everything is soft and sweet

Three indelible images of Oregon's strange winter beauty.

Sunday night a few weeks ago, I walked through the sodden backyard to the alley, arms weighed down with two bags full of recyclables. We tend to take care of trash-night chores late, and it was a misty, quiet night lit with the eerie purple glow of city lights smothered in low clouds-- the kind of light that, to me, is a visual representation of saying the word "hush."

It's already a bit magical to have an alley behind the house. They're rare in this young-built city, a little dangerous and ragged, a semi-hidden no man's land. The alleys of my neighborhood are byways for local dog-walkers, feral cats, and homeless people trolling for redeemable cans. I imagine their unpaved potholed lengths and unkempt verdant thorny borders to be the modern equivalent of myth's shifting paths to faeryland.

At any rate, the view down our alley often mesmerizes me, but this evening went above. Bent over the bright yellow rain-slicked recycle bins, a sense of blooming movement made me raise my head. In the eerie purple sky-glow, great cottony cumulonimbus issued from just beyond the end of the alley. The birthplace of clouds, I thought, in awe. Then came the soft hoot of the special steam engine train, whose gentle lowing we had heard all evening from within the house. It's a much warmer sound than the other trains, and between that comforting sound, the hush of low-ceiling clouds, and the issuance of great clouds so nearby... I was reluctant to turn inside, despite the steady rain. Indeed, when I returned ten minutes later with the trash bag, no trace remained of the steam train.

***

My first day back at work after my illness, I was still a bit in that far-off headspace. I parked my car and walked through the parking lot. At the edge of the lot, the wind picked up for a moment, and the sound of winter surf poured through the bare tops of the stand of birch trees there. I stood stopped still, and gaped. The sound, the movement, the sway of waves. It was so beautiful in the barren grey of winter that I knew I would remember the moment for a long time to come.

***

Driving up the west hills on the day after xmas, on the way to work. Suddenly visible through the mist, the top spread branches of tall fir trees are dusted with snow. On up the hill, this snow cover creeps lower and lower down the trees, so that in effect there is a horizon of white, an altitude line past which everything is shouldered in white. A literal snow line.

Long winter holiday weekend

It has been such a relaxing weekend, despite social obligations. Friday night we went to Vault for a coworker-friend's birthday. We left after about two hours, using my recent stomach flu as an excuse. We walked to the video store and stopped on the way back for tea at Palio. Through miscommunication it was served in mugs, so we stayed and read the weekly papers while sipping tea. It was so relaxing and quite an enjoyable change of pace.

Saturday morning I went for breakfast with my brother, prepped the bathroom ceiling for painting, and tried to do all of the grocery shopping for xmas cooking. That night was a holiday party at a running buddy's house, at which we also stayed for two hours. We barely left the house on Sunday. Instead we stayed home, took care of chores, and ended up drinking tea and hanging out in the kitchen nook listening to jazz for a few hours. I read Veganomicon and Erik played WoW on the laptop, while Kenard lapped up affection. We dinner with Erik's parents at Lauro, now that they have a bit more time to themselves.

Monday I went out to buy sequins, and candy for gingerbread house-making. Fred Meyer was so parked up that I went all the way out to Target-- where no regular-sized candycanes were to be had. I also painted the bathroom ceiling (second coat) and made a pumpkin (not technically a pumpkin, but a winter squash, okay?) cheezcake with grahamcracker crust for xmas dessert. Erik and I went for a run, and I think we watched a movie or two. Maybe that was Sunday. It starts to blur together, doesn't it?

Tuesday we went over to Erik's brother's newly completed house for gift-opening at 9am. Our 4 year-old nephew had awoken at 4am to open all presents featuring his first initial on the gift tag, and when one of them had a note from Santa he woke up his visiting maternal grandmother to read it for him. Consequently, his mother had to wrap a number of gifts back up. Despite threats that he wouldn't have anything to open, however, there were tons of presents. I think everyone was pleasantly surprised. I really enjoyed seeing my one-year-old nephew hug the stuffed animal I bought for him at Crafty Wonderland.

Back home, of course, I finished making No Knead Bread (with oregano, lemon thyme and rosemary from the garden), roasted green beans with garlic and lemon zest, and a kindof sortof attempt at seitan wellington. Whatever it was, it turned out awesome. Onions, leeks, Italian tofurky, seitan, all sauteed in my biggest pot, with red wine to deglaze, soy sauce, parsley and herbs from the garden, and my spice trinity of coriander, cumin and powdered mustard, all wrapped up in puff pastry. Leave it to puff pastry to make everything _that_ much better.

Aspen came with us for dinner at Erik's brother's house, and then we went home to decide on gingerbread house plans, cut out and bake the pieces, and assemble the main frame. We got two sides candied up before tuckering out around 11pm, all bah-humbugged by thoughts of work the next day. I have to say, it was one of the most enjoyable winter holidays I've experienced, and I even have something to show for it.

belly of the beast

Ugh. I was up at 2am, tossing and turning until I finally got up half an hour later, took a bath, started to fall asleep on the couch, and then ran to the bathroom to puke my guts out. I eventually went back to bed, only to awake at 6am for more of the same. Luckily the second time there was nothing recognizable.

So I stayed home from work, and I've been resting on the couch all day, barely able to read. Is anything more miserable than having an entire bed-ridden day during which you can't really read?

I had an acupuncture appointment at 5pm, which I thought might help, especially since I hadn't had any incidents since the morning. I showed up, waited for my Chinese medicine specialist, Lisa, and when we sat down upstairs in her bright, cozy room, I started to sweat and feel uncomfortable. "Are you okay?" she asked, and I said, "I think I'd better go to the bathroom." There go the popsicles I had managed to keep down all afternoon.

I suspect this is a stomach flu from babysitting my nephews on Saturday night. The younger one was puking all night Friday, and his mother was reluctant to leave him into our babysitting care. The older one, who Erik put to bed, puked in his bed just after we left at 11:30pm that night.

My other suspicion is food poisoning-- Julie, Brian, Andres, Erik and I ate at Mama Mia last night, with a stop afterwards at Voodoo Donuts. My suggestion, of course. And I did eat too much.

Being such an over-committer of plans, being out today really threw a wrench into my week. I don't have any time off yet accrued at work, so I'll have to work an extra day next week while everyone is off. Assuming I am well tomorrow, I'll have to go in to the office for two hours in the morning before heading back to our holiday party, which is on a sternwheeler that boards right by my house. It's funny that for someone who doesn't like to plan-- particularly travel-- I have so many little intricate tasks and events that take a tumble as soon as one thing goes wrong.

In Thailand, I grew grateful for opportunities to exercise my patience. I wish that worked better here.

a preference

When a turn of phrase strikes an affectionate ear, where does that accord come from? What makes one tongue welcome pickled okra, and another abhor the same? Does the sound of one note strike the same conjunction against all eardrums?

Wherein lies affinity?

Is it chemical, or related to the rub of molecules as they move on their way? Do bacteria living on-site at the point of our senses filter experience for us? Is it animal, vegetable or mineral? Could a vaccine to make George Bush taste broccoli as it tastes to me be a future cure for obesity?

I want to know how and why preferences are formed.

Our Lady of the Starry Heaven

Another one kicked out the door, and in a way I'm disappointed with myself. It is the job of the storyteller to related a chain of events, to weave together ends, and to coax an amasses value from the details of lesser things.

The last two weeks have been a restless stream of small currents flowing fast right through my hands. Happy hours, birthday celebrations, a new job. Deadlines, overcommitments, races to show up on time.

So it goes.

Saturday night I made pho, went rollerskating, then to the new Green Dragon pub whose appearance is supposed to herald a new destination neighborhood: Libation Alley. Despite slate tabletops and half a dozen colors of chalk, it wasn't great. My fries never came, and there was a snippy parenthetical statement on the menu that one should by no means ask for ketchup to go with them. This, behind a misspelled aioli.

Monday night I was so exhausted from all-day orientation at work that I went home, went for a short run with Erik, made dinner, and passed out on the couch around 9pm. I think that's the earliest I have fallen asleep for years, since being very sick.

Tuesday, in the late afternoon, I plucked up the courage to use the shiny, shiny gym here at work, for the first time. It was mostly empty, quite luxurious, and the weight machines were mostly mysterious to me. Although I do have a fair amount of gym experience, nothing is as daunting as meeting a new machine like the "rotary lat" and not knowing how to adjust it for one's frame. Especially if you're smaller than the average bulky male weight-lifter.

I should go into more detail about later in the day, when Donna took me out to Siam Society for dinner and afterwards, when we ran into the girl with "So it goes" tattooed thrice around her wrist... I should, but I don't realistically have the time to delve into the layers. With Donna, there are always interesting layers and coincidences and facets lending sparkle. All of these things have been happening so fast and thick in the past few weeks; perhaps that's part of the overwhelmed feeling in which I'm immersed. At any rate, it's thought-food for later nourishment.

Wednesday. Oy. I forgot to pick up my brother at the airport. Only I didn't realize it until I was driving to work the next morning. Although I am almost always over-committed, it's rare for me to forget something that important. It's falling apart before there's time for me to rest.

untitled, unfinished

I still don't feel like writing, but there's only so much time one can go without using a limb or flexing a muscle, before the whole thing atrophies and falls off.

Today was my first day as a real, full-time employee at the place where I've worked for the past year and a quarter. The entire day was spent with other new-hires, filling out paperwork, hearing about benefits and resources, and meeting people. There were so many forms, packets, presentations and names

Thankfully Thanksgiving

I thoroughly enjoyed the Thanksgiving holiday. I haven't taken more than one day off since March, to go to Costa Rica, and I can't remember the last time I stayed home for more than a weekend.

Thursday, I spent most of the day cooking. I started around 10am, took a break around 2pm for a run with Erik, and finished right at 5pm, when we took everything over to Erik's parents' house for our holiday meal.

Friday was my day to relax. I stayed on the couch in pajamas for entire morning, watching "What Not to Wear" and "Man vs Wild" marathons. Erik raked the leaves, since our first leaf collection was the next day, and I worked on putting the garden to its winter bed.

Saturday was our shopping day. After checking out Bob's Red Mill for breakfast with Julie, we went to Lowes, Costco, back to Lowes to make returns, Home Depot, Fabric Depot, and Ikea. It was six hours of exhausting shopping, but we investigated and/or bought many things we'd meant to for quite some time.

Sunday I planted spring bulbs while on the phone with my mom, and we put strings of lights up on the house. Erik did more of the light-stringing, as he's better on the ladder and has much better reach. I climbed the apricot tree and lassoed lights around its branches, and worked more on the garden. I completely cleared and then winter-planted a small raised bed with Swiss chard and broccoli. I hope the latter fares better than my summer broccoli, which succumbed to the most incredible plague of aphids I've ever seen.

It was a rare, relaxing holiday, and over far too soon, despite the feeling on Friday that we still have a full weekend ahead of us.

I dream of the fun garage

I'm a bit annoyed with myself for losing the dream I had last night. It was something simple, an idea or impression, something that would have been useful. Oh well.

Friday night I had a very strange dream, strange in its real-world grounding. We took the car ferry down to Newberg or Oregon City in a green station wagon-- like a Subaru-- to look in antique and junk shops. When we got off the ferry, we drove past a parking garage with "fun" somewhere in its name. It had a huge yellow tube slide spiraling down from all levels; that was how you got down to the street after you parked. So I insisted we park there, on the top floor so that we could slide all the way down.

I don't remember the next part of the dream, but when we headed back to the car, one person decided to stick around and walked off. As I was saying goodbye and crossing the road, I almost got hit by a car because the traffic was odd.

Back in the garage, the ground floor had all sorts of interesting knick-knacks for sale, and I spent time browsing although I should have rushed to meet the others at the car. The stairway up was extremely narrow, made from metal mesh, and rather frightening. It was single file, so people coming down would have to step out at a floor, or wait at a landing while one squeezed past.

Then we took the ferry back up the Willamette, and the water was so rough it was amazing that we could even get upstream. It must have flooded, because along the banks rushing water broke windows in the houses lined up there.

TG minus one

The extra-short work week is already coming to an end. Four days in a row to do with as I please-- I think that's the most I've had since taking a proper vacation to Costa Rica back in March. There are so many creative endeavors I hope to at least spend time on, as well as chores and various utilitarian tasks that have been put off in the hope of future chunks of time.

The three main things I plan to do are cook, put up fairylights, and purchase tile for our kitchen backsplash. We've narrowed our tile choices down considerably, although we'll still do some extra research at the huge home improvement stores.

That's about it, really. It's been a week of more-or-less the usual. Making meals, including a rather inspired mac & cheez with fakin bacon, spinach, chipotle salsa, and a dab of creamcheez; leftover kabocha & "ricotta" raviolo, green Thai curry.

Last night Erik met me at a last-hurrah farmers market, which I only discovered because I tried to find the date of the last market of the year. There was free hot cider and donuts, although the produce was a bit sparse, and we bought wood-fired bagels that we saved for breakfast this morning-- they were fabulously chewy and dense, with a lovely, developed flavor. I also had fresh-roasted chestnuts for the first time, and even aside from their wondrousness as hand-warmers, they were quite enjoyable.

Thanksgiving menu

Just when I worked out the bare minimum four dishes I would prepare for Thanksgiving dinner, a new recipe comes along that I cannot ignore. Candied Lime Sweet Potatoes! Oh gawd. It certainly doesn't help my willpower that the author is a great food photographer.

So here's my menu:

• cranberry sauce, based loosely on Alton Brown's recipe


• maple-walnut greenbeans-- a flavor idea I had while driving to White Flint mall, visiting my hometown last weekend


• Candied lime sweet potatoes from VeganYumYum


• plain stuffing from a bag, which I always crave, and probably some gravy from a mix


• Tofurky


• a variation of Curried lentils with pumpkin/butternutsquash, emailed to me by Julie


• Gingerbread cupcakes from the PPK, with creamcheez frosting

your mind is racing like a pro now

Our plane landed at 2:30am last night, so we took the shuttle to the economy lot, drove home, tended to the frantic cats, and took out the trash before going to bed. By all rights, I should have been sleepy all day. But much as I often get little sleep during the week, the occasional truly grueling night almost always refreshes me. The sign of a true insomniac or alien, I suppose.

Besides all of that, I also left work early for an acupuncture appointment, went to the gym, then made a Thai green curry for dinner.

To counter that, though, I didn't do much at work. I barely remember how I spent the hours. It wasn't writing or catching up, as I should have done.

And there's a first time and a second time, you've got to hold on

Today is crazy. After cleaning up a downed plant from the kitchen sink, which one of the cats must've knocked over in the buzz of an exciting bug hunt, I noticed that my kitchen begonia a) was completely dead, and b) had crawly gnat creatures all over the soil. I took the pot out to the front porch, which is when I noticed that it was warm outside-- tropically warm and damp.

I'd love to be out in it, but it's such a odd and frenzied day. My brother left at noon for DC, and Erik & I follow at 10:30pm tonight. Besides that, my tiny department is slated to move at 3pm today, just two floors straight up. I only have fifteen more days on my contract, but I'll have a cube for those working days. My boss is working from home today, trying to remove a tile backsplash before contractors come to make a template for her new countertop. The other coworker in our department is out sick, so I packed up her cube for her. She had so many decorations and knickknacks that it took me the better part of an hour, including the three trips worth of things that couldn't fit in the provided boxes-- of which she needed eight. My office stuff fit in one, with room to spare.

So I'm off early to try to fit in a trip to the employee store, Ann Sacks to look at tile, my favorite running store to buy new shoes before I do more damage to my knees, and hopefully the gym. Then I'll go home and pack. Maybe even throw together dinner.

Perhaps I'll see you tonight at the airport. If not, rest assured I'm thinking of you, friends.

welcome in, shame about the weather

Yesterday evening on my run, the sky pulsed pink and murky-- what I think of as a snow sky. It hung low and ominous, pushing me forward on my leaden legs. This whole week has been a tough one for workouts. I've felt weak, tired, and slow, but I've kept on because it is only by showing up that I can keep clinging to the good, healthy habits.

After my run, I cooked up a simple alfredo sauce for the ravioli I had previously made. The effect, as a whole, was wonderful. Of course, I would've liked some extra kale in with the sauce, but I just didn't have time to wash, trim, and sautée it.

Aspen & Mae came over before 8pm, and we met Julie at the Teardrop Lounge for fancy drinks. This bar deserves the moniker "lounge," as it was a lovely, simple take on industrial modern that gave the place a warm, clean vibe-- encouraging us to sit around for a while and relax. We each had two different drinks, and shared sips around. The conversation was by far the best part of the evening. You know how amongst really smart, funny and comfortable friends you start to riff off of each other and pull in past themes even as topics leap onward at a dizzying pace? It was that sort of evening.

now it's said and done, say goodbye to the people we don't know

There was a point yesterday during which I despaired that Monday would never end. In fact, that point was more of a set, encompassing most moments of the day.

***

Just back from the Thanksgiving dinner event for my department at work. The fairy lights are on the trees around the building with the cafeteria and coffee shop, and leaving the noise drift behind for the cool air of the main courtyard feels like waking up.

***

Midnight is fast approaching, and all of the pasta dough is used up in ravioli-making. This is the time of day when my body seems to rally against all sense and I fear for ever again falling asleep.

I've been thinking of Thailand recently.

On the way home from work, I dashed into the hardware store, slipped between the merchandise pulled into the aisles, and grabbed a handful of picture hooks. When I got home I hung a couple of the large prints I ordered, rearranging a few other photos on the walls. Erik and I walked to the European market, where I couldn't resist the canned hummus I used to eat when I was poorest, living in London. Upon returning home, we swept leaves from our walkways, worried that a slippery accident was in the making. Then I set up the light table for my most tender potted plants, which are now arranged by height and receiving twelve hours of timed light. Finally, I made ravioli in time to the Shout Out Louds and Travis, while Erik played the new Mario videogame and drifted off to sleep. Hopefully the latter awaits me, as well.

we'll dance off time to the songs we've never liked

Erik and I went to the coast this weekend as a late celebration of our wedding anniversary. It's also close enough to the rather unclear time that we started dating that it acts as a double anniversary.

We took his parents out for dinner on Friday night, to the fanciest Indian restaurant in town: Plainfield's Mayur. It was decent as far as food goes, but the service is old school, which makes for a pleasant experience.

Saturday morning I went for a ten mile run with Erica and Bob, around the waterfront loop. It was surprisingly warm and beautiful out, clearing up to be a golden fall day.

When I got home I cut Erik's hair, then packed up to leave for the coast. We stopped at Pratt & Larson before heading out of town to look at tile for our kitchen backsplash. We actually found something we both liked, but at $64 per square foot, it's not likely what we'll end up with.

I think we got to Lincoln City around 3:30pm. Our motel, the Ester Lee, had the most magnificent view of waves crashing on rocky outcroppings on the wide, sandy beach. After walking along the beach til dark, taking photos, we went back to our room to enjoy the fireplace. For dinner we went to Aunt Mary's, a vegetarian restaurant in the Central Coast Vibrator Museum/ adult store. You had to be 18 to even eat there, and a group of kids got kicked out while we were hanging out waiting for the cook/owner to return. After chatting while the owner cooked our food, petting her dog, and poking around the shop, we ate what would be our best meal on the coast.

Our next stop was the Chinook Winds Casino, which Erik wanted to see. We thought we'd have a drink, play a few slots, and have a look around, but it turned out to be so smoky and bright and crowded and intense that we zipped through and left right away, giving us time to go see a movie. Dan in Real Life was the only thing of any interest playing, and it was okay. Back in our room, I turned up the fire and read for quite some time while keeping half-tabs on a wild, windy storm that battered the window in shifts.

Sunday morning we read the paper for a while in bed, then tried to find a place to eat. Sadly, the doughnut shop was closed, and we ended up snagging odd bits of food before heading to the Drift Creek Falls trailhead. South of Lincoln City, we wound up ten miles of single-lane logging road, dodging large salamanders (for which, sadly, we never got to stop to get a closer look). The hike was amazing, ending at a suspension bridge and surprising, sudden waterfall.

We had to rush back from the hike and hightail it down to Yachats for the spa appointments I made. I hadn't realized that the place I booked was 45 miles south of Lincoln City, so the extra trek really put a strain on our time. Facials have been our anniversary tradition, though, and the Overleaf Lodge was perched on a lovely rocky beach for wandering while we took turns with our treatments.

As dusk settled, we drove through Newport to finally have a meal-- and the word only applies loosely-- at Taco Bell, before the three hour drive home.

Roll my die, Change this life

All I can do is be vague. It's Friday night again. I'm at home, listening to the National on my ratty second-hand headphones. Taking photobooth pictures and wondering if my face will ever show emotion. The facial tic-- my lower lip on the left side, where I pull it down in a little "eep" move-- has finally abated after forty-eight hours. I think it came about from trying to control my expression in meetings, to appear what I hope looks like positive neutral.

Erik's gone to bed and I've used up all the phyllo dough wrapping triangular packets of the roasted pumkin, ricotta, and kale filling I made during that cooking jag Tuesday night (the other dishes I made were lettuce wraps with a PF Changs-copy filling, and stuffed peppers). I also used the chocolate ganache-- left over now that the chocolate cupcakes are all eaten-- as filling for a vanilla-snap cookie crust pie with peanutbutter warmed and drizzled on top. The kitchen is tired of me.

It is often that I wonder how I got here. In the past few days alone, I've had the age-flash no less than three times. This first was thinking about some of the clothes I have, including the first thing I bought in my favorite color green. I don't quite have a handle on which thriftstore I found it in, but it was 1996, and I saw the color and fell in love. I haven't worn it in years, though, nor the army pants I bought some time in high school which still grace the pants shelf. The flash is what came next-- thinking of my glittery things, especially all of the new socks I bought. Will I get looks for wearing sparkly things in another year? It's generally looked down upon to go in for glitter after 30. But why should I even care? I walked out of my closet with those thoughts, my doubts left behind.

The next flash was seeing the birth year of my favorite contestant on a reality tv show: one year before mine. But he seems so old! I can't believe he's only a year and a half older than me. He's such an adult. And mentally my nose wrinkles and I know that's not me at all.

Wednesday night at Oba, ordering wine for Erik and I, the bartender is cute and has a full sleeve on his right arm, and he says to me something like "We can say you're 21, right?" Well yes, honey, I'm pretty sure I'm older than you.

I harp on this theme, I know I do. Call it my age-orexia, my bul-year-mia. Or stop me before I make up these terrible puns, that would be preferable.

What I feel is: there's a fine line between childish and childlike. I am dancing on that line. Some days I'm pretty sure which side I'm on, and other days the fire in my belly will demand a switch of sides. What I've determined is that there are more times to be quiet than there are to expound.

I may well be the most actively social hermit in the Pacific Northwest.

tostones de plátano

The tales to tell have been more or less yanked from my guts, after a nearly two hour meeting during which I had to present the user interface for the project at hand. Preparation had been laborious, since the project manager is dim but well-meaning and so keeps meticulous over-organized tabs on everything. I've had more meetings leading up to this meeting than for all of my other projects combined.

Last night I ran up Terwilliger to the Chart House, the highest point of that route. Sometimes as the path wove away from the road and through stands of trees, I couldn't see the blacktop path at all. There's something invigorating about running at top speed (granted, for me that's about the same as regular speed and rather slow at that) downhill when you can't see where your feet are. And then the handful of utterly different pine scents in the clear night air. Before I moved to Portland, I don't even think I knew there were so many different variations of the smell of pine.

Erik and I met Julie and Brian at Oba, afterwards. We had some food arrival issues, but they didn't charge Erik for either of his dishes, nor our three total glasses of wine. That makes up for it. I liked the warm atmosphere, and some of the bartenders were playful behind the bar. It's nice when you can tell that coworkers get along. Did I mention they had plantains? Tostones, not my favorite sweet preparation of them, but hey-- the sauce was non-dairy and delicious.

how can such a Nordic city make me sweat

For how much longer will these leaves last? As the days compress into an almost unbearable sliver of sunlight, and I calculate how much shorter they have yet to become, I think that I could make it til the solstice if only these colors stuck around. Snatches of piercing blue sky and the preponderance of yellow alders, fallen leaves tessellating in the grass.

The leathery smell of oak leaves, their perfume deepening as they nestle into the damp soil. It's so perfectly autumn, but also par for the course: my heart aches with the beauty of these fugitive moments, every single time. Oh, but I'm a sensitive soul.

Yesterday I saw a tiny dead bird on my way out the door of my office building, and then on my run I saw a stiff, laid-out squirrel. Both appeared to have died without trauma. Is that the signal of winter's onset? Duly noted, Nature.

Last night during my run, one of my makeshift buns caught resonance, and bounced uncomfortably. I finally pulled it out and ran with my hair down, which I would normally never, ever do. But it was cold and still out, and the shadow of my hair flapping behind me under the streetlights made me feel like a warrior.

Today I walked the best long route on campus, which I've been avoiding for two weeks. The fountain was turned off, so I could climb the rocks back into it. Absolutely no one was out, save the kids at the daycare center.

superheated chocolate disaster

Last night I experienced my first microwave misadventure; at least the first that I can remember.

You see, our [cream cheese] frosting supply from the chai spice cupcakes I made a while ago ran out, and-- much like the dilemma of the hot dogs (ten to a pack) and buns (eight to a pack)-- I had made a batch of chocolate cupcakes to use up the extra frosting from the previous cupcakes. I decided to make chocolate frosting this time, something light and airy. In order to try something really different, I got out the cookbook most likely to have a good frosting recipe: Sinfully Vegan. "Whipped chocolate frosting" really seemed to fit the bill.

This is the point in the story where I give the disclaimer that I don't often use cookbooks. I have a difficult time following recipes. Usually I don't gather the ingredients first, or even check to make sure I have everything (which happened with the cupcakes this frosting was for. I was out of sugar. And then I just assumed they needed baking powder, as that's what most vegan baking recipes call for, but it was baking soda... and by the time I realized that, since I only ever write down the barest bones of a recipe and it just read "1t bs," it was impossible to remove the baking powder from the flour and cocoa in the mixing bowl. Then the whole thing sat in the fridge for a few days til I bought sugar. At any rate, back to the frosting saga...). I try to read all of the directions first, now, but what can I say. I'm really not good at following any directions.

So I had dumped all of the ingredients into the blender, except for the two cups of chocolate chips which were to be melted in the microwave. With the power at 50%, I nuked for one minute, checked for melting, another minute, checked, another minute... until they had been in there for five minutes. That seemed a tad long for something as meltable as chocolate, but the chips were a little old, so who knows. Finally, I microwaved it for a minute at full power.

When I opened the door, there was smoke coming from deep within the chocolate mass. I poked it with a spoon, and the smoke increased. I poked around more, to try to smother the... superheated mass. In the center of the still-not-melted cup of chocolate chips, hard black chunks sizzled and spewed. I ran cold water into the pyrex cup, thinking that would cool it down and put out any possible fiery-type stuff. Smoke-filled bubbles buzzed angrily to the surface. For a while I continued to poke, hoping to dampen more of the smoldering, superheated, black, crunchy mess.

It didn't work. I added more water, and left the whole thing in the sink, thinking that a good soak would loosen it up to be cleaned in the morning. In the meantime, I went on to make the frosting with a fresh batch of microwave-melted chocolate chips, this time stirred every thirty seconds. The frosting came out more like ganache. Oh well.

The next morning, the chocolate-microwave disaster had somehow subsumed the water into itself. Again, I left it and went about my morning. Imagine how impressed I was, then, when Erik set to washing dishes and took the time to scrape out the pyrex cup and clean the whole thing up. My hero! I made sure that the cupcake for his lunch had extra ganache on it.

the empire is melting like ice cream

This weekend was cut from a new pad of construction paper. The colors were fresh from the light of the low-slung sun, perhaps working harder than usual to cut through the atmosphere at such an angle.

Erik and I hiked to Latourell Falls, the Columbia River Gorge waterfall closest in to Portland. It was a beautiful little hike, full of Bigleaf Maple leaves littering the path, exposed Devil's Club branches, rickety bridges bridges over tiny streams, and enough glowing moss to satisfy even my moss-hungry heart.

Erik and I discussed the idea of "creating" every day, so I'm back to writing and kicking it out the door, as short and as cryptic as it may be.

halloween ideas for 2008

An ongoing list.

• Nudist colony--
  a group dresses in nude body stockings with silly genitals



• Amelia Earhart



• LEGO Princess Leia


• axolotl


• Ned & Chuck from "Pushing Daisies"

a previous weekend

I'll spare you the laments over how long it's been since I've written.

The previous weekend was wall-to-wall. Saturday morning, Erik & I went to a traditional Indian wedding ceremony, performed in Sanskrit and held on the enclosed glass skybridge of the World Trade Center, downtown. The priest was just over an hour late, so a few of the bride's female relatives stalled by singing for the crowd.

We had to leave early so that keep to my prior plan to help Ted load a fifteen-foot moving van with trash and yard debris. The van was full to the roof, but then we drove to my house for a few additional items. Notable among them was a round glass tabletop that Ted had to carry alone and which I held in place as Erik and Ted shoved a few more things in.

All three of us went out to the dump, where unloading went at least five times faster than the stuffing of the van had. We rushed to return the van, then Erik & I were only about half an hour late to the wedding reception-- well within Indian timing. The setting and dinner buffet were both gorgeous, but we left after the first dance to get home early.

Sunday morning I awoke extra early to meet Leslie and Bhavna downtown for the "Run Like Hell" half marathon. We had a nice, relaxed race, along with some decent race photos, as far as those go.

After the run, Julie and I went for breakfast at Juniors, and then dashed to Fred Meyer for a few things. When we got back to my house, Julie raked leaves onto the front garden beds while Erik & I made plans and readied for afternoon of shopping with Aspen & Mae. We picked them up and went over to Nob Hill, walking around a little before losing steam, stopping for bubble tea, and returning to the east side to check out Macy's.

Yes, I went to Macy's in the mall. It wasn't that bad, just looking for suits for Erik. We didn't find anything, but hanging out with Mae & Aspen is always a plus. Soon enough it was time to drive everyone home and go to Donna's house to play with the cats. She took me for dinner to Be Won, after which we went back to her place to converse more. It is truly impossible to not be sucked into the Donna time warp. I think I got home near midnight, ready to go to bed and read the final Harry Potter late into the night.

a universal note

This is the color of the universe: Cosmic Latte.

My dad sent me a link about it.

future vocabophilia

I have a new word to add to my most-loved pile, joining "citadel," "syzygy," and "magenta."

Snarl.

It was a license plate I saw on the drive to work this morning.

Cory came over this afternoon, but a downpour began as we tried to start out on a walk. Instead we went to the design library, where we looked through the entirety of Cabinet of Natural Curiosities. It was heavy on the snakes and light on the cephalopods, but still fascinating. What a massive, heavy, lusty tome! I can't believe that a whole hour went by as we quickly flipped through its fantastical prints.

After putting away the book, we noticed a little exhibit on 3D printing, along with a few examples-- sintered polymer lampshades. I read a short story excerpt on Salon.com not long ago that featured desktop prototype printers. I can't believe it's actually true. The price is surprisingly affordable. It feels like we're living in the future. I wonder if this machine will allow for the creation of a new media. Typeset print, newspaper, radio, television, internet... 3D printing?

in the eye of the apple

Unlike absolutely every other place I've lived, returning to Portland is always exciting. As sad as I am to leave behind in New York food uneaten, alleyways untrodden, and creative street art unseen with my eager eyes, I rejoice to feel the reach of trees' beneedled arms welcoming me home.

Still, New York's smoky concrete siren-call remains in faint echoes at the edge of my hearing. There's something about the history and the sheer grandiosity of its parks meant to mimic and better Nature, its time-painted concrete, its contrast at every layer.

By golly, I'm prone to lists.

The story of our recent trip to New York is as follows. Got in to Newark around a quarter to 6am on Saturday morning. Took a cab to my cousin's house in Tribeca. It was foggy, close, and strangely warm out, and we chatted with the Nigerian driver while he swerved with high beams on and a horn substituting for turn signals. We arrived in about twenty minutes, a record I'm sure. And then we sat by the front door, waiting for the hour to turn decent enough to ring the doorbell. When we finally did, we hung out in the kitchen for a while catching up with my cousin and her husband before retiring to the basement guestroom for a nap.

After an hour of repose, Kelley, Hudson, Erik and I joined Jonathan and Zara for lunch at a cute little Italian restaurant. We left the place in a bit of a shambles from Hudson's food-tossing antics, and Erik & I walked up Canal, through Chinatown for a new pair of cheap sunglasses for me and an I NY t-shirt for a coworker, then up Broadway for a shoe-shop detour, and over to the Lower East Side for random shopping and snackery. For me, the highlights were MooShoes (where I bought a pair of green shoes and pet their four cats) and Cake Shop (where we had iced tea and I ate an enormous concoction of puffy chocolate cookies and whipped peanut butter frosting).

We decided to see a movie at our old favorite theater, the Sunshine, and Into the Wild was just about to start, so we went for it. It was long and cold. Afterwards we tried to go to the Kampuchea Noodle Bar, but the wait was too long, so we took a cab to where we thought 'Snice was, near our old West Village apartment. We walked around for a while before calling Julie for the address, and then when we got there it was closed. We ate at Ma Ma Buddha, which we had seen on the long walk, then walked back to Tribeca. We got in around 12:30am.

Sunday we got up late (10 or 10:30am-- still early PST!), ate bagels in the kitchen, and went to the park with the Gazdak family. We headed back to the house around 3pm to get ready for the wedding, stopping by Burritoville for a late lunch. Erik and I showed up at Battery Park Gardens at 5pm, which was actually an hour early, so we stood around trying to be useful and buying sangria from the outdoor bar. It was absolutely beautiful down there, at the very tip of Manhattan.

I don't think I can describe the wedding itself. Christina was radiating classic beauty with her calm demeanor, even having to keep her right hand elevated in a hot pink cast after lacerating two tendons, opening a wedding gift of a kitchen knife a week prior. Of course I chatted up Aton's date, the Natalie Portman look-alike. She said that she had gotten the acceptance email for law school in an internet cafe in Saharan Egypt, typing on a keyboard covered in sand. I also finally worked up the courage to tell Aaron Cometbus that I'm a fan, right when he was about to leave with the centerpiece.

Once the restaurant closed down, we went back to Amy and Miriam's hotel room and hung out til 3:30am. From there it was a beautiful walk back to my cousin's house in the sweet night air. I forgot how warm those humid summer nights remain, although it shouldn't have been quite so summery.

Monday morning was tough. Erik and I took our time getting up, then walked up to 'Snice for lunch. From there we went to NikeTown to check out the new running floor and test-run shoes in Central Park. It was a race after that to get to the airport, but we made it with five minutes to spare, which is just perfect for me.

And that was the trip. Short, sweet, and packed with memories of things I'll never see anywhere else.

bright lights

3:33 am. Back from the wedding. Don't feel drunk necessarily, silly drunk. Walked back from the after party, the hotel room of two bridesmaids. It's the only wedding I've been to that the bride and groom showed up after their expected roles.

I met Aaron Cometbus, which was... fanboyish. More on that tomorrow morning when I can think straight. I met some amazing people-- Sarah, the Natalie Portman look-alike, Sabrina the party-starter, and Amy, whom I knew for many years but didn't rank a chance from til tonight.

New York is amazing, is beautiful, is walking wherever. More on that later, hopefully.

Had my first cigarette in years after lusting for them. We'll see in the morning.

sleepy city

I can't believe how fast that was. We're sitting on the front stoop of my cousin's house, because it's 6:30am and just too early to rouse them. I guess that's my technically-southern polite streak.

The sun is rising through thick fog here in lower Manhattan. With a cut-off view of luxurious rooftop trees and spires of grand old buildings through the slow mist filter, this could be another time and place. It's quite sweet to be here before everything wakes up; yes, even New York City sleeps, especially down here in Tribeca.

in flight

I am satisfied that I have wrung every last drop of time out of the past few days. Busyness comes in pairs. On Monday I went to the gym, went home to make dinner, then went to therapy. Tuesday I went for a run, made dinner at home, then went to IKEA with my brother. Wednesday I went for a run, made dinner, and went to OMSI for the Body Worlds 3 exhibit for its last hour of the night (the last day is Sunday, and it will be open 24 hours a day from Friday til then). Last night I went to the gym, warmed leftovers, and mourning the time to pack, went to Nine Muses to see a friend play solo. We got home at midnight.

I've been excited to go to New York all week, but tonight, in the reality of the airport food court, I'm just as drained as my time. Boarding is starting. See you in New York.

running becomes transcendental

This time of year is a smeared drop of my heart's blood, sighing through the beauty of yellow tree-shapes as they dance and bow under the sky. The colors dissolve my eyes and emotional boundaries, if I had any of the latter to begin with.

I drove by a copse of the most livid yellow trees last week, the quality of color that sings resonant heat into the heart, and so it was with glee that Cory and I walked over there. Cheery golden sumac leaves littered the gutter, and looking both ways to ensure that no one else was around, I grabbed great handfuls and tossed them into the air. They fell in slowed twirling showers, just as you'd dream they would. It felt like golden sunshine glitter, raining down.

After work I went for a run, the first test of my autumn running mettle. The windshield wipers had gotten a workout on the drive home, but I barely got a taste of raindrops under the threatening sky. The air was damp and sweet to breathe, nobody else was out, and cars gave me right of way because they felt sorry for me out in the rain. It was also fairly warm, just a perfect evening for running.

There's a point in the route I ran last night (my Lazy Route, a three-miler from my house) that always feels good. I'm more than half done, it's a downhill stretch, and there's a peep of the view to the west hills. My stride lengthens, breathing slows its cadence, and my thoughts become more vivid as the physical takes on a mechanical automation.

I noticed crows out, as joyous of solitude as was I. They wheeled in the sky, stretching their wings, winding flight paths for what seemed the sheer joy of it. As my thoughts deepened and lost their verbal sheaths, I thought-- it's the crows and I, thinking the same thoughts. There are no words, but only breath and the sound of the train. We're all stretching our wings to feel the air rush through our feathers. Every thing I saw, I was. My sight transfered my consciousness.

And then I changed course to run back by a house, out front of which I had seen at the start a bag of free calla bulbs. I ran the rest of the way home with both arms clutching the collapsing, wet paper bag. I've not seen so many crows, and crows alone, for a long time.

wildlife dreams

Whether because I just got up at the ungawdly hour of 6am, or because Kenard began waking me up about half an hour earlier than that-- I vividly remember my main dream.

We were in three or four separate boats, having paddled out to get to the space shuttle take-off strip. We had to dock to wait for a signal or something, and our leader took us to what seemed to be a secret dock site; our boats just beached on an invisible something. After waiting a long time, I decided to go investigate. As I pulled the boat away, I saw that we were docked on a whale. I told the others, and after they saw for themselves, we paddled back to land to talk to our leader.

Being on a train or boat, the rocking, going out to the stairs, seeing killer whales breaching in the bay, coyote in the low forest on the side of the tracks, bobcat on the curving stairs up to the top.

The house we bought-- "forest retreat," nude beach down the hill, neighbors with kids, getting parked up.

***I wrote the above in a rush while getting ready for a ridiculously early Saturday morning run, devolving into stream-of-consciousness in order to remember details. I'm kicking this one out the door rather than try to reconstruct it, since it's already been a few days. ***

bathtime

My brother referred to my "boyfriend" on the phone today. He meant Kenard. Ken is widely known to be quite beloved by me. And I thought I was being restrained around others, only mentioning him only one out of ten times he dances purringly through my mind. When he and I are alone, it quickly devolves into me calling him my "wittle mister Kenardlesworth," and him purring through stinky drool.

Last night, exhausted from working on a chain gang all day, I took a nice hot bath with Epsom salts. As is his custom, Kenard sat on the floor with his front paws on the side of the tub, ready to bat anything and everything into the water. After running out of sinkable items, he started to creep across the faucet at the end of the tub to try to reach the shampoo bottle on the other side. There's not much of an edge along the wall that side, so he'd reach over and start to slip, then retreat to sit for a while pretending to think before he'd try it again.

Finally he got up the courage to go for it, and with one paw outstretched towards the bottle and his furry belly taut over the faucet, he slipped... I caught him just in time, one hand under his middle. He stayed sedately on the floor after that, "cleaning" the shower curtain with his paws from the safety of dry land.

So that was my evening: my husband greeted me at the door with a big glass of wine, and my boyfriend tried to take a bath with me.

I typed for miles

This time of transition, this time of daylight slipping away, accelerated impressions of not possibly being able to do everything. So I haven't made time for writing. I didn't go to the farmers market this weekend. I skipped my long run in favor of reading on the new couch for a few hours, resting my messed-up shoulder. So that was my equinox: embracing relaxation.

I'm doing less, but somehow I have even less time for my various projects. Sunlight equals productive time. As my photosynthesis slows down, so does my productivity. Nighttime, at least, is better for creativity, so I expect to have more ideas as the season of hibernation snuggles down over the northwest. There's a lot of dark time, torture for us insomniacs, especially those of us

***This entry left unfinished due to the sudden pressing need to leave to get ready for a work event titled "Winter Formal"***

dame de lotus

Fall is coming. It's slowly dripping cherry syrup over the tops of maple trees here at work, trimmed round like lollipops.

Two images I had forgotten to mention, from yesterday:

I woke up with the beginning of a visual migraine, so I took a shower in the dark-- yes, it's dark now when I get up. What an odd experience, to shower in the dark. Hot water, cold tiles, undulating pulses of afterimages (that's in my head), and gravity barely applies. It was disorienting, but it worked, and I've only had this headache up in the corner of my head to remind me of a narrow escape.

Since our middle cat, Venus, stopped eating and drinking for a few days, Erik and I have had to give her subcutaneous fluid a few times. Originally the vet wanted to keep her in emergency care, but, well, we're rather pro at the "subcu," from a previous incident. That's another story.

Anyways, we were preparing the fluid bag, tubing, and needle, and Erik had just grabbed the cat. He sat down on the corner of the bed, when-- WHAM!-- the frame collapsed. I tried to play it down so that we could deal with it later, but upon further examination that night, the damage is extensive. I can't believe how many screws are sheered through the middle, ones integral to the main parts of the frame! I've never seen a bed frame fail so spectacularly, but I'm hopeful that I can take it apart and fix it. For now, since it's too big to get through the door, we have the busted bed frame pushed to one side, and our mattress on the floor on the other side of the room-- barely a foot to go around between them.

So that's how the week has been.

Morning seems strange, almost out of place

I really needed to listen to music yesterday in the car. Unfortunately I've misplaced the tape-converter I usually use with my MP3 player, so I was forced to dig deep and explore my tape collection. In the morning on the way to work, I heard Al Green's "Tired Of Being Alone" and it gave me shivers that sent my hand straight to the volume dial, turning it way up and belting out the words as time washed away inside the car.

After work, the first tape I popped in turned out to be Joy Division, "Still." Wearing my corporate sell-out generic running gear, windows down, garnering more disapproving stares than usual for my bumper stickers, dancing and singing while driving... This is the story I wanted to tell today, the perfection and time-machinations of music, this particular serendipitous choice. The words won't come, though, and nothing gets done. I'm blocked and nothing flows through me. If I close my eyes, I'm the branch who will snap in the wind. Open the floodgates, I want to cry. There's nothing to stop them from opening, yet they remain stubbornly in place.

Addendum:
This morning in the car I listened to a mix tape I originally made for Erik, soon after we met. It had me laughing out loud. Really, did I think he'd enjoy listening to the Go-Go's "Vacation?" And what possessed me to place the jarring cacophony of Guitar Wolf's "Wild Zero" after Elvis Costello's velvety "Red Shoes?" I was trying to impress him with my eclecticism. Hilariously, I end up aurally coming across as inhabiting some wild mood swings.

Must hilarity always ensue?

That's all I have for you, that one question.

I'd like to propose that the answer is yes.

on the day

I'm sitting in the bathroom, thinking. It's a great place to think. Sound echoes off the tile and supplies sit at the ready. It's the last stop before bedtime and the day is done.

Today, this day six years hence-- for the first time I feel nothing. I thought about dredging up the memories, the details I won't ever forget, and inserting myself directly back in time in my mind. It's all available for recall, as I've done many times. Today I decided not to. I didn't even feel guilty seeing the various commemorative events on tv (at the gym. I went for the first time in two years).

All I felt was surprise at seeing the weather in New York-- rain. Because here in Portland, it was beautiful, majestic. The very blue sky I saw six years ago in New York. The same smell of promise in the air. Not quite the same, but almost, the feelings of hope in my heart and travellust in my veins. I've heard that every seven years the body completely rebuilds itself, but maybe sometimes if you push hard enough it can take only six.

That home I once found for only a week-- it has been here for technically five years now. For today, at least, that is enough.

Heartbeats

Rarely there appears on the horizon of the conscious mind a phrase, or image, or sound that resonates in the soul. For me it is most likely to be music, and this particular song, of which I have now heard three versions recorded by three very different musical groups, is such an artifact.

Here is the original, by the Knife; the first version I heard, by Jose Gonzalez; and the one Erik just played from the other room by Scala, a Belgian girls' choir. Hearing the latter made me realize the truth behind the song, that it strikes a note within me no matter who interprets the music and words.

stretch my wingtips to the sky, tell me I won't ever fly

As I emerged from the great elm tunnel of my neighborhood this morning and the sky opened up over the Ross Island Bridge, the sky revealed of itself great hordes of jellyfish. A plop and pull of misty celestial paint, their stringy limbs suspended in flight, and I imagined what trick of windy paintbrush made this possible.

Last night was a mess. My day at work ended with a meeting called by my counterpart in another department who is the epitome of the cute Asian chick stereotype in appearance, but in personality cold as a slap in the face with an Icelandic carpelin. She mumbles in monotone while slouching petulantly into her seat, and repeats what is said to her a few minutes later, when her tech-slow thought process has caught up. That said, she was wearing some amazing shoes yesterday: white leather open-woven sandals with red inside that just peaked out and four or five inch red heels. I tried to translate between her and the finance guy, and make it seem like hers was the driving role. It worked, because she chatted me up after the meeting as we walked down the stairs.

Traffic was bad on the way home early for an acupuncture appointment, and I listened to a phone message that held subtle cues to the downfall of my mental health. I called my brother to commiserate, but later, after the appointment and an errand, I still answered the phone when it buzzed with the words "mom calling." Why did I do that?

So I was already set up to be grumpy for Last Thursday, and grump I did. After purchasing a slice of pizza at Bella Faccia I strolled the street without much interest, mostly boiling inside at the banal trappings of fashion hippies-- the crocheted hair bags in earthtones, rocks and sage, and busty fairy girls in front of the same two mushrooms. As much as I like each of those things (excepting hair bags-- never hair bags) on their own, this particular crapped-out representation was mirrored over and over to death by kids laying about the sidewalk, now younger than me and scabbier about the face than I've ever been after a fight.

I didn't walk down quite far enough to get to my favorite store on the street, but I was tempted into a blueberry-sage popsicle by a vendor of some fine, unusual flavors, and also bought some very cute spiral glass earrings from an eager artist who does custom work.

I walked as quickly as possible, given the thick crowds, and returned home around 9pm to the surprise of other-than-the-usual hungry males. Kenard I was prepared for, but there was something unsettling about being asked what I brought home to eat for my dad, who was suspiciously cheerful and had already been there for an hour. I guess he's where I get my night-owlism from. And my penchant for the utterly insane.

oregoner

Here I am, back from Hood to Coast, no house guests for the next twenty four hours, and the marathon of laundry and dishes I completed on Sunday ensure that house and home are now back to normal.

Something is still akilter, physically or mentally. After nearly thirty hours of running, living in a van with five other people on one hour of sleep, and eating some truly horrible food items manufactured specifically for such epic events... well, it's a bit difficult to cleave the fine line between the body and mind.

After breakfast with my dad and Karen at Junior's and the aforementioned household chores on Sunday, I arranged for Ted's birthday dinner to coincide with Julie's last dance with fried foods (for a while, anyways, after her gallbladder removal) at Russell Street Barbeque.

Monday was spent hanging out with my dad, his youngest sister Margaret, and her husband Bob. We got a late start, stopped at Vista House and Bonneville Dam, took the Bridge of the Gods up to Highway 14, stopped for lunch at a cafe in Trout Lake, and picked huckleberries on Mt Adams. We went home a faster route, through Hood River for a beer at Horsefeathers. The view from (and beer at) that place never fails to lull me into a deep, cushiony love for Oregon.

Another boring one

Drive home from work, inspect house siding, get geared up. Bike to OMSI to meet people. Ride three and a half miles out on the Springwater Trail, and then back to OMSI. Run three miles on the waterfront loop around the Hawthorne and Steel Bridges, back to OMSI and get on the bike for another loop. Bike home.

Erik was right about to put pizzas in the oven when I arrived home. Aspen had stopped by and I got to inspire him for his sculpted ogre feet, with my two very blue toes. Erik and I ate dinner, had an adult conversation, drank wine, and went to bed.

That's what I do with my free time? I guess it is.

On how to unwind

Yesterday was a rather unpleasant day, and so I went straight home and made up a batch of Roads End Shells & Chreese, added faux ham product, orange bell pepper, a bit of tomatillo salsa, and panko on top, then baked it in a casserole dish for fifteen minutes. While it was in the oven I took a few pictures of my backyard to look at during the day while I'm at work. Nothing's as comforting as casseroles and a quiet space crammed with plants.

homesteading the hermitage

Friday night Mae, Aspen, Erik and I went to Thatch, the newish tiki bar in town. Erik and I stayed up late watching episodes from the first season of Arrested Development, loaned to us by Jocelyn.

Saturday morning Ted and I went for breakfast at Equinox, and on the way back we stopped at a running store so that he could get new shoes in time to break them in for the big Hood to Coast relay race this Friday. Erik and I went to the downtown farmers market and then to REI for an early birthday gift of fancy running socks for Ted. I must have puttered around the house and garden for a couple of hours, mostly prepping veggies in the kitchen. I forced myself to leave the house around 3pm to do shopping I've meant to and explore an area I've meant to for ages. It went fairly well, as I enjoyed the walking around bit. The main destination was fruitless, however, and despite trying on a couple of things at a slew of vintage stores, I was mostly left with the sad feeling of having moved on from the realm of such stores, when once they provided such delight. Luckily I stumbled into a tiny but exquisite jewelry store, where I purchased scissors and skull charms, and a laser-cut plexiglas octopus necklace. I also stopped by Biwa for an umeboshi onigiri on the way home. Erik and I met his parents for a beer at the Lucky Lab, and then I met a coworker and her husband and a friend for beer at a couple more places to guide them on Hawthorne, since they live in Hillsboro. I met up with them where they had dinner at the Hawthorne Fish House, and we went from there to Pix. They went on without me, despite protests, to the pub at the Baghdad.

Ted came over Sunday morning so that we could run down to the start of our long run. He's incredibly fast and the fancy socks only fueled his speed, so we did the entire seventeen miles averaging a nine-minute-mile pace. That's about a minute per mile faster than my usual. By the time we got home Erik had left to help a friend build a fence in his backyard, so I spent most of the day in the back garden weeding, trimming, finally getting the copper rain chain up, putting in bamboo edging, and generally puttering around the house. I put up a magnet strip in my sewing room for displaying bits of inspiration; it was meant for knives in the kitchen but was too long for the space I had wanted it to go. I also made hummus and babaganoush from scratch, and cleaned up my personal spaces around the house in preparation for my dad's visit and Hood to Coast-- my house will be the base for the team quite a few times over. When Erik got home we decided to try the much-touted new vegan restaurant, Nutshell. It was rather disastrous, but I got a book out of it. They had a book exchange area, and I took "Spook," Mary Roach's follow-up to "Stiff."

Overall I was mostly at home, mostly alone, and mostly getting things done, which is just about perfect.

Two nightmares last night

In the first, a warning had been issued by the government that terrorist had mentioned "Curs" (or was it "Chic" or "Cirs" or something else similar?). At any rate, there was a county named as such in North Dakota, so officials kept especial watch on it.

Cut to a morning when I wake up to pandemonium, perhaps just Julie sobbing. I can't get her to tell me what's happened, but it's pretty obviously the terrorism for which we've all been grimly waiting. She tells me that her stepdad (real life aside: Julie doesn't have a stepdad, her parents are still married), at least, is dead, and she's not sure about her mom and dad.

I search the Internet, trying to find out what's happened. I can't seem to find anything, and I pester Julie to tell me, but she can't tell me much-- something about a rain of razors, and begs me not to make her tell me more. I finally learn what's happened, and it's that one of their own members brutally murdered the rest of the band "Meow Cat." Both of Julie's parents are in the band-- more of a weekend hobby than anything else-- and her mother, the lead singer, was particularly targeted. She was basically skinned alive and had the inside-out skin pulled back over her.

There's something else from the dream about a rain of razors, but that might have just been what I imagined to be the terrorist event, in the dream. I think that the murders were explained by the government to be an act of terrorism because they thought that the guy who went on the rampage was poisoned to do so, by terrorists. The name of the target, which we all knew beforehand as a warning, is revealed to be a shortened nickname for Chicago.

---

The other dream I'd call "Metal Filings." I can't remember how it started, but I remember my room in the dream-- sparse and like an alpine lodge, in a row of such rooms off a balcony, like a motel.

I had seen these on someone else, but somehow I contracted it too-- small thin pieces of what seemed to been animated metal, like half-inch lengths of graphite from a mechanical pencil. They dance over the skin, particularly liking mucus membranes and skin corners-- between the gum and the cheek in the mouth, or in the corner of the eyes. They move around like a hive, multiplying before your eyes. I had somehow gotten a few, but I kept pulling them off and keeping the numbers low. After seeing the... teachers? authorities? a friend came over to me and said "Do you take vitamins? Here, Mr. So-and-so said I should give you this pill. I guess it's from the mining company." The pill is a huge amber gellcap, the kind that I know is usually gelatin, but this time I can't afford to be picky. I've managed to keep the metal filings a secret from everyone around me; most people don't know about them anyways, so they wouldn't know any better what it meant that I had them, but it's definitely something to keep hushed. The friend is talking about how crazy huge the pill is and how I probably shouldn't take anything proffered by the mining company, while I grimly size up the pill and swallow it down.

---

That's about when I awoke from the dream. I awoke from each really cold, to pull the blankets back up over my shoulders and wait to warm up from such awful images.

portlandese

Yesterday, in a stress-induced push to do some hill training, I ran up Mount Tabor. I haven't been in ages, probably more than a year, and I tried to follow the route that C and I used to run once a week on "Mount Tabor Mondays." It took me at least a month back then to work up to running straight to the top without stopping. I remember how painful it was then, deep in my chest, the tight dry air. This time, although I haven't run anything particularly hilly in quite awhile, I made it all the way. I can't say it was easy or felt great, but I felt good afterwards, and it felt picturesque to run in the dry summer grass stained with late evening sun.

This morning, awakening hurt like pushing up through six feet of black earth. I couldn't understand how or why the sound of the alarm was even happening. I was deep in a dream in which I was in a shop on Hawthorne, trying on dresses. A woman who was there with her husband was trying to find a cute skirt, and had tried on every one in the shop. In the dream I gave her directions to Ipnosi and drew a map showing it just down Hawthorne from where we were. In reality it's up on NW 23rd, but no matter-- I dreamt of a real Portland street and a real Portland store! Much the same way that the first time you dream in a language you're learning, you know you're fluent, I realized with joy that I am now, truly, a Portlander. After giving directions to the woman, a younger woman struck up a conversation with me in the dressing room area, asking what I do when I'm bored. She had recently moved to the neighborhood and she said she usually went shopping when she was bored. Even in the dream I had trouble remembering the last time I was bored.

themeless collision

My nephew said I am
dressed like a ladybug.

I am posting without a theme or destination in mind, which never bodes well. It's been a difficult week, so I'm ready for its end.

A quick summation of the days is as follows: Saturday, triathlon; Sunday, Erik hikes South Sister; Monday, jury duty; Tuesday, Luna Chix bike ride; Wednesday, women's run and Hood to Coast meeting. Today is Erik's birthday.

I wish I could explain my mental turmoil. I bristle when pushed, but do try to live up to what's expected of me. So what are the unspoken expectations? There's something I just don't get, something I'm missing. I keep stumbling and I must've dropped a few letters out when I fell, so the language no longer makes sense. I'm waking up from a dream or falling asleep into one, and I'm not immersed enough yet to be fluent.

Something will give. Clouds pass overhead in the night and I will breathe deeply. I go outside to listen for the call every morning, and I have faith in listening.

tri-ing

Running is my forte.

Completed my first triathlon this morning, despite myself. I didn't go to bed last night til long after midnight, had trouble falling asleep, and awoke with a start a handful of times to stare at the absurdly low numbers on my bedside clock. Finally, I got up at 5:24am. I had put together most of my gear the night before, but I busied myself with gathering the sorted piles-- swimming, biking, running, afterwards.

Julie arrived, loaded everything into the car, and we were off to Blue Lake. While setting up my stuff in the transition zone (where you leave your bike and gear you'll need for each leg of the race), I was setting out my favorite running socks when I realized that I didn't have shoes. No shoes for doing the bike and the run. Wow.

Luckily we had arrived early enough that Julie zipped back to my house, grabbed my shoes, and brought them back. Since no one but participants can enter the transition zone, she was going to give them to an event volunteer who would put them with my stuff since I might be in the water by the time she got back. After she left I realized that I had set up all of my things in the wrong section, so I moved my bike, helmet, socks, sunglasses, shirt, bags, water, and everything else to the rack with the correct number range.

By that time the first wave or two of the swim had started, and while waiting in line to use the men's bathroom (the women's side was closed-- at an all-women triathlon!) I saw Julie walking up with my shoes. No doubt about it, Julie saved my ass for this event.

Moving on to the next tribulation: the shiny purple strap that comes in the race packet, with which you affix the timing chip to your ankle. I couldn't get mine to snap closed, although Sara's Ironman training buddy, John, mashed it shut for me. During the swim I could feel it coming loose, so I had to stop several times, take a deep breath, and bob in the water while making sure it was still fastened.

The swim itself was long, but not as difficult as I had feared. When I got out of the water it felt good to jog to my bike, putting nervous energy to good use. I toweled off, put on my socks, shoes and helmet, and tucked the timing chip with its strap down into my sock. The bike portion of the race was like being in a cloud-- misty rain, warm and humid. I enjoyed the ride, though, and passed quite a few people-- a big improvement from last year.

When I passed over the mat from my bike into the transition area, to prepare for the run, I didn't hear the telltale beep that lets you know your chip was registered. My chip was gone. I asked a volunteer standing in the transition zone what to do, and she said that I could still finish the race if I wanted. If I wanted! I ran off to tackle the running portion of the event.

So overall I had a great race. I enjoyed each part, I had great people cheering for me-- Fred and Shetha brought Andrew and Gabriel-- an amazing support crew with Sara, Leslie, John, Teres, and all of the other wonderful Luna Chix ladies, and I can't wait to do it again. For what it's worth, Julie said I crossed the finish line at 10:03am.

depth thursday

I know I'm nervous now because I don't feel like eating. Anyone who's ever met me would agree that's strange. I just returned from picking up the race packet for my first triathlon (short, "sprint" distances) tomorrow.

I forgot to mention the funny thing about the pool the other day. I got carded. For the pool. I guess you have to be eighteen to get in without parental supervision.

Yesterday I had acupuncture, then arrived home to discover that Erik and I had two minutes to get to Lauro to meet his family (visiting from England and New Zealand) for dinner. The chaos of many wine glasses, young children, an acoustically loud space, and hearty conversations crossing at once made the time enjoyably fly by. I left early, already late, and drove Erik's car home to pick up my own. Do things get more muddled than that?

Over at Donna's, we hung out with the cats for a while before going up to Alberta to walk around the final twilit hours of Last Thursday. We walked through the darkening crowds and it felt to me like floating along in a bubble. Talking, stopping every now and then to look at particularly interesting objects, night breezes gently ruffling our hair, the noise of other people hushed to the sound of water flowing in a shallow stream. Even in our own private world, Donna's magnetic vibe must have purred out into the night, causing her to be given a bouquet of lavender and a slew of party invitations despite her declaration of having a boyfriend.

We talked in the car for a while before I had to go home, to bed. It seems as though we could talk for hours, nonstop, sounding words back and forth off each other. I realized today during some quality alonetime in the car (listening to the Verve, of course) that friends can fall into two categories: those who seem to tap into the same subconscious as oneself, so that in spending time together you intensify your collective depths; and those who are similar enough that you get along, but nearly opposite in key ways that help you explore and broaden your boundaries. Depth friends and breadth friends.

swimtime

I never thought I'd find myself motivated enough, but yesterday after work I went for a swim at a community pool near work. I even canceled my run, although more because I forgot to bring my gear and no one had yet responded in the affirmative. Julie's presence also helped, since she actually enjoys swimming and had been to that pool before. It felt as swimming usually does: difficult, exhausting, and as though I will never catch my breath again.

I rushed home, made dinner, and then Erik and I went to the Wonder Ballroom for an odd party sponsored by Mozilla, featuring free food and a set by local band Menomena. It was so nice to see geeks out, being cute and getting into music.

cave junction

Erik, Aspen, and I skipped work on Friday for a long weekend road trip to Aspen's hometown of Cave Junction, OR. Erik and I were late getting ready in the morning, of course-- I had stayed out a bit late the night before going for sushi and drinking at the airport with Donna and my brother to see the latter off on his first big international trip.

Our road trip started with breakfast at Junior's and lots of coffee, which translated into quite a few breaks at rest stops. We also stopped briefly in Grants Pass for food and supplies before leaving I-5 for small-town southern Oregon.

First stop: Bardi Gras, a party at Rosie Barty's house. We hung out in the yard with a keg of local beer, lawn games, music, and cool people from Cave Junction. I think we arrived around 3pm and left after 11. I'd never spent eight hours at a party before, but it was par for the Cave Junction course according to Aspen, and I enjoyed it more than most parties for its mellow nature and treed setting. We drove to his dad's house and slept in a tent out front. With a nearby creek, inflated sleeping pads, and a no-door, scenic outhouse, it was a great camping experience.

In the morning I stayed in the tent alone, reading for quite a while. When I joined everyone in the house, we had breakfast with Randal and Naomi, chatting around the table. We hung out for a few hours checking out lizards, gardens, and homemade houses, before going up to the Oregon Caves.

The caves were wonderfully cold and mysterious, although our guide was a bit... stick-to-the-script-ish, if you will. The twists and outcroppings and low ceilings made me enjoy my stature, certainly. But it was after the tour, when we exited the cave and hiked up the mountain that the beauty became overwhelming. Layers of those Oregon blue pine-covered hills on which the sky rests to catch its breath in tiny quick puffs, calling out for miles in the joy of upright tree silhouettes.

Our next stop was Takilma, to hang out and spend the night with the Carnahans. I can't say enough of what an amazing family they are-- all gathered for the summer at the house where the kids grew up and only the mother now lives, enjoying each others' company and caring for one another. They welcomed us with such sincerity that I really felt at home, at peace, hanging out in the cozily organic house built into a clearing into the trees. Caitlin, Lacey, and Sara, the children, made dinner and then breakfast the next day for all of us including friends who dropped by, all the while doting on each other and their parents. I could have spent weeks there, hearing their stories, chatting, drinking in their artistic souls and the simple pleasures of life in rural southern Oregon.

On the drive home I thought about the blessing of growing up in such an environment, especially compared to the depressing rows of Depression-era brick boxes and brown and greyness in which I came of age. It's at the very edge of my ability to believe that such as place as Takilma and such a family as the Carnihans even exist. Certainly life isn't always as beautiful and easy as it was this weekend, and growing up without plumbing doesn't sound like a picnic. But there's something there, in the woods or mountains or water. That density of smart, caring, creative people can't be random. Now that it's past, I wouldn't switch my hometown for the idyllic town Aspen shared with us. I'm just grateful that now I can choose this, Oregon with its wild charms, over the East Coast from whence I came.

walk which way

Bloggin from the nook.

While everything else is on hold for two weeks for swim lessons, my walk at work has been the highlight of each day. Lest that sound lame, let me tell you what I saw on Monday: three American Goldfinches pecking for bugs on the marshy mud stream bank, one silvery fish leaping into the air to catch a bug, one frog (toad?) sitting in wait with its eyes just above the water, one frog jumping with a splash away from my earthquake footsteps as I crossed the stones over the back part Japanese garden, and a family of Canadian geese with teenage kids settling down for a nap.

I didn't see much yesterday but it was rainy most of the day, which left an unfamiliar heft of damp and warm in the air-- an unusual combination for this part of the world. Walking through an oak grove over slippery cobbles was the softest whiff of childhood summers-- being out in the woods during a cloudburst, the palpable solitude in the stillness after the shower. Here, however, mosquitoes don't rise back up and call in the humidity.

Today my walk was less eventful, although I tried a new route and I did see a couple of men diving in the campus lake. Seemed like they were fixing plumbing in there, which was interesting. It's a wonder anything could be seen in the murky water, except at the shallow edges where tiny fish hang out and taunt the garter snakes.

While researching Choose Your Own Adventure (CYOA) books today I came across Which Way Secret Door books, which spoke to me so as a child that I'd stay up til midnight to knock on the back of my wardrobe three times... hoping a secret door would open to the Monster Family. Anyways, the woman who wrote them,
Rita Gelman, is pretty nifty.

I also came across this art exhibit by Brian Eno which made me physically ache for missing San Francisco. So many unique opportunities and resources there, just waiting for someone to come along-- early morning at the wave organ, wandering around the Palace of Fine Art's tidy-bowl pond, climbing down from Coit Tower to splash in Levi Fountain on an empty Sunday, walking out from between the Dutch windmills to the foggy sand of Ocean Beach. Portland doesn't have Brian Eno putting on a high-tech art exhibit, and we don't have a game of Jewel Thieves and FBI Agents going on downtown; see?

We do have a smaller echo of the clothing as performance art that happens in San Francisco, which is perhaps why Morales' proposed ban on used clothing imported to Bolivia is such a fascinating and strong statement to me. Pros and cons, good stuff.

animal calendar

It's been a busy-calendar week, with Erik's and my various Google calendars filled to the brim with things we'd do anyways (like "eat dinner") and things we'll forget to do even when we double up on reminders ("yard waste pickup" every other week).

I finally took the plunge and started two weeks of swim lessons, each weekday after work. My usual running, bike rides, errands, gardening, and other hobbies have fallen by the wayside. It's a rush to get home from work, get ready for class, swim, and get home just before 8pm, starving. After dinner, we rush off to see visiting friends and relatives, to a show, to various appointments.

On one of my afternoon walks at work, searching for the various fauna that make the campus so fascinating and alive, I realized that animals are the pattern I see everywhere. Looking up at clouds and identifying the shapes; staring at tessellations and making sense of fabric patterns; recognizing faces to go with names-- I see non-human animals. The human brain is mapped to distinguish human faces, to extrapolate emotions and thus possible actions through facial expression. Why, then, do I see geese, whales, snails, and foxes? Is it backwards, wrong, or possibly deeper and more useful? Certainly it's a useful skill to be able to recognize familiar people in different contexts, and I wonder what it means-- besides being considered unfriendly-- that I don't have it.

Bloggin from the hammock.

Another post from the hammock, which generally means I'm feeling self-indulgent and nostalgic. It was hot here today, and as with heat under clear West Coast skies, the real heat peaks late and stirs this odd hot wind, back and forth bothering the trees. It's like opening the oven to check on a cake and the wavy blast almost knocks you back. That was today, at least from when I left work until now.

I made a very indulgent dinner and burned each part of it: tomato sauce (onions left to sweat on too high a flame while I picked oregano, marjoram, and kale from the garden), white beans and kale (again, flame too high while I moved the sprinkler), and grilled polenta (turned the grill up after the first sides didn't sear well). Today was the second class in my swim lesson session, for which I've dropped my whole schedule for the next two weeks. One of my resolutions for the year was to do a triathlon, so I am finally set on that course. The lessons are remedial but the time in the water is worthwhile.

Donna arrives home to Portland tonight, and like the entire environment of the greater metro area, I feel electrified.

I've tried to think of stories in parallel, but I'm lost in pleasures of the senses tonight-- the taste of cold, spicy asparagus pickles, the firm night breeze and taut hammock rope, the smell of night flowers blooming after the burn of a triple-digit day. I don't think I experienced these things well enough in my worried childhood, and so now I delight in their depth. It's that or some commuted sense of shame when I'm the only one over 12 years old racing after soap bubbles, splashing in shallow creeks, or staring with wide eyes at a many-legged insect on the hunt.

Make up for past summers spent indoors.

fourth recap

The Fourth of July turned on summer like a switch. Julie, Kim, Erik and I went to Genie's for breakfast, and then we (minus Erik) took Kim to the airport and ran errands. I went for a short run, and even though it was hot then at 1pm, it got much hotter for the Deep Fried 4th party a coworker invited us to. I had deep fried peanutbutter & jelly sandwich, sweet potato, Walla Walla onion, zucchini, and okra. There were many more interesting items there to be battered and fried such as Scotch eggs, pretzel-covered cheese sticks, and bacon-wrapped Twinkies.

Erik and I made two pilgrimages to 7-11, making the holiday official with slurpees and delighting in the Kwiki Mart-ization to promote the new Simpsons movie. We hung out at Erik's parents' house for a while, and set off fireworks with Erik's brother, his wife, and our nephew. It was his first enjoyable fireworks experience; at four years old, he's sensitive to sudden loud noises. He was still nervous and needed to cuddle while the sparks flew, but afterwards he couldn't wait to pick out the next one to light.

We went home around 9pm, loaded a water bottle with red wine, and went down to a dock on the river to watch fireworks and use the new tripod. It was a gorgeous evening, the kind that reconfirms my suspicion that everyone on the east coast is nuts. I can walk to the river from my house here, just before the main fireworks start, find a place to sit with a view of at least three different displays. The heat of the day still sits in pockets on the cement, but insistent breezes erase sweat, insects, and cares. Sweet summer evening-- like nothing I grew up with.

Last night I made a rather elaborate four-dish dinner, ate outside, gardened, and still went out to First Thursday for a short hour to walk around with John. Walking-- it's the new reading.

night breezes

I'm outside in the hammock under the Big Dipper, distant firework rumbles, and pulsing red lights in the sky that are alien to me although I know them to be aeroplanes. It's not so late, but it is so quiet. The air is mostly still, and today was hot enough that the usual night chill is barely even present in the breeze. Outside in the hammock under the stars, on the laptop. Now that is modern.

Life is strange and cyclical, and it's either the Spanish coffee I just had at Huber's or the cool night air that takes me back, but I remember all of those summer nights twelve years ago, the end of high school and edge of something else. I worked at a video production company, my first web development job. I would get to the office in Silver Spring around 10am in my uniform of cut-short thrift store skirts, fishnets and little boy's soccer tshirts.

After work I'd go home and make plans with Matt, Grace, or Adam. Matt was difficult to get in touch with because although he was my best friend, he had fallen for a punk rock dream and the drummer of the Snark Outs. I'd leave a message with his little brother, and Matt would call me back later with the promise that we'd hang out when school started and his girlfriend went back to Beloit. That's not how it went come September, but I must've known even then.

What did I do to while away those evening hours? What I remember best is emerging when the night had coagulated and its density allowed me to pull the parking brake, roll out of the driveway and down to the end of the street before starting the car and turning on the headlights. I'd pick up Grace, go to Tastee Diner (the original one in Silver Spring until it went non-smoking, and then the one in Bethesda), maybe go to Adam's house. Or downtown to Dupont Circle via Rock Creek Park with its unmapped curves and streetlights permanently dark to conserve energy. We'd gulp down the terrible brew at Soho coffeehouse on P Street, or walk around to see what was open.

There was so much darkness, road, and dashboard glow. That's how it felt just now out in the hammock. I won't get home at dawn, though, to sneak in the back door closed just enough so that the lock doesn't engage.

After I moved out of my parents' house when I was 17, the first time I came home at dawn was a let-down. No quiet tiptoeing, headlights blazing, and costume from the Industrial night intact. The whole charm of the summer was based on darkness and secrecy. Where are the secrets that make adulthood a precious commodity? Which are the quintessential bits of experience on which I'll look fondly back? Memory is an odd bird, and its flight path is lost in the thick summer night.

philosophical mathematics

The sun is shining and I realized that if I had to choose between reading and walking as the sole activity for the rest of my life, I would choose walking. Perhaps it's because I am not enjoying the books I'm currently reading, and when I went for a walk after lunch I followed a path bounded by blinking red roses on one side and shaded by swaying cherry tree branches above. For a few moments I couldn't see or hear another person, and it was as perfect as one could hope.

I might also choose walking to escape my thoughts, which used to be systematic, circuitous, and incredibly depressing. No matter where I started, my thoughts would boil down to the unanswerable Why and the impossible boundaries of the infinite universe. If the universe is infinite, how can it grow bigger? Isn't infinite already boundless and the biggest possible? It used to make my head spin, and it started the summer I was eight years old.

Nowadays I can step out of the loop and just stop thinking, but it also means that I don't do much heavy philosophizing or have much deep conversation about the meaning of life. Sometimes I feel shallow for abandoning the difficult issues of life, but mostly I appreciate the wonder of the utter randomness around me-- movement of clouds, the motion of birds as they hop in grass, and the peaceful geometry of treetops.

we're half awake in a fake empire

What happened is what happens every day. I get up, get ready, go to work. Some mornings I pick raspberries in the backyard, or play with the cats more, or open the laptop while I eat breakfast and start to savour the cocktail of websites that I usually read during the day.

For the past few days I've been shutting down, staying home, doing less. All of my muscles ached on Monday and Tuesday, my tongue was oddly swollen, and I felt like I was getting sick.

Well I paid my dues and last night I went out. I went straight over to Donna's house from work, and we played with the four-week-old kittens for two hours. Donna brought them out in a towel-draped crate: a box of kittens! Such a thing is nearly a religious relic.

We tore ourselves away to eat dinner on NE Alberta and walk around a dampened Last Thursday. Then we picked up Erik and went to see the National at Berbati's Pan. The performance restored some of my faith in going out to see live music-- they changed the songs just enough but did a good job with their instruments. Is it more disappointing to see a band play their songs straight from the recordings, or just not sound as talented in person? At any rate, I had a great evening and Donna's placid lake presence left me feeling calm this morning, even when my alarm went off less than five hours after I went to bed.

This morning in the shower I theorized that perhaps our synapses wear out with time, and that is why the emotions of our youth fade from sharp melodrama to the slow tides of ocean depths. Technically, synapses strengthen and grow with use, though, but it wasn't a very scientific idea to begin with. I'll see what I come up with tomorrow morning when I wake up extra early for a long run, after Dan & Abby's wedding tonight.

weekend log

Friday after work I went for a run, and then we had Aspen & Mae over for pizzas on the grill. Yes, on the grill. We sat outside as dusk fell down around us, drinking wine & beer and laughing at the antics of the cats-- safely in the house and away from Mae's allergies.

Saturday morning we went to the farmers market, I worked in the garden, and then Erik and I worked together to make riblet panini on the grill. I was so excited to use Alton Brown's foil-covered-brick trick to compact the sandwich. Next time I'll preheat the bricks and it will be even better.

Erik went off to Dan's bachelor party, and I went to my favorite garden store, Garden Fever, to buy groundcover plants for various bald spots in the yard. I also bought hazelnut shells to spread in the tiny, difficult garden bed between the back door and garage; I discovered that it is the neighborhood cats' litterbox.

After spreading the mulch I rushed over for Abby's bachelorette party, which was billed as featuring a "striptease class." No details of that to follow, except that I did have fun, I discovered that some things still do embarrass me, and I still got up at 7am the next morning to go for a 13 mile run.

It was an icky, cold, rainy, painful run. I felt completely wrecked afterwards, and spent the afternoon working on my thrift store glass garden sculpture while watching "Tenacious D in the Pick of Destiny" with Erik.

I made a big fancy Indian dinner, Ted came over, and we ate in the backyard.

ISBS

Salon.com publishes weekly highlights from their forums; this week is a particularly wonderful piece about dandelions, extolling their virtues and power of symbolism.


Aspen showed me this upcoming collection of short films by a great artist: Dave Mckean's Keanoshow.

Leaves are shivering outside in the wind, a rain dance that will bring clouds down on our heads. Last night I sat in the big hammock in my little backyard, dwarfed by rope and plants and clouds, watching the sky jealously as it fell dark at 10pm. Now I'm filled with the knowledge of days getting shorter again and I feel it in my guts-- deep in my intestine, although perhaps that's TMI. I mean, I don't have Irritable Summer Bowel Syndrome or anything, but I feel it deep in my center of gravity. It makes me unbalanced. It's a solstice hangover, the payment without the payload.

I am so tired and out of sorts today.