn't. It was a fine day and my stomach began to ache.
Its funny -- I don't know if it is because I called in sick too many days at work, or played hooky too many schooldays, but any time I get sick, I just feel wrong and guilty. I am rarely able to assess my situation for what it is and go on home. I just keep working. And the problem now is that when I am at work, I am many, many miles from home or help. So, by the time it dawned on my that the ache was indeed a problem, I was shit outta luck and rush hour was on in Tigard. Me in my little Subaru, I pushed homeward through the pain.
I am so dramatic. But it hurt freakin' bad. By the time I got home, it was pretty clear that something serious was happening to my one and only bod. A call to the doctor confirmed my assessment and we were off to the hospital.
A ruptured appendix. Four days in Providence and three more scars. Its a collection now.
Notable events: Kitty the night nurse. What is it about night shift workers? I mean really. This biatch was so mean. She was more committed to my exercise program 4 hours out of surgery than Oprah's personal trainer. It was midnight for God's sake. Midnight in the hospital, me -- cut "from asshole to brisket" as my sainted grandmother used to say-- and Kitty was on duty.
I have had somewhat of a revelation about pain medication. And with my various surgeries and related and unrelated narcotic expertise, I think I would know. So, here it is (you might want to write this down) : It doesn't matter what you take as long as you like it. Nothing really works. Some just make you feel a little happier.
They started me off with morphine, which I hate, except that it was the impetus for the Stones' song, Sister Morphine, which I love, and it always looks like fun in the old confederate soldier movies on the battlefield. But it isn't fun at all. I read an article by (speaking of the Stones) Keith Richards, bemoaning (my word for the day) the absence of drugs that make you feel good. (A complaint aimed primarily at Prozac and other buzz-less substitutes for good ol' narcotics.) At any rate, there I was, armload of morphine and ... story of my life, it is not enough. When I have said this at various times during my drug-inspired life, I have been lying, but NOT THIS TIME. shit it hurt. So they gave me more. But that's the thing with morphine. There is not enough. It never feels good. And I guess I'd have to admit here that feeling good is in large part my goal. To not feel bad.
So we moved on to dilaudid (pronounced by many: dilotta). Now historically, this one has been on my hit list for years. My list of favorite all-time drugs. But that was back in the shootin' days. I remember selling them at a local bar (they used to bring 25 bucks apiece), and offering one to Jesse the Fly Fisherman. I said, "Hey. You want to buy a dilotta?" He said, "Dilotta? Is that like a buritto?" I said, "Yeah, only more expensive. A dilotta bell-grande." Poor Jesse. He had really long hair but really wasn't in the same junkie groove as the rest of us. Anyway, prior to this hospitalization, I don't think I had ever actually taken dilaudid by mouth. Pretty sure not, or I wouldn't have been so happy with their second choice. It made me mad as a hatter. Madness, not anger, tinged with agitation and verbosity. You can imagine. Anyway, they sent me home with sixty (count 'em) dilaudid, and like a good junkie, I took them as ordered for about 24 hours and finally figured out they were making me insane. Then we flushed them down the sink. 25 bucks apiece. I don't care how long you been clean... that hurts.
So I called the doctor back and said they were too strong. And this is the point of my story. We addicts DO recover. Was a time when the notion of a drug that was "too strong" did not exist for me. The closer I could push myself, my body, to that perfect edge where death meets life, the more successful I felt. The near-death experience was my goal. Daily. So, I backed up to vicodin, which I can take or leave, which makes me a little bit happy, and takes pretty good care of the pain.
And that's the story of july 21-29 in my life. I'm home, in pain, and healing.
There has been a firm offer on my house. And counter offers coming in. Whoopee. It is going to sell.
Wednesday, July 20, 2005
poolside
One time I was in San Diego and sipped a latte on the lido deck of the Hotel Del Coronado. I felt like a Kennedy, and do now. We put up the pool. I lounge beside it, paddle around in it, skim it with the blue plastic net, wait for it to pop and drain, flooding the basement and the neighborhood with pristine blue water. but not yet. Now, it is summer, in the high eighties, and I am a happy portlander. I have even let my husband off the hook for not buying me an air conditioner, a condition of our marriage. Or was that a dishwasher? I forget. I remember the deal was some major appliance and I get to decorate the house. Well I did.
I was just offered an opportunity to submit to an anthology called knockers. I will, I think. My dear and double-breasted readers, You can too. I don't know the url, but that will get you to the author's website.
So, the pool is up, the heat is on medium low (weather-wise) and I am loving it. There is so much to say.
I think what inspires me the most, as I sit on the slanted grass hill at Hosford and watch the transparent moon sneak above the city, is the ethereal nature of my life. I am no longer where I was. I am here. I was here a year ago -- two years ago, now -- when the man who is now my husband, lay with me on that same hillside and explained the quality of night in the city, how it never gets really dark. And my eyes have adjusted to this light, and this schoolyard, where Sid runs with the pack that are the Hosford Dogs, and we are a part of this neighborhood.
I put my house on the market, my house in Talent, the one I was going to live alone, grow old and die in. And I have so few regrets. The money helps with that. But if I could go down there, remove the twig-shaped drawer pulls from the kitchen cabinets, and put them in my pockets, I'd be good to go. They're mine, after all, and I am in a sort of reminiscent kinda space, where nothing seems real, the floor under my feet appearing only as I step forward into this still so new life.
It is mid-summer already.
I was just offered an opportunity to submit to an anthology called knockers. I will, I think. My dear and double-breasted readers, You can too. I don't know the url, but that will get you to the author's website.
So, the pool is up, the heat is on medium low (weather-wise) and I am loving it. There is so much to say.
I think what inspires me the most, as I sit on the slanted grass hill at Hosford and watch the transparent moon sneak above the city, is the ethereal nature of my life. I am no longer where I was. I am here. I was here a year ago -- two years ago, now -- when the man who is now my husband, lay with me on that same hillside and explained the quality of night in the city, how it never gets really dark. And my eyes have adjusted to this light, and this schoolyard, where Sid runs with the pack that are the Hosford Dogs, and we are a part of this neighborhood.
I put my house on the market, my house in Talent, the one I was going to live alone, grow old and die in. And I have so few regrets. The money helps with that. But if I could go down there, remove the twig-shaped drawer pulls from the kitchen cabinets, and put them in my pockets, I'd be good to go. They're mine, after all, and I am in a sort of reminiscent kinda space, where nothing seems real, the floor under my feet appearing only as I step forward into this still so new life.
It is mid-summer already.
Sunday, July 03, 2005
july
Its difficult to believe it is summer when we haven't had a day above eighty. I love it here. It is the time of the Blues Festival in Portland, and we went to see Buddy Guy Friday night. There are some people who just needs to be seen in person.
Work: It is work. The building is beautiful, and the people who are moving into it, who have been incarcerated in the State Hospital for years and years, think it is the Hilton. They may be crazy, but not about that. My office is the last thing to come together, as it should be.
Home is home. It is difficult to find energy to write just now, so much is going on. I have my Subaru, and it is strange to pull into a drive-thru coffee thing and have to look so far UP to order my large coffee with lots of cream. LOTS OF CREAM. I am accustomed, in the narrow streets of my neighborhood, to round a corner and start up a hill and have other cars make way for me. Not anymore. I'm on my own. I am invisible. Silver bullet car. Tiny little miniature Outback. I am everywoman. It may not be sexy, but when I filled the gas tank and it was 26 bucks instead of 55, I was pretty darned happy.
My creative spirit has left me, it seems. She's done it before, and I fear the Hemingway curse, that I can only write drunk, then I remember.... HEY! I couldn't write drunk!! I talked about it alot, but accomplished really very little.
It'll come to me. It is me.
I got a rearview mirror on my bike!! It is so much better. I don't hear that well anymore, and never know when people are coming up behind me. In small towns, in other parts of the world, it may not matter so much, but here in bike town it really does. There are cyclists who are so competitive, so car-like in their manners.... They tailgate, they pass without signaling. They fly up behind me and pass within a hair's-breadth of my quaking handlebars, and whooooosh, they are gone. Leaving me in the rubble, clinging to the railing over the Willamette River, my choice at that moment seems either to be splattered on the metal gridwork of the Hawthorne bridge or swim for it, my bike so much nautical history. The Titanic Schwinn. I hang on for dear life and begin again. Commuters. They are rude and dangerous and wear stretchy clothes. I'm sure it feels better, but blue spandex on a 40-something man... not so good. But with thighs like cannons, you don't want to point out the fashion don'ts.
Okay. enough of that.
Life is good today.
Work: It is work. The building is beautiful, and the people who are moving into it, who have been incarcerated in the State Hospital for years and years, think it is the Hilton. They may be crazy, but not about that. My office is the last thing to come together, as it should be.
Home is home. It is difficult to find energy to write just now, so much is going on. I have my Subaru, and it is strange to pull into a drive-thru coffee thing and have to look so far UP to order my large coffee with lots of cream. LOTS OF CREAM. I am accustomed, in the narrow streets of my neighborhood, to round a corner and start up a hill and have other cars make way for me. Not anymore. I'm on my own. I am invisible. Silver bullet car. Tiny little miniature Outback. I am everywoman. It may not be sexy, but when I filled the gas tank and it was 26 bucks instead of 55, I was pretty darned happy.
My creative spirit has left me, it seems. She's done it before, and I fear the Hemingway curse, that I can only write drunk, then I remember.... HEY! I couldn't write drunk!! I talked about it alot, but accomplished really very little.
It'll come to me. It is me.
I got a rearview mirror on my bike!! It is so much better. I don't hear that well anymore, and never know when people are coming up behind me. In small towns, in other parts of the world, it may not matter so much, but here in bike town it really does. There are cyclists who are so competitive, so car-like in their manners.... They tailgate, they pass without signaling. They fly up behind me and pass within a hair's-breadth of my quaking handlebars, and whooooosh, they are gone. Leaving me in the rubble, clinging to the railing over the Willamette River, my choice at that moment seems either to be splattered on the metal gridwork of the Hawthorne bridge or swim for it, my bike so much nautical history. The Titanic Schwinn. I hang on for dear life and begin again. Commuters. They are rude and dangerous and wear stretchy clothes. I'm sure it feels better, but blue spandex on a 40-something man... not so good. But with thighs like cannons, you don't want to point out the fashion don'ts.
Okay. enough of that.
Life is good today.
Sunday, June 26, 2005
long time gone
I am here. I am here. I am here.
It has been well over a month since I have taken the time out of the tiny slice of time left to me after this woman-eating job, to document my experience of this life--my interpretation of the things that happen to me-- the things I see.
I remember when I was new here (and in saying that, realize that I am no longer new here) we were walking further down my street and saw a raven perched atop a church steeple, and squirrels hopping tree-to-wire, and the hunchback, and it was all so new.
It is still different. I am still enthralled.
My husband sells bikes. He buys them cheap, cleans them up and sells them cheeep. And the reason I tell you this is because it is a story.
There we were, selling bikes on Clinton Street. Now, I don't sell the bikes, but I live here, and I see things, and I can only see them with my eyes -- my southern-oregon-small-town-eyes -- and this girl stops to look at the bikes. She is a biggish girl like me, redhead, hole-punched and inked like so many girls are here. or now. And she asks about the bike for her friend. And we have (he has) a pair of Peugeots, purchased from an older asian couple who still had the original receipts and the manuals and they are nice. And so are the bikes. So this girl is looking at the girl's bike for her friend whom she refers to as "him" and "he." And I inquire if she's wanting which bike, and she says he is short, so he wants the step-through model. And I learn yet another pc term about bikes. It is so fucking hard to keep up.
So.... when the friend shows up, there are three of them, and I can't tell what they are. They were so completely ambiguous. The ones who looked like guys had tits, the ones who looked like women did not. There were whiskers and sideburns where none should be, and we were so confused. And I'm thinkin', hey, buy them both. Have a girl's bike and a boy's bike for those day's when even you aren't sure.
Now saying this, I know I expose my provincial mind... my utter lack of sophistication... my age. But Jeeeesus. These were some odd looking characters. And I love a good story, but I was speechless. Gender-benders for sure. So, he bought the step-through bike, (the GIRL'S bike) and he was very short, or at least his legs were. Oh God.
Other than that, everything is still new. I had a birthday and am a year older, but, according to my honey-pie, aging gloriously. And wednesday I'll have 18 years clean, which, incidentally, seems entirely too long. We went to a yard sale yesterday (on bikes and I forgot money) and I overheard a guy say, "this book is full of those hideous 12-step affirmations," referring to a self-help book, the likes of which fill the bins at yard sales along with hardbound copies of the Big Book of Alcoholics Anonomyous. And I hear this more and more, the joke of AA and NA, and I have been holding my breath, biding my time, waiting for the day when the program that saves my life a day at a time finally falls out of favor with the flavor-of-the-month-club. Seems we are almost there. But this is Portland, and everyone is just so hip it hurts.
I've missed y'all.
It has been well over a month since I have taken the time out of the tiny slice of time left to me after this woman-eating job, to document my experience of this life--my interpretation of the things that happen to me-- the things I see.
I remember when I was new here (and in saying that, realize that I am no longer new here) we were walking further down my street and saw a raven perched atop a church steeple, and squirrels hopping tree-to-wire, and the hunchback, and it was all so new.
It is still different. I am still enthralled.
My husband sells bikes. He buys them cheap, cleans them up and sells them cheeep. And the reason I tell you this is because it is a story.
There we were, selling bikes on Clinton Street. Now, I don't sell the bikes, but I live here, and I see things, and I can only see them with my eyes -- my southern-oregon-small-town-eyes -- and this girl stops to look at the bikes. She is a biggish girl like me, redhead, hole-punched and inked like so many girls are here. or now. And she asks about the bike for her friend. And we have (he has) a pair of Peugeots, purchased from an older asian couple who still had the original receipts and the manuals and they are nice. And so are the bikes. So this girl is looking at the girl's bike for her friend whom she refers to as "him" and "he." And I inquire if she's wanting which bike, and she says he is short, so he wants the step-through model. And I learn yet another pc term about bikes. It is so fucking hard to keep up.
So.... when the friend shows up, there are three of them, and I can't tell what they are. They were so completely ambiguous. The ones who looked like guys had tits, the ones who looked like women did not. There were whiskers and sideburns where none should be, and we were so confused. And I'm thinkin', hey, buy them both. Have a girl's bike and a boy's bike for those day's when even you aren't sure.
Now saying this, I know I expose my provincial mind... my utter lack of sophistication... my age. But Jeeeesus. These were some odd looking characters. And I love a good story, but I was speechless. Gender-benders for sure. So, he bought the step-through bike, (the GIRL'S bike) and he was very short, or at least his legs were. Oh God.
Other than that, everything is still new. I had a birthday and am a year older, but, according to my honey-pie, aging gloriously. And wednesday I'll have 18 years clean, which, incidentally, seems entirely too long. We went to a yard sale yesterday (on bikes and I forgot money) and I overheard a guy say, "this book is full of those hideous 12-step affirmations," referring to a self-help book, the likes of which fill the bins at yard sales along with hardbound copies of the Big Book of Alcoholics Anonomyous. And I hear this more and more, the joke of AA and NA, and I have been holding my breath, biding my time, waiting for the day when the program that saves my life a day at a time finally falls out of favor with the flavor-of-the-month-club. Seems we are almost there. But this is Portland, and everyone is just so hip it hurts.
I've missed y'all.
Friday, June 10, 2005
tongues
There is a Chinese Baptist church in Ladd's Addition. I wonder how you know if they are speaking in tongues?
Well, I am happily employed doing what I know, knowing what I do. They found me a car to drive back and forth. A 1999 Subaru Impreza. Imprezzive, eh? It is silver. That's the main thing. It is used. A ticking time bomb, according to the dealer. They all are, he says --used cars. It inspired confidence in me. At least I don't have to buy it. It is tiny and I can't tell where to put my feet. The clutch and brake are so close together compared to my truck. And I will miss my truck. I don't have posession of it yet.
The way I judge commuting success, thus far, is whether I hit any lights on the way. So far, I've made it to the end of Sherwood without stopping in the morning. Last Monday, I made it clear back through Tigard, all the way to the freeway before I hit traffic. A couple of lights, but it was smooth sailing. A rare event.
I am not writing. I miss the words. the page.
Well, I am happily employed doing what I know, knowing what I do. They found me a car to drive back and forth. A 1999 Subaru Impreza. Imprezzive, eh? It is silver. That's the main thing. It is used. A ticking time bomb, according to the dealer. They all are, he says --used cars. It inspired confidence in me. At least I don't have to buy it. It is tiny and I can't tell where to put my feet. The clutch and brake are so close together compared to my truck. And I will miss my truck. I don't have posession of it yet.
The way I judge commuting success, thus far, is whether I hit any lights on the way. So far, I've made it to the end of Sherwood without stopping in the morning. Last Monday, I made it clear back through Tigard, all the way to the freeway before I hit traffic. A couple of lights, but it was smooth sailing. A rare event.
I am not writing. I miss the words. the page.
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