strange zoo

It may have become apparent recently that I have been cataloging some of my dream imagery here. I've decided to just go with it. Welcome to the inside of my head.

Several nights ago I dreamed I was in an outdoor zoo, well, perhaps part zoo and part wildlife preserve. I was standing near a water feature and the nesting grounds of a strange hybrid bird: part bird of prey, part carrion eater. Imagine a crow with deep chocolate feathers flickering with variations of iridescent gold. Then imagine that bird with an additional crown of feathers that arches up, over the top of the head, and hangs long toward the back of the neck. These feathers are more spiny, with smallish feathery tufts at the end, so that it looks more like a sort of headdress, only it grows in this fashion. Actually, it seems like nature might have found a use for this type of bird by now, killing fresh when it's available, and dining on carrion when food sources are scarce. Resourceful.

I walked further through the water feature to a section with a glass wall, so that one could see both above and below the waterline. Here I encountered an octopus, but it was much more transparent and jellyfish-like than an ordinary octopus. Its long tentacles were clasped around a large stack of papers. Looking more closely it appeared that a teacher had dropped a stack of syllabi into or near the water and the octopus was cradling or devouring it intensely. Looking closer still, I observed another hybrid creature wrapped around the octopus's tentacles. This creature appeared to be part crab, part sea urchin. It was purplish red and bore rounded white protruding bumps, like spines that had been ground down. It's legs wrapped around two tentacles. From my vantage point the octopus almost appeared as some kind of sea maiden with a cockle shell or flower in her hair, though, presumably, this sea creature was gnawing at the octopus.

As I watched a large cat ventured into the scene: another hybrid creature, part leopard, part mountain lion. Its spots were faint and its teeth were large. It dipped its massive head into the water and came back up with the octopus, syllabi and all, in its great mouth. The cat stood there shaking the whole collection like a much smaller cat might do to a catnip pillow. At this point the scenery changes in the way scenery changes in dreams, with perfectly absurd logic that is perfectly acceptable and in the context of the dream. The out-of-doors seamlessly turns indoors and soon I am watching this scene unfold as though it's within a large enclosure and I am standing behind a pane of glass.

In the distance I see a rather large giraffe. I say rather large because, while giraffes are large to begin with, this particular giraffe was comparatively much larger. There was nothing at all delicate about its muscular neck. The giraffe approached and swooped its knobby head down, scooping the great cat up, octopus and all, and shaking it, too, back and forth. Two zookeepers appeared and shook their hands in distress, mouthing words to each other I couldn't entirely make out. There was evidently some concern about a hip injury in the large cat, but all I could think about was how much more awesome this entire scene would be if it were taking place on the back of an elephant. As no elephant seemed destined to appear, I stepped away from the glass and exited through the nearest door.

Outside again, I was approached by a young man.

"What's the word for... or what do you call it when there are two Christs?" he asked me.

"Deuce Ex Machina," I replied, but when he looked only confused, I said, "Ah... never mind" and continued to walk away.

more dreams

The other night I dreamed of a cat, not mine exactly, but a cat, or rather several cats, but one in particular that, when I reached for it, turned into a bird but with bat wings and then lifted out of my reach.

Last night I dreamed I was being strangled by a man I did not know, a man for whom this was not a temporary rush, but one who clearly intended to see me dead. In my effort to escape him, I climbed a deep shelf against the long wall of double paned windows in this large and rather sound-proof room. I kicked him and he bent my arm back, snapping my wrist. I screamed and screamed but hardly a sound came out, as though my sounds were being vacuumed right out.

A smaller set of windows near the ceiling appeared to have once had cranks that would open them, though the handles had been removed. I pinched the end with my good hand until it barely began to open. I screamed again, imploring the row of girls sitting on the other side of the glass to help me. They sat motionless, expressionless, flipping through magazines as though waiting in a doctor's office, twirling their hair and staring at (through?) the activity occurring behind the glass before them as though it were the climax of a television drama.

crazy lady

Dear Crazy Lady on the #15 this morning:

I'm sure you meant well when you saw me at the bus stop and accused me of being a hooker you saw downtown last night ("I didn't call you a hooker, I said you were trying to get a date.") and I know it confused you when I said I didn't know what you were talking about. I'm sure you meant well when you subsequently broadcast to the entire bus your dismay that I would "lie" to you and that I wasn't interested in "looking out" for myself. I'm sure you meant well, but really, even if I had been the hooker you thought you saw (and I have to wonder, did she simply have red hair or do I really have a doppelganger hooking downtown-- in which case the phrase "I work downtown" is probably a phrase I'd best avoid) do you think your broadcast was at all helpful? Please, kindly shut the fuck up and go back to playing with your mesmerizing bad eighties quattro of horrid eyeshadow.

Thankyouverymuch,

~me

dreaming

Yesterday I awoke from a dream in which I was being photographed by a painter. We were in the vast expanse of his warehouse during a costume sale and the space was filled with the scurry of bodies rummaging through racks and racks of clothing. The painter adjusted a light and directed me toward a sheet-covered table. "Lie down and act like a mother," he said.

This morning I lay in bed remembering the beach of my dreaming. The sun was high and I stood by a low table painting long fanned strips of paper with R. A woman approached me, a stranger, and she and I began to discuss how children deal with death and loss better than adults. We discussed a particular tragedy involving an entire kindergarten class, in which nearly all of the schoolchildren had been killed, and how the few remaining children had dealt with the situation better than their parents.

R continued to paint, working off his hangover brought on by the previous night's drinking. As the hangover wore away, R's mood improved, his face brightened, and he smiled at me. He took me by the hand and led me away from the table. We laughed and I climbed upon him, piggy-back riding across the sand as he ran in zig-zags until I fell off. R took my face in his hands and we kissed slowly and deliberately under the bright sun. "Does Sarah ever make you cry?" he asked me.

my girl anya

I love her. Great cameo too!

randy

Last night on the bus I met a fellow named Randy. He had, perhaps, six teeth in his head, grey hair and a beard, and an oddly cheerful disposition. He'd been chatting up a man across the aisle when I sat down. That man got off on the next stop and Randy turned his attention toward me.

I got the sense that he was cheerful precisely because he needed to talk. I wasn't doing anything else, except looking up at the large white moon and thinking sad thoughts about sad things that I won't get into here, so I drew up a smile and let Randy engage me.

He said, "Can a person admit they've made a mistake?"

I said, "yes."

"I'm a man who made a mistake."

"What mistake was that?" I asked.

"I left my first wife. I don't know why I did it. I didn't have a good reason." Randy looked out the bus window across from him as he said this. "You know, they say the grass is always greener on the other side, but it's not. It's the same color, made of the same material, but it isn't any better. Fact is, I was happier on the side I left."

"Well, at least you recognize that," I said. "Too often, it seems, people don't appreciate what they have until they've lost it. And once you've lost something, you know it becomes really important to appreciate what you have."

"Yeah. Later, when I broke up with my second wife, I told my boys that I wanted to get back with their mother. And they said 'No, Dad. She cried for eighteen months over you. We're not going to let you put her through that again."

"It sounds like you raised some good boys," I told him.

Randy's face lit up, a huge gap-toothed grin spreading wide. "I have a whole lot of respect for my boys," he said, "My daughter too. I don't get to say that very often." He seemed to turn inward for a moment. "I'm the only one of my family out here," he told me. "I talk to my dad on the phone. He's 76. And I still talk to my first wife. I call her and she just yaketta yaketta yaketta and I'll listen all day to her."

Randy smiled, but he looked sad. At least as sad as I felt, probably more so.

"I'm the only one here and I don't have any friends to talk to... so you know what I do?" he asked me.

"What do you do?"

"I go out to Montgomery Park, you know, near Forest Park, and I talk to the trees." He paused. "They listen and I cry." He traced his fingers down the length of his cheek. "They've listened to a lot of me."

My stop was up next. I pulled the cord and stood up. "It was nice to meet you Randy," I said, extending my hand. He took mine and shook it. The bus lurched to a halt.

"Thanks. You too. You know, you didn't have to talk to me."

"No," I told him, "I didn't. But it was nice." And then I waved to him and stepped off the bus and into the rest of my night.

a promise

For once, I have clarity and no lingering doubts. This has never happened before. And so I can say with certainty, for once, that I will wait as long as it takes. I am not lacking in ways to otherwise direct my energies. I have projects. I have plans to put into action. I have plenty of work to do. And while the work is underway, I will wait. I must sound foolish, but my love is my promise to you, my friend. You know who you are, and know this too: this heart beats for you and I alone.

message received

Twice now, very recently, I have come across the following quote. The first time it was read aloud in my yoga class. The next I chanced upon it while looking for something completely unrelated. I don't know that the universe is sending me messages, but it resonated with me all the same. It is from the book "The Scottish Himalayan Expedition" by William H. Murray:

Until one is committed, there is hesitancy, the chance to draw back, always ineffectiveness. Concerning all acts of initiative (and creation) there is one elementary truth, the ignorance of which kills countless ideas and splendid plans: that the moment one definitely commits oneself, then Providence moves too. All sorts of things occur to help one that would never otherwise have occurred. A whole stream of events issues from the decision, raising in one's favor all manner of unforeseen incidents and meetings and material assistance, which no man could have dreamed would have come his way. I learned a deep respect for one of Goethe's couplets:

Whatever you can do or dream you can, begin it.
Boldness has genius, power and magic in it!

Apparently the couplets attributed to Goethe represent a very loose translation of Faust lines 214-30 made by John Anster in 1835. Considering how deeply Faust resonated with me, this only serves to please me more.

quivira

I'm the first to admit that I'm a novice when it comes to wine. In the wine world, I have little to offer in the way of professional criticism, but among my friends, I seem to be the person to call when one is staring down an aisle of wines and trying to pick something reasonably priced and tasty. With that in mind, I've decided I'd start sharing a bit of the wine I enjoy, beginning with a bottle R and I shared for a belated birthday celebration.

I recently discovered Garrison's Fine Wines and thought we might want to pick up a bottle for after our lovely dinner at Nostrana. I know that R likes big wines, jammy zins, but most of the wines in the shop were not ones I was familiar with and the few I did know were out of my price range. While once spoiled into developing two palates (one solely concentrated on taste and texture and one concentrated on what I can afford) I no longer can afford the luxury of really spendy bottles of wine. That said, I can still recognize something delicious and seem adept at picking good wines blind.

My methodology is simple. I look for wines with interesting and attractive labels. My logic is that a vintner must care enough about his wine to bother designing an attractive label. But, as the old adage goes, one can't judge a book by its cover, so I also look for a wine from earlier than the current vintage. If I'm particularly focused, I may even call up the memory of some rather good wine years for a particular region. When it comes to region, I tend to choose either regions that have satisfied my wine tastes in the past, or regions I know nothing about.

I can no longer set aside bottled with screw tops, as there are many decent wines that bear no resemblance to Boon's Strawberry Hill, which was what I used to associated screw top wines with and so carefully avoided. That said, I still avoid flat bottomed wines. I'll admit, some of this is my aesthetic preference. I like a wine bottom with that cradles my fingers. Plus, I can't think of a flat bottomed wine I've had that wasn't disappointing or downright bad.

So, on to the wine from Friday night: Quivira Dry Creek Valley Zin



This 2006 wine was more than I like to spend, but still reasonably priced at $20. The fact is, I've had $80 bottles of wine that were no better than a $12 or $15 bottle and most wines between $15 and $35 are pretty good. It had a dark, rich color, too dark to see through when held regularly, but held up to the light and swirled it was a marvelous crimson gem. It also had good legs and held up quite well in the nose (I just love that phrase). It was full of dark berries, but not too fruit forward. It finished with a little earthy, peppery quality and felt good in the mouth. It is not the kind of wine that slakes one's thirst, but rather a wine to let linger on the tongue and swallow slowly. Water is for thirst slaking.

Plus, it has an awesome little wild boar in red ink on the label, which, frankly, is what got my attention to begin with. I'd certainly drink it again.

friends

I just wanted to take a moment to acknowledge that I have the most amazing friends in the world. And to thank them (YOU) for the gift of being in my life.

a vow

You and I
We meet as strangers,
each carrying a mystery within us.

I cannot say who you are
I may never know you completely
But I trust that you are a person in your own right
possessed of beauty and value
that are the Earth’s richest treasures.

So I make this promise to you:
I will impose no identities on you,
but will invite you to become yourself
without shame or fear.

I will hold open a space for you in the world
and allow your right to fill it
with an authentic vocation and purpose.

For as long as your search takes,
you have my loyalty.

- A Vow by Theodore Roszak

new poems up

I have two new poems up in the current issue of Caffeine Destiny. Check them out here.

massage! cheap!

In the spirit of awesome things at a reduced rate, I just wanted to pass along this opportunity to you, my dear Portland-based friends.

My very dear friend Benjamin is a really-very-amazing massage therapist offering a 50% discount for new clients for either Thai or Deep Tissue massage. I’ve been to a number of massage therapists in the past and Benjamin performed better work while he was in school than most professionals after years of practice—and he’s even better now.


If you’ve never had Thai massage before, it is sort of like a passive yoga session, where you end up feeling like you’ve had a bit of a workout and a bit of a massage, energized and relaxed at the same time. I highly recommend it! Ben is also offering the 50% off for two hours of Thai massage, which amounts to less than an average 1 hour massage costs. His Deep Tissue work is also awesome, but I prefer the Thai, personally.

Anyway, I wouldn’t pitch him to you if I didn’t honestly think his work is amazing. If you’re interested, just print out the attached coupon and try it for yourself; I suspect you’ll want to return. And if you’re not interested, no worries!

getting better all the time

A friend of mine asked me recently whether relationships are worth it (relationships, as in the romantic kind) because they seemed to take a lot of work. I told her at the time that I think it depends on the balance.

All relationships take some amount of work and if you are actually interested in real communication, not just a host of assumptions, then it will require more effort than it would seem many people are interested in putting into a relationship. But, I also thought that perhaps there was some invisible line, a demarcation between the effort being worth the payoff, and too much effort for too little benefit.

I am here to say, unequivocally, that when both you and the person you are in the relationship with are worth the effort then all the effort in the world to be honest and communicate is worth it. When the relationship is about actually relating it is worth it. And when it is so, words like "worth" become useless, because there is no tidy value, no way to make such relating fit into any kind of market terminology.

I am stupid in love with the most amazing person and I don't care who knows it. We have struggled and miscommunicated, but have persevered honestly and respectfully and I wouldn't trade a moment of our history. He is my best friend and most powerful ally and I can't imagine my life without him in it. My heart breaks with happiness. What sort of value can one assign to that? My life is better with him in it. Enough said.

huzzah!

Two poems were just accepted for inclusion in the forthcoming issue of Caffeine Destiny!

Happy dance!!

true things

I met a man named Will on the bus this morning. He complained of his car breaking down and how he hoped he had the money to fix it. He was dismayed that his brother wouldn't pick him up because it was too inconvenient. He spoke of one time when a friend of his decided to trade his Benz for Will's bicycle for a day and how everywhere Will went that day he was received as though he were successful, but that when he was on his bicycle he was treated as some black guy on a bike.

"I just want to meet people with true hearts," he said. "People with true hearts who will take care of me and I can take care of them. People who are more interested in true things than they are in owning stuff."

Will told me he liked to travel and try new food. I asked him what his favorite restaurant was and he said he liked all kinds of food, African, Greek, Italian, before asking me what I liked. I told him I mostly cook at home, but that I liked all the food carts popping up downtown. He agreed they were tasty. "And they give you decent portions, too," he said.

We shook hands, introduced ourselves and wished each other a good day before I stepped off the bus.

Moments later, I was approached by a homeless man in a green army surplus jacket with wild hair and a full beard. His blue eyes looked tired as his eyes met mine.

"Hello, miss. Can I ask you a question?"

I stopped and waited to hear what he had to say.

"I don't want to be out here this close to death," he said, holding his index finger an inch apart from his thumb. "I got cleaned up out at my sister's. I got cleaned up and I just got out of the hospital." He held his wrist out toward me. "Here's my hospital band if you don't believe me. And my back's getting better."

He paused and looked me in the face directly.

"I want to ask you a question, please. And I want to say please. You can say no if you like." He paused again. "My name's Scott," he said, extending his hand, "What's yours, sweetheart?"

He called me sweetheart the way old ladies and Southern gentlemen do, in a way that was endearing and not presumptuous or off-putting.

"Shannon," I said, shaking his hand.

"Shannon. I know I have problems and I know they probably have to do with my alcoholism." He seemed unafraid of his own candor, which was nice. "Well, I was wondering if I asked you for a dollar... well, I don't usually ask for a dollar, but if I did, would you..." His voice trailed off for a second.

"Scott, you know what? Today I had enough cash for a cup of coffee, which doesn't happen often since I'm up to my ears in debt from going to school," I told him. "But I have a dollar and I'd be happy to give it to you." I took the dollar from my bag and handed it to him.

"You would? Thanks hon," he said and took the dollar. He smiled, paused for a second, and said, "God bless you" before turning the corner and heading toward a cheap morning meal.

These were the coolest, if a little random, ten minutes I've experienced on the way to work in a long time.

yes

"my God after that long kiss I near lost my breath yes he said was a flower of the mountain yes so we are flowers all a womans body yes that was one true thing he said in his life and the sun shines for you today yes that was why I liked him because I saw he understood or felt what a woman is and I knew I could always get round him and I gave him all the pleasure I could leading him on till he asked me to say yes and I wouldnt answer first only looked out over the sea and the sky I was thinking of so many things he didnt know of Mulvey and Mr Stanhope and Hester and father and old captain Groves and the sailors playing all birds fly and I say stoop and washing up dishes they called it on the pier and the sentry in front of the governors house with the thing round his white helmet poor devil half roasted and the Spanish girls laughing in their shawls and their tall combs and the auctions in the morning the Greeks and the jews and the Arabs and the devil knows who else from all the ends of Europe and Duke street and the fowl market all clucking outside Larby Sharans and the poor donkeys slipping half asleep and the vague fellows in the cloaks asleep in the shade on the steps and the big wheels of the carts of the bulls and the old castle thousands of years old yes and those handsome Moors all in white and turbans like kings asking you to sit down in their little bit of a shop and Ronda with the old windows of the posadas glancing eyes a lattice hid for her lover to kiss the iron and the wineshops half open at night and the castanets and the night we missed the boat at Algeciras the watchman going about serene with his lamp and O that awful deepdown torrent O and the sea the sea crimson sometimes like fire and the glorious sunsets and the figtrees in the Alameda gardens yes and all the queer little streets and pink and blue and yellow houses and the rosegardens and the jessamine and geraniums and cactuses and Gibraltar as a girl where I was a Flower of the mountain yes when I put the rose in my hair like the Andalusian girls used or shall I wear a red yes and how he kissed me under the Moorish wall and I thought well as well him as another and then I asked him with my eyes to ask again yes and then he asked me would I yes to say yes my mountain flower and first I put my arms around him yes and drew him down to me so he could feel my breasts all perfume yes and his heart was going like mad and yes I said yes I will Yes."

pobrecitos!

Did you know that in order to file for bankruptcy a $245 case filing fee must be paid to the court, a $39 miscellaneous administrative fee must be paid to the court, and a $15 trustee surcharge must be paid to the trustee, in addition to any lawyer's fees, which all sources seem to imply are necessary in order to file? Um, okay, but what if the reason one was considering filing for bankruptcy was because one didn't have hundreds of dollars just lying around in the first place? If one can't afford to pay the filing fees then one can't file, I suppose. Keep paying those bills, starving ones, just keep paying 'em. Gotta love the system. Of course, the real albatross round this particular neck is school loan debt, which can't be claimed in bankruptcy anyway. It's brilliant, really, when you think about it.

not dead.

... though it seems Ed McMahon, Farah Fawcett, and Michael Jackson all are. Good thing I don't worry too much about celebrity, well, anything. North Korea is threatening to nuke us. R will be leaving in a few months to go teach in South Korea. I'm trying not to think too much on that, since it rather depresses me. However, my awesome baby sister is planning a move to p-town and I'm excited about that. I'm also planning to do a yoga teacher training program, which is also exciting (crossing fingers). I'm doing another word/art exchange. So many changes on the horizon. All I can do is to breathe often and keep looking up, or I fear my heart and head may burst. Hopefully, with an overflow of beauty.

a love note

This is strictly an homage to A Softer World, but was fun to try. Word + photo by me, all technical skills and impetus behind my trying this, compliments of the inimitable Dave Wood.

not a pretty bird

She was not a nightingale
as the Greek said.
Philomela was a woman.
The sister of the new wife.
Raped, tongue cut out by the husband.
Locked away.
Not a swallow, not the bird of morning
and late evenings that end so swiftly.
Not a myth. She was a girl.
That is the story: the empty mouth,
the bloody breasts. The outrage.
Not the transformation.

~Linda Gregg, from Things and Flesh

mos-smith?

I am newly in love with Reed Wallsmith. And Chris Mosley. And the way Reed's saxophone plays against Mosley's butterfly-like hands across his guitar. So much tension and control. Like flying. Like poetry.

traveling spirit

I am still fresh from the high off a weekend spent a mere three hours north imbued with the traveling spirit one usually reserves for the foreign and exotic. It was a successful experiment.

I am collecting empirical data, irrefutable proof, that we possess the ability to manifest all we desire and the key is right inside our very minds. The brain is a marvelous thing. The trouble is the brain is a powerful thing as well and we manifest all manner of things every day, much of which is neither desirable nor particularly helpful. Brain: I am waking up to you, you sly thing, and aim to work with, not against, you more often.

Aside from this incredible realization--I can change how the world interacts with me by a subtle shift in energy? yes!-- I also came away from the weekend feeling, as I often do but in a more pronounced fashion, so incredibly fortunate a girl. I have the most marvelous friends in the world. My chosen family.

Lastly, today marks the first day of the Poem-A-Day Challenge for 2009. One down, 29 more to go. I'm feeling fucking fantastic.

thyme cookies. aya!

This morning I stood on my porch watering my sad little herb garden, which has mostly recovered from all the snow and frost, wishing, perhaps a bit too desperately, for spring to arrive. This morning, coupled with the cookie craving I've been gripped by this weekend, led me to want to share something with you. Yes, YOU.

I found this recipe on a window sill left by my former neighbors/former occupants of my then new apartment. They also left me a recipe in a drawer, written on a scrap of paper scribbled with red ink. In fact, I think I'll share both.

Thyme Cookies

½ cup shortening/butter
2 t dry thyme (adjust for fresh)
¼ t salt
1 C sugar
1 ½ C flour
¼ t ground cloves
1 beaten egg
1 t baking soda
½ t ground ginger
4 T molasses

Mix in order given. Drop by teaspoonful onto greased cookie sheets. Bake 10-12 minutes at 325°F. Dough freezes well, so double the recipe and freeze some.

Now for the other recipe:

a beginning

'I'

It's the vertical plane: it connects the earth to the sky. In physical terms it represents the spine, with the anus at one end and the brain at the other. The 'I' explores this vital contradiction, our life is the conflict and resolution between these zones. One so exalted, seemingly unattainable; the other so base and basic, a world of bums, of earth, of dung and weight. The result of this conflict--that is 'I'. The world of idea, pure, and the world of pure shit.

~from Andrew Lindsay's "The Breadmaker's Carnival"

citadel of the spirit

Well, folks, here it is:



Citadel of the Spirit is a valentine for Oregon just out from Matt Love's Nestucca Spit Press in time for Oregon's sesquicentennial, which is today, Valentine's Day.

This is a literary mix tape collection of essays and excepts featuring authors such as Monica Drake, Walt Curtis, Kaia Sand, Cheryl Strayed, Gina Oschner, Michael Strelow, David Horowitz, Erin Ergenbright, Bart King, and others, including yours truly. Much better than some corporate I-love-you.

man pants

I just want to take a moment to say:
NO MORE BOYS IN MAN PANTS.

I really mean it this time. I'm swearing them off. I shall not succumb again. I repeat, no more boys in man pants for me.

love at first sight

This is just a quick note to say that I love love love my new computer! Oh, the clarity! The quiet! The ability to become portable!

resolve without resolution

Already we are midway through the month and I've not had any particular urge to write about the new year. It should be well enough established by now that I don't believe in New Year's Resolutions (TM pending).

There is only this: the sun in the sky, high above my bedroom window; a gradually diminishing set of boxes and objects for me to purge or deal with; a growing desire to write more, again, about something new, but with the clear, rested eyes I'd needed to return to the older work and whip it into the shape I'd meant it to be.

My heart is open and I'm managing to keep my head up and remembering to look around, look up, to breathe. I take my cues from the birds in the trees. I'm knitting again. I still don't know how to make hats, or gloves, or socks, but I'll get there. I'm picking up my guitar again. I'm finding my voice again. I'm making art.

I am still uncertain of many things, but grow more comfortable with the uncertainty. I am ruled more and more by simple joys and my own will and less frequently by fear. There is only this. This moment. This curiosity. This opportunity.

I laugh more often than I cry and when I cry, sometimes it is because something beautiful has welled up in me and I have no means of containing it. This is progress.

the late unburdening of 2008

Yesterday morning I felt as though a fog had lifted from my mind. The day began with hoarfrost covering the ground and ended with fire in the sky. I discovered a song within me, which, though I can't recall it this moment, I know is immanent and my voice will rise up to meet it once again. This clearing is incomplete, but progress is being made.

I have vowed to resume the work of unburdening myself of things closed up in boxes. I looked around my room, too cluttered for my taste, at the accumulation of things that possess more of me than I'd like. I began the work before my recent move and then, with three jobs keeping me distracted, I didn't continue.

Why do I still own my high school yearbooks? They mean nothing to me, but I've carried them from place to place. I have a box of ceramic supplies I haven't used in the nearly eight years I've been here. Sure, maybe one day I'll have access to a kiln again, but until then, do I really need a bag of mystery glaze? I want to get rid of it all. Rip the cds and sell the discs. Finish the assortment of art projects in various stages of completion and leave them in parks or gift them to friends. The books, I'm afraid, are as culled as they are likely to be for a while.

I have a number of cool objects, but most of them don't bring me pleasure. They accrue dust and I am weighed down by the space they occupy in my life. Already, I've disowned the majority of the dishes I had that were not made by hand by people I've known, or otherwise exceptionally visually or tactilely satisfying. I want to rip, to shred, to recycle, to gift, until I feel I can breathe again.

I know there are things I will inevitably own or acquire. I make things. Things accumulate. But I genuinely want to sip tea out of the same hand made mug every day. I want my books to have dog-eared pages and coffee stains and signs of love and wear. I want my life to be a palimpsest of my experiences, not measured by the objects I've acquired or the (lack of) security provided by my bank account. (Which is marked by a negative trust fund for the foreseeable future. Ah, higher education!)

I want to stand breath sucked away and stunned by the fire in the sky more often. I am fortunate enough to live and breathe and to have a body and a mind to take in the world in all its horror and sublime beauty. I have a mind and a language with which to remain conversant with the universe and with others. I have a lot to do before I am taken back to merge with dust and minerals and light. It's time to wake up. The fog has lifted.

a little blake...

A Memorable Fancy.

As I was walking among the fires of hell, delighted with the enjoyments of Genius; which to Angels look like torment and insanity. I collected some of their Proverbs: thinking that as the sayings used in a nation, mark its character, so the Proverbs of Hell, shew the nature of Infernal wisdom better than any description of buildings or garments.

When I came home; on the abyss of the five senses, where a flat sided steep frowns over the present world. I saw a mighty Devil folded in black clouds, hovering on the sides of the rock, with corroding fires he wrote the following sentence now percieved by the minds of men, & read by them on earth.

How do you know but ev'ry Bird that cuts the airy way,
Is an immense world of delight, clos'd by your senses five?

the lady of lone fir cemetery

surely you've seen her haunting the graves and gliding through the neighborhood...?

for all the english majors...

I don't know whether I should laugh or cry over Lifestyles of the Nouveau Pauvre.

sigh.

And then I went off and got a master's in writing... poetry of all things. Is there something wrong with wanting to exist in a mytho-poetic state ALL the time?

my poor little cancerous one-eyed pirate

After treating cancerous tumor #1 and finally removing Buster's surgical neck wear, I was thinking he was on the mend. His right eye is improving, though hasn't yet healed entirely, and the gaping wounds on the left side of his neck are doing exactly what they are supposed to be doing...

But this morning I found another lump on the other side of his neck and the vet hasn't returned my call. Are these lumps appearing as a result of the blood draws he's needed to make his eye serum? Is the new one a result of the shot to sedate him for treatment of the other? Are my efforts to heal my cat resulting in greater ill health?

This morning I told Buster he was being stupid. If he was planning on getting sick and dying, I said, he should have gotten well first so that he could be running around outside chasing things before he kicks it. Sitting around growing tumors is about the least fun thing a cat can do, second only to sitting around growing tumors while trapped indoors, and he should really reconsider.

He didn't want to talk about it. He turned his back to me and resumed playing with the thin stream of water in the bathroom sink.

indulgences

watching episodes of terminator: the sarah conner chronicles, mostly to see summer glau kicking post-firefly butt.

wine and cheese for dinner.

watching my roommate eat steak and cupcake for breakfast, followed by a molasses chip "for dessert" and secretly envying him.

anything one might do with a fancy cashmere blanket. fantasizing about such things and said blanket.

buying a new pair of boots I really can't afford because they were on sale and it's been raining and my cat's tumor site is sloughing off in a really unappealing fashion.

candles and bathtubs and incense. oh my!

staring at the sky until the clouds blur and dimensions cease to exist and I am almost certain I will blow away in the wind.

the poems of pablo neruda. all of them.

narcissistic blog entries even I don't feel much like reading.

mind prey

It's astounding what one's own mind can do to one's self... It knows our greatest weaknesses and thus knows where and how to strike most deeply and effectively to prey on those anxieties. The mind lies in wait for those terrible opportunities to arise.

What would our experience of the world be like if we could harness that power to our own ends? Utilize such specific strength to target our goals, rather than our fears? This, I think, is a project worth pursuing.

I am feeling better today. My mind has cleared. I've had some important communication unfold, necessary conversations exchanged. All that's left is letting go of a particular thought form to make room for a better, more productive one. Slowly, I am making progress.

two from Neruda

Tonight I Can Write

Tonight I can write the saddest lines.

Write, for example,'The night is shattered
and the blue stars shiver in the distance.'

The night wind revolves in the sky and sings.

Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.

Through nights like this one I held her in my arms.
I kissed her again and again under the endless sky.

She loved me, sometimes I loved her too.
How could one not have loved her great still eyes.

Tonight I can write the saddest lines.

To think that I do not have her. To feel that I have lost her.

To hear the immense night, still more immense without her.
And the verse falls to the soul like dew to the pasture.

What does it matter that my love could not keep her.
The night is shattered and she is not with me.

This is all. In the distance someone is singing. In the distance.
My soul is not satisfied that it has lost her.

My sight tries to find her as though to bring her closer.
My heart looks for her, and she is not with me.

The same night whitening the same trees.
We, of that time, are no longer the same.

I no longer love her, that's certain, but how I loved her.
My voice tried to find the wind to touch her hearing.

Another's. She will be another's. As she was before my kisses.
Her voice, her bright body. Her infinite eyes.

I no longer love her, that's certain, but maybe I love her.
Love is so short, forgetting is so long.

Because through nights like this one I held her in my arms
my soul is not satisfied that it has lost her.

Though this be the last pain that she makes me suffer
and these the last verses that I write for her.


A Song of Despair

The memory of you emerges from the night around me.
The river mingles its stubborn lament with the sea.

Deserted like the wharves at dawn.
It is the hour of departure, oh deserted one!

Cold flower heads are raining over my heart.
Oh pit of debris, fierce cave of the shipwrecked.

In you the wars and the flights accumulated.
From you the wings of the song birds rose.

You swallowed everything, like distance.
Like the sea, like time. In you everything sank!

It was the happy hour of assault and the kiss.
The hour of the spell that blazed like a lighthouse.

Pilot's dread, fury of blind diver,
turbulent drunkenness of love, in you everything sank!

In the childhood of mist my soul, winged and wounded.
Lost discoverer, in you everything sank!

You girdled sorrow, you clung to desire,
sadness stunned you, in you everything sank!

I made the wall of shadow draw back,
beyond desire and act, I walked on.

Oh flesh, my own flesh, woman whom I loved and lost,
I summon you in the moist hour, I raise my song to you.

Like a jar you housed infinite tenderness,
and the infinite oblivion shattered you like a jar.

There was the black solitude of the islands,
and there, woman of love, your arms took me in.

There was thirst and hunger, and you were the fruit.
There were grief and ruins, and you were the miracle.

Ah woman, I do not know how you could contain me
in the earth of your soul, in the cross of your arms!

How terrible and brief was my desire of you!
How difficult and drunken, how tensed and avid.

Cemetery of kisses, there is still fire in your tombs,
still the fruited boughs burn, pecked at by birds.

Oh the bitten mouth, oh the kissed limbs,
oh the hungering teeth, oh the entwined bodies.

Oh the mad coupling of hope and force
in which we merged and despaired.

And the tenderness, light as water and as flour.
And the word scarcely begun on the lips.

This was my destiny and in it was my voyage of my longing,
and in it my longing fell, in you everything sank!

Oh pit of debris, everything fell into you,
what sorrow did you not express, in what sorrow are you not drowned!

From billow to billow you still called and sang.
Standing like a sailor in the prow of a vessel.

You still flowered in songs, you still broke in currents.
Oh pit of debris, open and bitter well.

Pale blind diver, luckless slinger,
lost discoverer, in you everything sank!

It is the hour of departure, the hard cold hour
which the night fastens to all the timetables.

The rustling belt of the sea girdles the shore.
Cold stars heave up, black birds migrate.

Deserted like the wharves at dawn.
Only tremulous shadow twists in my hands.

Oh farther than everything. Oh farther than everything.

It is the hour of departure. Oh abandoned one.

in which I think

I keep making posts to obscure my heart-broken rantings. I am questioning whether to delete my posts. (Perhaps this whole blog?) I'm no longer sure what purpose it is serving... Clearly, the work I need to be doing is internal now. Everything else needs to fall away.

surely

that last post will live to haunt me.

my crappy day

So, my cat has had an ulcerated cornea for weeks and instead of getting better, my one-eyed pirate is getting worse. If that weren't enough, I discovered he also had a lump. Upon further examination, it turns out that lump is cancerous.

Today also marks the confirmation that the man-child that I break my heart upon repeatedly is already chasing after two vaginas, neither of which belong to me, so now my new lease is looking more like a prison sentence. I would like to hate him, except the one thing he is not is a liar. I knew this was coming.

Did I mention that my ex-boyfriend and one of my best friends (or so I thought) has mysteriously decided not to talk to me, after ditching out on plans, and offering no explanation as to why on either count? Yeah, I thought about calling him to tell him our cat was sick, but I didn't see the point since he's gone all non-communicative.

Oh, and I still can't find a real job because improving your life through higher education actually is code for "your degrees freak us out, go away."

A fine fucking day, if I do say so myself.

fuckin' Pre-Raphaelite, yo!

So, I'm standing at the farmers' market yesterday waiting for my girlfriends to arrive and join me for coffee. I'd just bought some apples from the Old World Apple stand and I was probably distracted by leaves and sunlight. A man with a guitar slung over one shoulder comes up to me and says, "Wow. You look like a Pre-Raphaelite." This jarred me out of my reverie and I made eye contact. "I mean, a hot red head standing there with her basket of apples, staring off..." He begins to walk away but then turns back around and says over his shoulder,"Fuckin' Pre-Raphaelite, yo!" At this point I can do nothing but laugh and say thank you. "I mean, I hate to break it to you this way, but..." then he swings his guitar,"Well, I'm gonna go play some MUSIC," the man says before walking away. What a riotous way to start the morning. If you are not familiar with the Pre-Raphaelites you can see some images of their artwork here. Afterword, Mayumi, Tricia, and Sarah joined me on the little Moroccan carpet near the coffee stand in the park, where we were later photographed for the November/December issue of French Glamour, for a story about the "Portland Lifestyle." No joke. What a fabulously strange morning!

notes from underfoot

You know how it is when you are moving... all the sifting through objects, creating piles of varying degrees of importance and chaos, the cutting away of the extraneous. I'm feeling the urge to purge. Moving is a pain in the butt, yet so liberating. Already I'm envisioning the next round on the other end, finding more to recycle as I unpack and organize.

As usually happens, I have also come across old letters, notes to myself, weird scraps with fragmented thoughts whose contexts have been long lost. I've decided to post some of them here, to indulge my absurd impulse to preserve some of this nonsense, while still satisfying my overwhelming need to get rid of most everything.

"I don't jump into puddles anymore and there's no one that I'd like to splash with. Most people don't appreciate it. We threw leaves at each other in the park. That was almost similar."

"Tradescantia. Zebrina. Purpusii."

This fragment came on two pieces of torn paper that had obviously, at one time, belonged to several other pieces which have disappeared since the shredding. On one piece, only the end of two words were available (...hed ...ars.) but on the other, practically a poem:

"...dark window; on
your namelessness on her tongue and the s...

...still in her hand, while the birds sang softly
in the damp green of the trees."

Actually, now that I think of it, that may have been a draft of a poem. I wonder which one it was??

"I have acquired more bruises in the last week than I can remember having in a long time. My collarbone, purple with the weight of your forearm against me. Pink and yellow fingertips dot my thighs, the backs of my upper arms. The impression of your teeth finally fading from my shoulder, and the sand dollar-sized misfortune on my calf, which I don't recall doing anything to induce. I have been happier than I remember being as well."

"The key is elasticity. That's why humans are great."

"...the days I feel like all I am are the roles I play and I hold my hands up before my face and realize I am becoming transparent."

"...why we allow ourselves to be ruled by things that tick and silly painted lines."

"Don't eat that morning. No liquid after 10:20."

I also found a card from my friend Jeff that died this past January and it had me in tears for a full ten minutes...

And, of course, I've also been rifling through assorted class notes on Foucault, Lacan, Eliot's Prufrock, and pictures, cards, grocery lists, receipts, half-filled notebooks, numerous recipes, books and film suggestions, documents, letters of recommendation and rejection, strange foreign coins, and a single Costa Rican pejavilla (?) or palm kernel.

I'll leave you with this scrap I unearthed with this quote from Albert Camus: "In the midst of winter, I finally learned that there was in me an invincible summer."

home | homelessness

As many of you know, I have been largely unemployed since graduation (thank you for the copy editing work, Matt!!) and also worried about what I jokingly, yet fearfully referred to as my impending homelessness, since I've got to move off-campus in less than a month. Well, I am still jobless, but it seems I will not be homeless after all.

The word is intriguing to me: homelessness. It conjures up such an abstract melange of imagery. It suggests a lack of something, not rooted, necessarily, but certainly something deeper and more meaningful than the mere presence of a house. A home is a space in which to flourish, or retreat-- a space in which to do any number of things really, but chief among them involves this sense of home. More than a possession, or dwelling, a home represents a space where one belongs and can feel at ease with being one's self.

Considering I recently overheard another woman being attacked within earshot of my bedroom windows (that's two consecutive summers now, for anyone keeping count) I am really looking forward to living with R and to feeling more at ease in the space I have chosen to reside. Plus, my new landlord is also a writer, with the same degrees as I have, and seems like a pretty decent fellow. And with that, half my stress has just melted away. I have a plan, a place to put my things without building a fort from my books underneath a bridge. My kitties will get to run around outside again.

And, while I still won't have a gas stove (beggars can't be choosers, the saying goes) I do have a nice expanse of hardwoods, just blocks away from an urban winery, a park, a liberal arts college, plenty of new slacklining trees, and a rhododendron garden.

optimomentusm... or something

So, I did it. I came to the end of the path I'd chosen over four years ago when I quit my corporate job (first, and probably last) at which I made more money than I've ever made (though, having worked a lot in bookstores, certainly isn't saying much) to return to school full time.

I now have two degrees that I didn't have back then, three in total: an A.A. in Liberal Arts - Multidisciplinary Studies (too liberal with my arts to get a proper liberal arts degree); a B.A. in English with a minor in writing; and finally a M.A. in Writing (primarily for poetry, but I've dabbled in fiction and nonfiction writing, though, perhaps regrettably, not technical writing, which is, it seems, where all the paying jobs are).

I was graduated with honors. I was optimistic. I'd planned on using the momentum from my recent experiences to propel me back into the working world and into a new apartment (since, as a recent graduate, I get the boot from my campus housing in 30 days) where I'd start to work on all the art projects I've been thinking of, revising my thesis into a fully-fleshed manuscript, and actually spend time cooking elaborate meals again.

I put out of my mind all of the upsets and difficulties these past two years have shown me. 2008 was supposed to be good; this is was I had told myself initially. And, I thought that perhaps the trials were over and I could relax into something good, something hard-won and richly deserved.

Apparently, I have some unpaid karmic debt left. I've been unemployed since June, applying to every job under the sun, including those that pay a third less than I was making at my last full time job, before my two recent degrees, and while I am qualified (and in many instances over-qualified) I can't seem to get a break. Now, imagine this as your platform from which to sell yourself to prospective landlords.

"No, really, I've been entrusted with teaching university students, I swear I will pay my rent. This is a transition. This is a brief post-graduate school obstacle. Trust me. TRUST me. Wait, where are you going?"

So, this is a shout out to the universe. I didn't mean it when I said to give me your best shot. That was hubris. A joke. Surely, you can forgive that little transgression? I've been humbled.

Oh, and I've also realized that if I am ever in a position to hire new employees, I'm going to call the over-qualified candidates first to tell them I appreciate their smarts and while I may not be able to pay them what they're worth, I certainly won't toss them aside because I'm afraid their passions may reside outside the workplace. Likewise for rental units. I aim to let common sense rule out over so-called "business sense" every time.

Now, hopefully I haven't irritated any potential employers/landlords with my ranting. It's a frustrating road. I trust they will understand. And so now my friends, I ask you, do you have any friends or relatives hiring or renting in Portland? No, seriously.

from a dark field

My short story (very short. 500 words short.) is online at The Smoking Poet. TSP is a cool little labor of love from some very interesting folks and covers poetry, short fiction, book reviews and interviews. It also, as the title might suggest, reviews cigars and features writing about the joy of smoke. Since I don't smoke, I doubt I'll have any pieces up in that section any time soon, but if you'd like to read my story you can go directly to it here. But I'd encourage you to look around the rest of the site too.

flash fiction accepted

I've just gotten confirmation that a piece of flash fiction I wrote has been accepted for publication in the online literary journal The Smoking Poet. It should be appearing in the summer issue and is titled "From A Dark Field." I will, of course, link to it here once it's up on their site.

it's over...

Well, it's all over but the paperwork anyway. I have officially completed my master's degree and must begin panicking about finding work. After all, I am competing with PhDs for the same job I've been doing as a so-called graduate "assistant." Ah, the life of an adjunct. I haven't yet found the market for me to simply get paid for doing whatever I please. If you know where one exists, do tell. For now, though, cleaning and probably packing and certainly nap-taking are in my future. Oh, yes, and reading books solely for pleasure. I can't wait!

this made me smile

So, I randomly came across this on the PSU website. It is a profile of a former and fabulous student of mine and if you read it you'll know why I smiled. And this on a day already full of smile-worthy moments.

two more poems published

I just got word that my poems "Two Minutes in Hell" and "If Kubrick Had Been a Dentist" have been accepted for the 25th anniversary edition of the Suisun Valley Review! SVR is hosting an anniversary release reading at the Solano Community College Library on May 16, 2008 from 2 to 4 PM (located at 4000 Suisun Valley Road in Fairfield, California).

Sadly, I won't be able to accept their invitation to read, but for all my Cali friends out there, you might hear some lovely new poets if you can make it that day. So far my rate of return is golden, but I know the rejection letters are bound to come pouring in any time. This just can't last. In the meantime, though, I am enjoying it.

see shannon read

Admittedly, I will be only one of several poets reading on May 15th at the Blackfish Gallery here in Portland, but it would be nice to see some of you there, if you can make it.

good news and other news

So, I don't think it's on the website or anything yet, but my poem "The Birds I Like Best Most Others Despise" will be in The Portland Review Issue 54 #3. I mentioned this before, but didn't know when it would be out, and now I know that it will be out in May. You can buy it at local bookstores in Portland, or from The Portland Review directly.

I also just learned that I've won the first place PSU WEGO award for poetry, which was judged by B.T. Shaw, editor of The Oregonian's poetry column. The winning poem is called "What Passes For Yes In Hangul Sounds Like The English No." So, that's exciting.

I'm still crossing my fingers for this year's Kellogg Awards, also in May. I was a finalist for the Shelley Reece Award in poetry last year, but am hoping to any and all gods that I win this year, since that would pretty much be awesome and also comes with a nice check, which would be very, very useful, since I have to move off-campus once I graduate and currently have no money. Hmm. A writer/grad student who teaches has no money? Shocking, I know.

In other news, I had my first blow up in the classroom on Wednesday (a student, not me, just to be clear), replete with a dramatic exit and a door slam. The angst addled inner teen that still resides within me was duly impressed, but other than that the whole thing was sort of depressing. I really do take what I do seriously and strive to create a safe, encouraging space for my students to grow and exchange and explore, but part of that growth requires examining what we do closely, i.e. criticism (which should not be confused with being negative or crapping all over somebody's work).

But, it would seem this student did not see it that way and has ultimately dropped the class. I already sent an email to this effect, but I do wish her the best. Tomorrow I will go back to class and resume workshopping and discussing and generally having a good time with my students and hopefully the echo of that slamming door will have completely subsided. Still, I suppose the whole experience is one to learn from and will make for a good story one day, by all accounts.

the joy of acceptance

I just got word that a poem of mine has been accepted for publication in the Portland Review; this is a first for me, so I am excited. This news also comes on the heels of having an essay accepted for inclusion in Citadel of the Spirit: A Literary Compendium Commemorating Oregon’s Sesquicentennial due out next February from either OSU Press or Nestucca Spit Press. Considering I have only ever sent a handful of poems out and only to two journals, this is really wonderful. Of course, statistically speaking, I can only go downhill from here. Still, I've bought myself flowers to celebrate. AND, I get to hear Eavon Boland at a poetry reading tonight. Not bad at all.

freezing in the sun

This is just one of the things I did this afternoon after getting a cup o'stumpy's delight... you may have seen me, paused mid-sip and stroll with the lovely Miss Sarah.

Then, the park, and dogs, and Mr. Love and wine and even dinner with R. Not a bad afternoon, really.

one for grace...

I am taking a break from tea-drinking, class-prepping, homework-doing, thesis-writing, generally stressing and the other usual activities to reflect on some of the wonderful things I am enjoying currently, despite the incredibly crappy way this year began.

I am so grateful for my family, especially my two wonderful sisters. I love you guys. And also, for my friends, in the best and the rockiest of times, especially B who has seen more of the best and the rockiest than most. And the new friends I've made and am continuing to grow to know and appreciate. And the old friends that have reappeared after long absences as though no time had passed at all. As it turns out, despite how alone I often feel, it doesn't require much effort on my part to find you there.

This paragraph is for R. He won't ever read this and so he won't know if I've written anything nice about him here, though he knows what I think in real life, which is what counts in the end. I've learned a lot from and with him in the past year and am quite grateful for it.

And of course, I think a lot about those who have left us. My friend Jeff, whom I miss dearly and think about constantly. My sister's friend Jenn, who passed away this past week. And Joel and Earl, and my other friend Jeff. And the others, too numerous to list, but who have affected my life and the lives of those around me. (And, in this context, Brad and Walter and Alan, who have turned up as shining examples of friendship and solidarity in the toughest of times-- thanks guys!)

And yet, despite the grief and the hardship, I keep feeling like everything really is and really will be all right. I type this even as I feel inexplicable tears welling up and threatening to overwhelm me. Often I exist on this border. But what strikes me most is how, even while we are embroiled in some endless and stupid war, even as we are surrounded by ignorance and hate, even as we watch the petty entanglements and human dramas that turn up everywhere, the sun is shining and the birds are singing and my heart is warm. There is so much beauty in the world.

career advice (?)

Possibly the stupidest and scariest thing I’ve read about the writer’s strike yet:

“While I understand that the writer's aren't getting paid enough, that shouldn't be the main reason why they write. They should write because they enjoy it, and be proud that at least people watch it. If people didn't watch the shows, they wouldn't have any viewers. I'm now having to do something else besides watch my favorite shows. I'm having to read, and keep my mind on something else. And it stinks!”

Yikes.

because I needed a break

Let's face it: I am busy and have had a lot of emotional upheaval recently; I'm tired and lacking focus. This post has been hijacked by a guest blogger for a little humorous relief from my way of doing things. This is the first entry from one particular bad-ass I know. Um, enjoy.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
What’s up, bitches?!
Fuck tha Polis!
Kill Whitey!
Well, anyway, I’ve had a super crazy day. So—first—get this—I’m reading Emily Dickinson—and suddenly I hear a noise that sounds like an ‘splosion outside my door. I’m like, “what the fuck was that, yo?”

To be continued.

Peace and Love, muthafuckahs!

Sincerely,

Nice Knightly
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

in memory of Jeff Nagel

I don't even know where to begin... When I first started this blog in January 2006 I began by saying I was not sure what had possessed me to start blogging, but that it had absolutely nothing to do with New Year's resolutions. On January 06, 2007 I wrote that I still didn't believe in New Year's resolutions, but that instead I had plans.

My plans for 2007 consisted of the following:

do more yoga (check)
fewer drunk evenings (check-- virtually non-existent)
submit writing for publication (still lame on this count)
make an effort to be more aware (check)
let go of what is unnecessary (check, mostly)
look upon myself and others with more kindness (check)
look up more, on clear nights especially (check!)
knit more than I cry (check)
make more art and new friends (check)
more calls and visits to old friends and once good ideas (check)
have less to do with things that don't make my heart sing (check)
retrieve beach stick from old car (check)

Not a bad year. A difficult one, to be sure. Coming out of 2006 and into 2007 was far from perfect, with many painful steps along the way. This post certainly gives a sense of what I was feeling. But I had my family, I had friends to support me and help me get through it all. I had a friend who liked to adopt phony personas for the internet who even wrote me a message after reading that post. He said, "Hey! Keep thinking of the good things you DO have, and don't be too reckless, because wherever you go, you'll never be far away...from someone who is always going to love you.....it's inescapable." By the end of 2007, I was feeling very much that 2008 was going to be a banner year, that work and changes which had been quietly underway would finally manifest openly. 2008 was supposed to be good.

And, at first, it was. I had a lovely NYE with Riley (low-key, yoga, minimal champagne) and I began the new year feeling pretty optimistic. Then I received a devastating phone call while standing in the aisles of Powell's. The sister of my friend who had written the above message called to tell me that her brother, my friend of seventeen years, had suffered an aneurysm and was in the hospital with a hemorrhage in his brain. My mind would not let me make sense of it. "Is he all right?" I asked, not thinking that if she was calling me then probably he was not.

I had just returned from my holiday in California with my family. He was lying in a hospital bed hundreds of miles away from me. I felt helpless. But, with the gracious support of my mother, I hopped on a plane the next day and went back to California. I was not prepared for what I saw. Here was a man I had met when we were teenagers. We had fallen in love. We had broken each other's hearts. We had forgiven and discussed and moved forward into our lives which were being led in two separate states, but we had never forgotten each other, nor the love we had shared. Neither of us was in a position to truly speculate on whether we would in fact have a romantic future together, but we did spend the past few years rekindling our friendship and that love in the ways we could, given the circumstances of our lives.

I will not speak of everything that we said. He was a very private person. But I will say that we did, finally, say everything that had needed saying, everything that had not been said before, and had laid the foundation for a beautiful friendship which we both had expressed excitement about having the rest of our lives to deepen and explore. Jeff Nagel passed away at the Good Samaritan Hospital on Friday, January 4, 2008 at the age of 36. He was taken off life support January 6th. I had told him I would always love him, and I will. I am still somewhat in shock, despite having spent his final days at his bedside with his wonderful, strong, and inspiring family and friends.

Jeff had always been so strong, so healthy, and so talented. He mastered gymnastics, bmx racing, guitar playing, woodworking, world class rifle shooting, and most recently, gourmet cooking and the ecosystems he had magically cultivated in the micro gardens of his backyard. He did more in his 36 years than many of us will do in twice that lifetime, and he did it humbly, respectfully, passionately, and always, always, always with a smile, if not on his face, then in his heart. It was not supposed to end this way.

His sister Jolie put together a wonderful website to honor Jeff's memory. I know he is in the hearts and minds of everyone whose lives he touched. I know he is loved and missed and will always be remembered. I know he knew how I felt and that we were lucky enough to have said all that we needed to say while there was still time to say it. But I am heartbroken and can't quite believe he is gone. I have never been religious. I take no comfort in the idea of god. But nor do I think of death as a window into a vast nothingness. I am a believer in life and in appreciating what joy and pleasure we can experience and share while we have such life. I am a believer in walking through the world with an open heart.

Jeff approached the world this way. He was fierce, and loyal, and strong. He was kind, and gentle, and devastatingly beautiful inside and out. He was a dear friend for literally half my life. He has passed from this world and into whatever great mystery lies beyond. I like to think that he just got too curious, that the insatiability of his interest and passion for all manner of things simply got the better of him and he moved into a place the rest of us aren't ready for yet.

My plans for 2008 are simple: to live in a way that will honor his memory. I miss him and love him with a fierceness I know he would appreciate and honoring him is the only thing left that I can do for him. And with that, I'd like to share a poem that many of you may already be familiar with, but that truly reminds me of Jeff. It is called Desiderata, by Max Ehrmann:

Go placidly amid the noise and the haste,
and remember what peace there may be in silence.

As far as possible, without surrender,
be on good terms with all persons.
Speak your truth quietly and clearly;
and listen to others,
even to the dull and the ignorant;
they too have their story.
Avoid loud and aggressive persons;
they are vexatious to the spirit.

If you compare yourself with others,
you may become vain or bitter,
for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself.
Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans.
Keep interested in your own career, however humble;
it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time.

Exercise caution in your business affairs,
for the world is full of trickery.
But let this not blind you to what virtue there is;
many persons strive for high ideals,
and everywhere life is full of heroism.
Be yourself. Especially do not feign affection.
Neither be cynical about love,
for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment,
it is as perennial as the grass.

Take kindly the counsel of the years,
gracefully surrendering the things of youth.
Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune.
But do not distress yourself with dark imaginings.
Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness.

Beyond a wholesome discipline,
be gentle with yourself.
You are a child of the universe
no less than the trees and the stars;
you have a right to be here.
And whether or not it is clear to you,
no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.

Therefore be at peace with God,
whatever you conceive Him to be.
And whatever your labors and aspirations,
in the noisy confusion of life,
keep peace in your soul.

With all its sham, drudgery, and broken dreams,
it is still a beautiful world.
Be cheerful. Strive to be happy.



Be at peace my beautiful friend.

can I get a hell yeah?

"The knowledge toward which we seem driven by language, or which language seems to promise, is inherently sacred as well as secular, redemptive as well as satisfying. The nomina sint numina position (that there is an essential identity between name and thing, that the real nature of a thing is immanent and present in its name, that nouns are numinous) suggests that it is possible to find a language which will meet its object with perfect identity. If this were the case, we could, in speaking or writing, achieve the “at oneness” with the universe, at least in its particulars, that is the condition of complete and perfect knowing.”

~Lyn Hejinian – The Rejection of Closure

i'm published?

So, technically, my first official publishing credit is actually not in any traditional journal, but rather a song on a CD that is now available. The album is by Leah Tysse (rhymes with spicy) and is called Real Good Fire. Leah is a San Francisco musician, best known for her blues vocals. The last track on the album, Tender Rain, is co-written by me and Rich Armstrong, best known for his work with Michele Shocked, but also, Thomas Dolby, Boz Scaggs, and Lydia Pense & Coldblood. The song is based on a poem I wrote, which was then slightly modified to become the song lyrics, with the music written by Rich, who also sings backing vocals along with Leah, and features Fiachna O'Braonain of the Hothouse Flowers on guitar. Again, it's a strange place to start, and it is sort of a strange turn of events that brought the song into being and eventually to this album, but it is my first publishing credit, printed in the liner notes, if in tiny, tiny type. :) Anyone interested in the album can visit Leah's website at www.leahtysse.com

where was I?

Well, clearly it has been a while since I've updated this thing... I've been back from Korea for a while now, back in school, back to teaching. I'm spending more time thinking about how language shapes reality than complaining about kimchi. I never got around to writing about how amazing the buddhist temple stay was, or the bowing ceremony (108, well, 115 to be exact) of forgiveness I participated in, or the one American monk who only spoke once, when I inquired about a particular sauce, to say, "you put it on your noodles!" I probably won't get around to writing much more about Korea... not here anyway, but for those of you who were wondering, yes, I loved the teaching. The kids were amazing and I loved every minute at camp. The gender dynamics were, on the whole, difficult to watch, but was less difficult at camp since they were still mostly just acting like kids and all of that other stuff hadn't entirely taken hold yet. Maybe I'll write about that more at some point. I don't know. I just thought I should say something. And with that, back to my class to discuss how one effectively writes about violence.

serendipitous weekend part four

Sunday morning August 12th:

We knew the storm was going to be bad when the wind began knocking over full pitchers of beer, but we told ourselves it would blow over by morning, as the last one had, because we were now on an island that required a boat to leave it and we didn't want to face the increasing possibility that we would not be making it back to work on Monday and would have to face a chorus of I told you sos and the like. April comes to our room to tell us that our cab driver (I forgot to mention that our cab driver gifted us with a watermelon the previus night, a fruit which I've since learned costs $16 here) because he was so pleased to have us there) had called her early in the morning to tell her that the ferries had been cancelled for the day and the next one as well. We were about to panic, but he'd called her back to say there was an alternative: we could hire a private boat to get us off the island. It would cost about $400.

We decided that we'd gotten ourselves into this and so far we'd spent very little money, as people kept being overwhelmingly kind and generous, so we sucked it up and prepared to pay $80 a person to get off the island. Of course, no sooner that we decide this, April comes back to tell us that our cab driver had called back to let us know that he'd arranged for us to get on a boat with about 20 Koreans that were also trying to get off the island and that we'd be squeezed in a tight space, but would only need to pay $20 a piece. Again, amazing luck. So, he and Crankypants loaded us up and drove us to the ferry terminal where we crammed into a boat better built to seat ten and made as though we were being smuggled across the border. Actually, it was a pretty sweet ride, if a little choppy (the storm, er, edge of the typhoon, was rolling in after all) and chartering a private boat made for a pretty good story. "Yeah, we don't have a plan. We're doing this the American way; we'll figure it out when we get there and do whatever happens to come along." We'd have been so fucked if we hadn't been so fortunate.

An hour later, less than half the time of the regular ferry, we arrived back in Mokpo and, again via April, bought our bus tickets back to Haenam. We bought Nick and April lunch, stopped at the Paris Baguette for dessert and bread-- and the only sparkling water I've seen in Korea-- and managed to get on the right bus at the right time. We went back to Wims homestay family's house, who then called my homestay family to have them pick me and Brianne up. We went back to my homestay family's house in the country, to shower (Brianne's first hot shower of the homestay stretch of the trip) and eat dinner. It was lovely-- and they liked Brianne so much they invited us both back for dinner on the 23rd. It was very sweet. Brianne and I spent the rest of the evening applying these strange Korean masks (think paper sheets that make you look like the horror film character Jason) and generally feeling lucky. Sinae made me a cross-stitch gift, which included R in the cross-stitching, which was cute and odd, since I'd only ever mentioned him once. It was a nice end to a long and interesting weekend. I know I've forgotten a million things (the fish ice cream that violated no less than two people, the swampy mudroom that made out shoes smell like a homeless person's ass, Fallon falling on her butt straight into a huge puddle and managing not to break her computer, or get it wet, despite it having been in her backpack jsut above her butt at the time, etc.) but this was the gist of it.

In the end, I think my favorite way to travel is to have a general plan, but truly to proceed as the way opens. Had we not taken the advice of kind strangers, had we not chanced our luck, had we not been willing to fork out the money for a private boat, we would have missed out on so much. It was wonderful and I feel very fortunate just thinking about it now. Next up: the Buddhist temple-stay and 108 (make that 115, oops) bows ceremony.

serendipitous weekend part three

By now you've noticed this weekend required installments... now another weekend has passed and I've even more to tell. But first, the rest of the story. Saturday morning, August 11th, on the island of Big-eum-do:

Our taxi driver/personal tour guide/savior (along with the ever helpful and bilingual April) was so amazing, I don't even know where to begin. To start, he immediately smooted things over with the angry husband/cab driver (henceforth referred to as Crankypants), and then informed us that the hotel we were planning to call was not great and not on the beach and that he could take us to a pension, which is sort of like a hostelling situation, or a minbak, except that the family lives on site, yet not in the building they rent. This pension was on a beach, though he said he'd take us to a nicer beach and would drive us around the island, essentially all day, for a very reasonable sum (the equivalent of $30). His first order of business was to get us all to the pension, but along the way he decided to take us to a beautiful white sand beach. As we drove the road narrowed, finally to tall reeds, then emptied onto the beach itself. We drove along the sand and, as I happened to get into his cab with Nick and April, he relayed stories and information. This particular beach was one of the longest in all of Korea, north and south; in fact, it was one of only two and was four kilometers long. It was stunning. He pulled over to let us out to take pictures and walk around, while Crankypants took a cigarette break.

The beach stretched both directions, creating a sort of inlet, and there were islands off in the not-too-distant distance. The water was cooler than I expected, but nothing like Oregon, and the sand was covered with tiny sea snails and the hundreds or thousands of intertwining tracks they'd laid in the slow crawling across the beach. I did say stunning, didn't I? He took photos of us, for us. He smiled and laughed. We continued onto the pension. The long beach was the best road to the pension, and eventually we pulled off the beach and onto a small waterfront paved road. The beach near the pension was mud and there were children that had been playing and bathing in it, covered except for eyes and teeth in mud. They wandered up the road and to a cluster of buildings to hose themselves off. These buildings were the pension and where we'd be staying for the night. Too cool.

The pension itself was just okay. We slept on the floor and the walls had various bug carcasses smeared across the terrible floral paper, the bathroom/shower (as most showers in Korea are the entire bathroom--yuck) was less than desirable and there were many flies circulating the room, but for the price, it wasn't too bad, and we were only staying one night. We dropped our things in the room and he and Crankypants proceeded to take us to another beach. Again, the drive was amazing and he frequently pulled over to take photographs of us, or to let us snap photos, all the while telling stories of the local lore. On Green Mountain, there is a small temple, an original that was not destroyed by the Japanese and therefote very old; the two rocks jutting up from another seaside hill were dubbed the Lover's Rocks, because they stood like lovers leaning into one another; there a rock that looks like a turtle; that island in the mist is the island Nick and April had intended to vacation on but couldn't make it to; that other island right there is where Chogumbogo (butchered and incorrect spelling, I'm certain), a famous Korean pirate, used to fix his pirate ship; etc. He was driving us to Heart Beach, a beach so named because it is literally shaped like a heart. Our cab arrived to the beach a full ten minutes later than Crankypants' because of his excitement and guidance. When we finally arrived, I noticed an apright piano on the beach. When I asked (again, via April) what the story was about the piano, he simply said, "no story." It was just a piano on the beach!

Our taxi driver (I wish I knew his name) and Crankypants left, with plans to pick us back up at 7:00 and he insisted we do not pay him until we arrived back at the pension. Can you believe that? So, we played the piano, not well, as there was sand blown under the pedals and the weather had worn the keys and strings, but there was sound coming out of it and that was impressive. April, a piano player, actually managed to eek out a tune. It was great. We dropped our things on the sand and ran toward the water. The water was wonderful and the waves were big. We ran and jumped and swam and screamed (as the Koreans that were there liked to scream when the waves came; Brianne later stated it was more fun when you screamed). I should mention that by and large, Koreans do not wear swimsuits at the beach. Don't imagine this as a skin scene; it's quite the opposite. Koreans will swim in jean shorts and long sleeved button down shirts. I have no real explanation for this, except that they are quite conservative when it comes to mixed gender situations and very concerned about exposure to the sun. I would think that comfort would win out, but no. They also seem not to mind schlepping a lot of stuff to the beach (tent, tarps, blankets, tables, etc.) to avoid sitting directly on the sand or in the sun. Very different.

This beach was also covered in tiny, practically transparent little crabs, and on the rocks there were what I can only describe as sea cockroaches. But the beach was beautiful and the break well-earned and much appreciated. Soon the amazing taxi driver and his cohort Crankypants were back to whisk us off the beach and to a restaurant. It turns out that this island, though in Korea, land of all manner of creepy sea food, actually specialized in chicken, and that this restaurant served what is called "low chicken," which is the breast, which is usually not the preferred piece, because necks and feet are special prizes here. Additionally, the chicken is served steamed, rather than fried. The meat eaters among us would have loved it, but the restaurant was closed. I should also mention that when I told April that two of the five of our group were vegetarian, she said, "Vegetarians don't eat chicken?" I can only hint at the trouble we've had. Vegetarian has taken on new meaning here, more precisely, non-beef-eater. It's rather a pain in the ass. Since the restaurant was closed, we went to a market for beer and junk food/snacks and promptly quadrupled the shopkeeps monthly gross, I'm sure. We played silly drinking games on the floor of our pension room and watched the storm roll in...

serendipitous weekend part two

Later Friday night:

OK. In Korea there are many places called Hofs, which, perhaps, stands for House of Food, or something, but in any case require that you purchase food whether or not you want it or they will not bring you a pitcher of beer (if one can call what passes for beer here beer). So, we order a fruit plate and while we are waiting for fruit we are served a platter of peanuts (standard pub fare, cool) and papery tiny dried fish, with heads and eyes intact. Lovely. Exactly what I want to eat with fruit. Yum. But, at this point, very little about the food here surprises me anymore. We move on...

What we discover, however, is that we all need to use the toilet (toilet is a word most Koreans know, while restroom or bathroom confuses them) so we stop at the first one we find: The Sexy T Girl Bar. As we live in Portland, the city with the highest number of strip clubs per capita in the nation, we figured we could get in, use the bathroom, have a shot of soju or vodka, and leave in just a few minutes. We were wrong. The Sexy T Girl Bar is a high class establishment. High class in the sense that they only cater to monied folk-- you can't buy a shot, but only a $130 bottle of liquor. The girls are dressed in sexy, but not super trashy, outfits, and when you order a drink, they sit on the other side of the bar and talk with you. Of course, we figured out that what they are really doing is servicing a segment of the population that wants to forget they are chatting with an escort, despite the fact that we are pretty certain you can rent a private room upstairs and order anything you want, literally. So, we drink our shitty beer, use the toilet and continue with our evening.

We meet a random group of folks in the street a short while later: the abtholutely fabulouth Angus from New Zealand, Lacey and Carey, from Vancouver, Washington (what are the odds?), and Sue, a bilingual Korean whose father happens to work for the ferries. Thanks to her we learned that there were no tickets left to Jeju-do and together her group of friends came up with alternative travel ideas replete with the Korean and English translations of a host of questions/directions. Of course, we did all this while getting drunk on soju in a bar with red velvet seats, random plastic toys, and a young Korean man that spent most of the evening snapping cell phone self-portraits (self-photography is quite popular here). We left the bar at 1:30 with the address of our random homestay written in Korean, a pocketful of notes from Sue, and plans to get up at 5:00 a.m., leave the homestay and chance walk-on tickets to Jeju-do, and, failing that, get tickets to one of the other islands that Sue and Angus had suggested. We go in search of a cab.

We find a cab without much trouble. He drives us to the place he thinks we belong, but we tell him, "no, anio. This isn't it." He gestures for us to walk through some field. We are not in the are we'd been originally dropped off in. We drive around with him for a short, frustrating while, trying to figure it out, but it's no use. We get out and he tries to charge us twice the fee the meter said we owed. We find another cab, but before we can talk to him, the guy in our first cab goes over to talk with him. We leave them both in search of the pokpo or waterfall, in this case a man-made waterfall that is one of Mokpo's main landmarks. All of us have very clear idea which direction our homestay is, all of which are differing, and all of us, of course, are convinced we are correct. Fortunately, I found our way back, and nobody came to blows, and by the time everyone else began to recognize where we weer, we were all so satisfied that we were not lost that nobody cared about who was right or wrong about anything. We went to bed around 2:00 a.m. with plans to wake up at 5:00.

5:00 a.m. Saturday Morning:

Despite Abbye insisting that she could hardly work up a buzz the night before, and despite that she'd been the most militant about our going to Jeju-do at all costs, these are the words we hear upon waking to the alarm:

"I'm drunk. Let's sleep. I'm going to pee and you have as long as my stream to figure it out."

We decide to sleep a while longer and take our chances on the other ferries to other islands. We wake up to our random Korean homestay families having prepared breakfast for us, which was nice, except that two out of the five of us are vegetarian and couldn't eat most of what was served. Instead, Wim eats five bowls of seaweed fish soup, so that we don't appear ungrateful, and we catch a cab back to the e-mart of buy beach towels, and then proceed to the ferry terminal. We arrive at the ferry terminal in time to buy tickets to Big-eum-do, the island that Angus and Sue had recommended. Tickets were cheap and the ferry was only a 2 1/2 hour ride. It was a lovely afternoon. We met a Korean in a Mt. Hoos, Oregon shirt (who had no idea really were Oregon was, or why we were so interested in his shirt). We ate crappy snack food, and napped (on the floor, just like we did at the homestay) and played cards. We pull into port.

Our first glimpse of Big-eum-do, is the expanse of parking lot at the ferry terminal, an apparently abandoned or unfinished visitors center, a mud flat beach covered with what appeared to be rocks, but were actually crabs, a fish shack and no one in sight that seemed as though they would at all understand anything we asked for in English. Just about the time we were starting to wonder what we'd gotten ourselves into, we see a white guy. Abbye runs up to him, shouting, "Do you speak English?" He turns around as he says, "Yes. Yes, I do." He is wearing a Clinton-Gore t-shirt. It turns out Nick is from New York and living in Seoul with his bilingual Korean girlfriend, April. We ask her to help us call a taxi and get to a motel. She is approached by a woman from the fish shack who tells April that her husband is a cabbie and will be there in twenty minutes.

Over an hour later, two taxis pull up; one is the husband, irritated that the other is there stealing his business, the other is the most fabulous taxi driver on the planet. More later.