in the event of the apocalypse

turns out, i'll be well fixed for shampoo.

i think this is weird.

i'm not especially fussy about my hair. i kinda hate it actually. by which i mean to say, we have a very adversarial relationship. it wants to curl, though i wish it was straight. it grows where i do not want it to and will not grow where i do want it to. it's not really the color i'd like it to be... blah blah blah.

that being said, i seem vaguely obsessed with the acquisition of products to pamper, train, or otherwise interact with said adversary. i cleaned out under my sink recently and came up with no less than 18 different kinds of shampoo. not just additional bottles, no. because whenever i am in the store, and i see shampoo, i think to myself "huh, i could use some of that..."





so, i figure, everybody has something they hoard. and i'm not talking about a collection. or something, like, useful or worthwhile in its own right. instead i mean some grooming product, cleaning supply, household item that no matter how much you already have, how many varieties already have tried, you cannot resist the chance to try again, to have a little more.

maybe between the lot of us we can avoid the drugstore for the next decade or so....

only you understand me explodingdog

i swear. i love explodingdog.com the artwork is fun and interesting and i am routinely amused by it. my wallpaper is almost always some piece or other. it's good stuff.

but lately, it's been more than that. the work is always accompanied by quirky titles that sometimes have nothing to do with the imagery, but have an eerie way of echoing what's going on in my life. especially lately.

a few examples follow...

it is enough to know you are out there

i'm afraid i will lose my faith

i will follow you into the dark

i am going to miss you

i hope you miss me too

sleeping to dream about you

i dont think you meant to do that

everything i touch turns to stone

love songs make me cry

i just cant stop

you have learned nothing












i regret everything

my life in cartoons....

You're my best friend!

i've been wondering lately if the notion of a "best friend" endures into adulthood. if you'd asked me this question a year ago, i would have answered with a resounding,
"uh-huh!"
however, the person who filled that role in my life since i was about 17 and i haven't even spoken in almost a year, and so now i am no longer sure.

the common wisdom tells us it becomes more difficult to make substantial social connections as we age. that intimacy becomes harder to establish, new friendships less likely to endure.

the way we forge connections changes radically as life goes on. our life circumstances, personalities, ethics, preferences, and degree of emotional competency take on distinct texture and permanence as we age. proximity is, then, no longer the defining characteristic of friendship. the accessibility of a playmate, once the cardinal trait of friendship, becomes largely irrelevant. our sensibilities evolve with our interests and we learn to make alliances based on hobbies, political leanings, fondness for drink, and countless other considerations.

and though these might seem to be a more sound and enduring basis upon which to form a lasting social connection, there are constraints presented by our maturity which can hamper the evolution of the emotional connection of the intensity and scope inherent to the "best friend" role. no longer can we hope to be as unaffected or vulnerable as when we were children. our actions are moderated and mitigated by our experience and politesse. the fear of revealing too much, or pressing upon the tolerance of another. we no longer possess the glorious insensitivity to the effect of our unbridled self upon others.

to my mind at least, it is in many ways the drama of our adolescence that makes the profound and enduring emotional and cognitive impressions upon us that allow us to feel as though we really, really know someone, deep down at their core. it is unusual to encounter a relationship, not romantic in nature, that can (or should) generate this same type of intensity once we are out of those tumultuous formative years. and perhaps if we don't emerge from this time with a person who has run this gauntlet beside us, they cannot really know us; cannot appreciate our evolution and our constancy.

not to forget the logistical and practical constraints of adulthood. we don't have time on our hands to devote to just being around to discover or communicate every damn thing.

and all of this being said, i have to admit, the conclusion i come to is that while it may be possible to have a best friend as an adult, it might not be possible to acquire one if you wrecked or lost the one you already had. and this makes me sad and lonesome and wistful. because that's what seems to have happened. and there doesn't seem to be anything i can do about it.

and breathe...

i woke up this morning in the same mood i've been in for days. it's not a happy one. and yet, for some reason, as i walked past the lilac bush outside my front door, i plucked some blossoms and decided to breathe.

some time ago i was compelled to take a theology class. though it wasn't necessarily a choice i would have made on my own, i found the class deeply rewarding. not least because of the reading material the sister required for the class. as pertinent to this; Peace is Every Step by Thich Nhat Hahn. and though this is a simple book in every sense, it has offered some of the most practical and useful advice about life i have encountered. yet as simple as it is, i have been truly amazed at how easy it is to forget these truths.

Like:

breathe
smile
be gentle
attend to the smallest and most immediate pleasures
stay present in the moment

and i have not done as much of any of this as i should lately. and for some reason, on this soft grey spring day, i am finding it a little easier than usual. i think i can thank the lilacs...

i can never know

something that hundreds of thousands of other fine people know: what it is like to relocate to portland.

being one of an increasingly uncommon passel of folks who were actually spawned and reared in this place, means i am surrounded by a whole mad herd of people who came here on purpose. and i feel lucky. because i want to spend the rest of my life here. it's like being in an arranged marriage where you actually happen to be madly in love with the partner someone else chose for you.

but i know i have missed out on some quintessential "uprooting an entire life" type experiences. and the bravery and faith required for such a leap is almost unfathomable to me. there have been no tarps secured over a pickup full of belongings. no dark nights of driving to a new town without a clear sense of how living there will feel. i have never had to get to know a new town. i have never had to discover the best route to anywhere, because i have always known it. i have never been presented with such a remarkable chance to create a tale about my life in surroundings unfamiliar to me.

and this seems like something i want to experience. but i cannot imagine bringing myself to go elsewhere just to feel it.

and it is always one of the first questions i ask: what made you choose this place? of all the places? what was it like to come here from wherever it was you came? what drew you here and what do you miss about where you're from. and what was the most fundamental change you underwent to become a portlander at last?

i imagine it is a journey that changes a person. hilarity and loneliness must ensue. the magic of this place is not lost on me for a moment, but i will never know the magic of this place as a stranger must.

everything hits at once

indeed things are off at a gallop. and as in the old chinese proverb, living in interesting times might be something of a curse.

i can point to nothing that feels settled. no thing of which i am totally certain. no course to which i am fully committed. all the while i am in this profound and numbing flux, i am also swept along by circumstance. my faith, what will that i possess, the shred of patience i have constructed by dint of long effort, my brittle and inconstant self-assurance; all these are under siege.

yet, oh, the shining possibilities if only i can endure. the alluring fiction draws me forward, by degrees. but there is no certainty that i am being lured toward something that serves me. if i should look to these intimations and conjectures with any sort of confidence.

and what, then, to think of this desire i have to remake myself, body and soul, to be better equipped for a future i am not certain i want? what, then, of the desire to abandon things by which i have defined my life for so long, in pursuit of a goal less lofty but oh-so-much-more-accessible-seeming?

confronted, as i have been of late, with new people, experiences, avenues, and possibilities i feel that all has come into question. but in some more fundamental way than the way in which i always try to keep an open mind. i feel my compass has been dipped in lead and cannot find true north. that the reflection of myself i have always relied upon is somehow altered in some nebulous but profound way that no longer supplies me with a complete and meaningful truth about who and how i am.

and this scares me.

i want my blankie

today has been one of those days that can't be objectively classified as bad, yet is still end up feeling unaccountably sad.

i mean, it wasn't totally smooth sailing. i did have a hiccup about not having my schedule properly calibrated, but i think i got over that about 7.5 hours ago.

still, i'm sad. and when i look at babies i want to giggle and cry simultaneously. and i think ridiculous things about people who love me, and see disater around every corner, and i know this means my ovaries are to blame, but despite this powerful awareness, i cannot make myself seem to feel any less utterly swept up in my mope.

and, of course, my physician is OUT OF THE COUNTRY and not due to return until after the month end. and we hadn't managed to finalize my rx yet.

so what i really want to do is take a hot bath (which i cant because my hot water heater is retarded) and curl up in my blankie and cry. but instead i'm going to try and run.

run run run.

i am certain

that the contents of my purse say something about me. i think i like what it says...

obvious things like wallet and keys aside, we have;

Heidegger: Basic Writings
tin of dice
string of pearls
matchbook from favorite steakhouse
fuzzy socks for friend lyza
burt's bees lip shtuff
bust magazine
graphing calculator
laquered hairstick
extremely fancy log book with which to track expenditures (the irony therein not at all lost)
wine country chicken salad with cranberries and pecans from TJ's + wheat thins

feeling smug about how awesome i seem to myself this morning. :}

contents of your stachel? come on, i showed you mine...

why do the ghosties be haunting me?

look. i'm willing to believe in a lot of weird crap that i do not understand: astrology, tarot cards, physics....

but i have never once had any cause to believe in ghosts. not that i think they don't exist, but rather, they don't tend to enter my version of reality. at least, they didn't used to...

this week however, they've been all over the damn place. the knocking pipes only being the first incidence of three. two days after, there was a loud almost gunshot like series of reports in the evening. but the last straw was yesterday when hodie comes in from getting something out of the car for me to say that she heard a loud rapping on the car window and my voice calling her, only to look up and see no one was there. i didn't tell her about the spookiness from earlier this week. she wasn't even around for the 2nd incident. but now, it seems to involve her. and this scares me even more.

i think it would bother me less if the overall sense i got wasn't so... angry. whatever it is that is employing these methods to get my attention seems perfectly content to terrorize me a little in order to get it.

i just want to go back to a world where me and the ghosties did not acknowledge each other's existence. please?

things that go bang in the night

not that you perverts.

i've always been a lousy sleeper. i have to read or listen to a podcast in order to fall asleep in the first place, since i have a tendency to chase myself around in my head at night. i wake up at the drop of a hat. if there's any noise, or light, or persons, in the vicinity, i wake up.

someone suggested melatonin. i was skeptical, but since the suggestion came with a free sample supply, i decided to try it. pro: i did actually fall asleep quickly last night. con: i woke up about an hour later. i decided that i wanted to take a bath to warm up and hopefully drop off again quickly. well, that didn't quite work out as planned...

i live in a plex where there are many common walls. the plumbing is fundamentally interconnected. and i know full well that when i take a bath, my neighbors can hear it. i know this cause i can hear their showers. so when the banging started, i thought "finally all that screaming and moaning has driven them over the high side and they don't really want to listen to me bathe at 11pm. so i turned off my tap. but the banging, which was loud and persistent, went on well after i turned off the water. i could feel the vibration of the concussion vibrating the tub. and for some reason, this scared the shit out of me.

i got out of the tub, went to my front door, checked that it was locked. checked on hodie, (blissfully asleep; a freight train in the living room wouldn't wake her) and crawled cowering into my bed. somehow, i knew this banging was directed at me, and the source had a malevolent intent. i almost started crying. it paused briefly after about 10 minutes, but then resumed as loud and insistent as ever. finally i cranked up the air purifier to full blast to drown out the sound of the banging, pulled a pillow over my head, and prayed for sleep.

eventually i drifted off, but woke up several more times during the night, even though the noise had stopped. i was so wound up from being inexplicably afraid that i just never managed to relax in full. at about 5am i finally gave up and rose for the day, but with that malaise that seems to come with the clinging bad dream. you know what i mean: those dreams that linger and persist in bothering and distracting you long after you have woken and begun your day.

for some reason, i just could not shake off this feeling of unease and apprehension. it went on all morning. i finally had to resort to asking my co-worker to hug me before it would dissipate. and this bothers me. because i like to think i am a rational grownup person who can explain to herself that what was most likely a random plumbing problem does not represent a threat to me in any significant way.

and perhaps in the dark of the night, when senses fail to pierce the shadow cast over them, this can be excused, but in the full light of the afternoon, it just feels like a character flaw.

fuck fuck fuck fuck

and also fuck.

i suppose it's fairly plain to anyone that knows me at all that i am a terrible brat. i like to get my way, i'm insufferably vain, and i complain vociferously if all does not go according to plan.

so i shall commence here by pointing out that contracting the clinging cold from the depths of the 9th circle of hell a week and a half before my show was most certainly not according to any plan of mine.

so, fuck.

i figured that a week and a half should be plenty of time to recover. and i suppose, i must admit, things are better than they were. thursday before last i could only croak. now i'm back at about 80%. but i simply must point out... that sucks.

i mean, i'm hardly a virtuoso on the guitar. passing fair is generous. what i have, what i am is a voice. it's the best thing about me and it's being unreliable at the worst possible time. which makes me want to cry and break things. instead i'm going to take a break and fold some laundry.

Its only fun to be a maniac if you are an exotic dancer/welder in an 80’s movie

Its only fun to be a maniac if you are an exotic dancer/welder in an 80’s movie
Current mood: anxious

which, as it turns out, i'm not.

yesterday was a doozy. despite many deep breaths and attempts to avoid jabbering relentlessly at everyone in my vicinty, i had a bit of a spaz day. at one point i was trembling so hard my co-worker wrapped her arms around me and then made me go outside to sit in the sunshine. it helped. but still. i only like to tweak when i set out to do it on purpose. this kinda caught me off guard.

and there is no sleep. ok, technically, there are about 2 1/2 hours of sleep. per night. for like 5 days. and i can't really eat. and the only thing i have an appetite for isn't as readily had as i'd prefer. and yes, my house is immaculate and my journal is up to date for the first time in forever, i'm feeling a little overclocked.

It's BLOG it's BLOG!

it's better than bad, it's good!


this has been a weird month. on the whole, i'd have to call it for the team of good rather than the team of evil, seeing that a few SUPERAMAZING things have happened, but since there are like 3 days of it left i am withholding judgment. the balance could tilt. you never know.

i'm quivering in anticipation i tell ya.

and i'm sick. which sucks ass. and i would be happy to be finished with aaaaaaanytime now. it's going to be pretty fucking anticlimactic if i work myself up into this frenzy over my very first show (fuckall, i'm getting a TATTOO to commemorate the experience) only to have it suck various kinds of ass because this cold has turned my voice into a frog's wet dream.

but apparently i still sound good on the internets! one of the superamazing things that happened was that one of my very favorite musical-hero-local-diva-glorious-songstress types responded to my friend request by complimenting my voice. this, equals happiness.

other things have equaled happiness too, but i am far too discreet to talk about them here to you people.

except for the ongoing progress i've made cleaning my house. its so cool to be able to see the floor. and not come close to breaking my ankle every time i take a trip into the kitchen. sometimes it is those simple pleasures...

The Hunger Inside Me

is being caused by my ovaries. My toublesome, pesty ovaries.


It is not being caused by the need for actual food. Because I had some. Ok, I had a lot. Since waking up this morning I have eaten the following:

2 Black Cherry and Almond Clif Bars
3 handfuls of Chocolate Covered Pistachios
2-4 handfuls of Trader Joes Salt and Vinegar Potato Chips
1 6" Spicy Italian Sub
1 small bag Sour Cream n' Onion Lays
3-7 Wild Fruit Savers

And the morning ain't over yet. Jesus.

Plus also, that other hunger I am too much of a lady to mention here. The one in my pants.


Later:
Green Tea Frappucino
Nuts
Goldfish crackers


Someone may need to tackle me to stop this madness...

I hate Chistmas, kinda

Tis the season I start crying: wha wha wha wha wha. wha wha wha snort.

On the plus side, there is Almond Roca everywhere. Also the smell of pine. And hot lights.

The problem is, i really really really DO buy into the whole seasonal delusion that something magical and beautiful is supposed to happen. And that it requires the expenditure of time and money for that magic and beauty to occur.

My child does NOT want to go to the woods to hack down a fresh christmas tree for only $5. She lectured me about how it was mean to kill a tree that is out in the forest minding its own business providing us oxygen and scenery.

She also does not want to go see Santa at the newly remodeled Santaland at the Historic Meier and Frank building. Screw you, it's still Meier and Frank to me and always will be. This despite my EXTREME nostalgia for this place where I saw the Gingerbread Bear as a child. She doesn't seem to find MY nostalgia compelling for some reason, now that she is too tall to ride the monorail.

What DOES she want? A new Christmas dress and an iPod. Things I cannot afford, but feel extremely guilty about being unable to provide.

I do however look forward to all the singing and yelling. In the car mostly.

When it rains....

someone horks.

Ok, technically, that's not how that goes; except this week, it is.

Because I am a person who avoids vomit and/or vomiting with all the will I have at my disposal.

And speaking of having at my disposal, when I got home from the ER where they gave me Vicodin on an empty stomach, that's exactly what I did. Because the toilet was too far away. Blea-ah.

And today, after my chiropractor appointment made me late for work, I get a phone call from daycare telling me that Aria has "thrown up a little" No-EH! Gramma Bev to the rescue thank goodness.

But I do find it disturbing that every member of my household vomited this week. I hope the trend does not continue.

Sometimes

it is naught but the nuance of language that stands between me and the brink.I am chased and chasing words and implications; distinctions so fine as to be illusory, when this chimera is the best comfort to be hoped for.

and yet, i am comforted, by these faint and futile particularities. by the refusals transmuted to avowals. by a glance, by clasping, by tones and timbre.

and thus the dazzling dark is pierced.


Current mood: contemplative

One Misty Moisty Morning...

When cloudy was the weather...

I broke out my woolen socks this morning. I'm wearing a turtleneck and hiking boots. It is officially lumpy wardrobe weather. On the plus side this also means I can wear my hideous and hugetastic harvest-gold corduroy winter coat complete with woolen plaid lining and a sash. I got it at Goodwill 6 years ago for $12 and I have never ever loved a coat with such abandon. Also my mittens which fold back in half to reveal fingertip-less gloves. Oh yes, I love them.

So I'm happy it's cold enough for those....


An addendum to this train of thought: cable knit tights. A favorite of school girls everywhere; I need some, yo.

All we can do is keep breathing...

Which is supposed to help, but sometimes doesn't. No amount of breathing is going to change the fact that things are scary and sad. It might change the intensity of the scary or sad feelings, but they don't go away.

If only, like Hansel and Gretel in reverse, I could follow my own breath forward to unlose myself. I suppose that is what's happening, if only in slow motion. Progress so incremental and elusive to observation as to be mythical.

And the temptation is powerful and recurring to keep my breath inside, to trail after it back into myself and hide there away from the light of the truth that hurts me so much that it steals the very breath I mean to pursue.


But instead, mostly, I chase after it out. Though it carries with it noises and meanings that would otherwise stay within, and I'm unsure they should have got out at all.

I wonder what I take in, and what goes away from me further, with each successive breath.

I heart Ira

There is a near-constant competition going for the spot of my imaginary boyfriend.

It's not just that I'm fickle (although I can be) but also that whenever I am confronted with sensitivity and intelligence, and, well, hotness all in one package, I find it hard to resist.

Of course, this combination is exceedingly difficult to find in any readily available men, so I resort to having many moments of profound devotion to people I will never meet or interact with in any significant way. I like this idea. They stay just as I imagine them and provide me with fodder for my daydreams about intellectual conversations and political debates and artistic collaborations. Heady stuff.

My original I.B. was Zach Braff. He's been displaced for a while now, but most recently, I've been thinking Damian Lewis from "Life" on NBC was a good candidate. He's so damaged. It's hot.

His character is clever and resourceful but also displays a vulnerability I find pretty fucking compelling. I really like the show, and figured if I got in early, I could claim to have been in love with him well before the legions who will no doubt flock to adore him could start clamoring.





But then I went last night with some friends to a Q & A sponsored by OPB to promote the new book: The New Kings of Non-Fiction. Which is an anthology of stories from several well-regarded non-fiction writers, edited and compiled by Ira Glass.

Ira was submitting to a round of what must be fairly typical questions about how he makes stories, and decisions about stories, and how this new project on Showtime is different than being on the radio, and he offered intelligent, insightful, funny, and meaningful answers to all of these questions. I suppose being an interviewer must make it a bit easier to be the subject of questioning: you know what plays well.

But after a fair amount of this went on he decided to turn the tables on April Baer, the local newscaster assigned to conduct the Q&A (self-identified as one of the starry-eyed communications-major types who love him). Ira asked her if she was the one who did the local commentary which accompanied Morning Edition, and if that included traffic. April admitted that, indeed, that was her. Ira then pointed out that doing the traffic in Portland presented a particularly existential perspective on life...

"I mean, when you say 'It's stop and go from the tunnel to the cemetery,' doesn't that really say something more about life? It sort of sums it all up right there. And then sometimes, you mention something about some curves? I mean, it seems like that pretty much says it all..."

Game, set, match. Ira wins.