somewhere between meh and moo

Though I am surrounded by rice paddies, I noticed the smell of cow the first night I arrived at my host family's house, just outside of Haenam. I've yet to actually see these cows, but they are baying into the night and listening to them is somehow of comfort. In Korea cows don't moo, they meh, or something rather like that. Cats don't meow here either, the yeown. And where someone from the States might hear bird or crickets sing, in Korea they only hear crying. But there are the cows and, Korean or American, they are chatty and smelly and I can count on that.

cheese custody

This will be a brief post. My brain is melting. But I wanted to share with you the kinds of interactions I am having with my host family.

host daughter: taste?
me: yes, ne ne.
me: mashi soyo (it tastes delicious)
host family: more eat

These people seem to eat every two hours. Not just my host family, but all of Korea. Three meals a day and lots of snacking. And any excuse for a ice cream bar, which, with this heat, I understand.

I learned that the inside a cloud phenomenon is a result of monsoon season. That has ended, but the clouds linger longer. Soon they will blow away and the skies will be clearer. It will also get to be about ten degrees hotter, throughout August. I'm not sure how I feel about that, to tell you the truth. And I like heat.

On my first day here, my host family stopped by a grocery store in Haenam to have me choose some food items to eat. I didn't know what for exactly, so I chose things, randomly, that I like: cucumbers, bell peppers, tofu. I was feeling like I needed some vegetable matter. They picked up a purple cabbage for me. I selected some eggs. They chose three kinds of breads. They wanted me to get cheese. the only non-kraft singles style cheese I could find was the brie and the Camembert, so I chose those. Breakfast has turned up all these items. And a strawberry salad sauce. It has been interesting, but good. Today, the cheese appeared.

host daughter, pointing to her phrase book: Can you show me how to eat it?

me: well, it's not usually eaten at breakfast, but sure. You slice it, like this, then you put it on some bread and eat it. (the bread is toasted white bread)

host daughter: [takes cheese and reaches for the strawberry-fig jam]

me: try it first without the jam, then try it with the jam.

host daughter and brother: [blank expressions]

host daughter: [wraps bread around cheese and takes a bite. wears odd expression.]

host brother: [laughs]

host daughter: [turns to computer translator, looking for the word she wants.]

host daughter: It tastes anything. [takes a second bite]

host daughter: Very good!

host brother: rapid fire Korean I don't know how to translate, even if I knew what was actually said.

You get the idea. After breakfast, Sinae turns to the computer again. She is searching for a word. Finding it, she turns around and asks me: "Cheese custody?"

I determine that she wants to know how to keep the cheese.

me: you store the cheese in the refrigerator. when you want to eat it, take it out of the fridge and let it warm up a little.

sinae: [blank expression. looks to brother.]
namho (brother): [blank expression]

me: when you eat the cheese, not cold. when you keep the cheese, cold, in the fridge.

sinae: Ah!

Just thought I'd share...

driving the point home, and the country

I don't know where to begin with this post... I feel I am at two opposite extremes with what I would like to convey. Do I begin with the sauna and the humorous encounter between eight nude American women and several of their Korean compatriots, or do I venture straight to the part where I am sitting in my homestay family's house wondering whether I will be able to avoid attending church four times a week with them?

Well, I'll start with yesterday evening, I suppose. Several of us decided that we'd rather skip dinner (if necessary) so that we could go to the second floor of the hotel to enjoy the sauna. There are two hot pools (one regular and one very hot one) and two dry saunas (again, one normal and one awesomely hot) and a cold pool. To either side are showering nooks, where you squat down on a very short stool, soap up and rinse off, before heading for the pools. The pools are lovely, with sulfur water I think, and very relaxing. We ended up doing yoga inside the hottest sauna-- talk about hot yoga!-- and alternating between the hot and the cold. The cold pool seemed to have something mentholated in the water; it was something we each felt in our lips and our lungs, but it felt good.

Toward the end we were wanting to scrub down, but didn't have anything. Missy saw a woman with some sort of scrub on her face and tried to ask her about it. The woman proceeded to smear this creamy mask-like substance (cleanser?) onto Missy's cheeks. She then brought the tube over to the rest of us and pointed it at each of us, then back at herself, saying, "mine" as if to indicate she'd like us to get it back to her. The women were quite friendly, actually, and animated. Cross-cultural communication facilitated through naked bathing. Not a bad practice, when you think about it, and it was nice because there was no sense of shame about bodies in that room. Very different from what one experiences in a girls' locker room back in the States. But perhaps the highlight, and certainly the most humorous moment, came when we were examining a strange platform over which red lights hung from the ceiling.

Missy and I stood there debating whether or not to press the shiny red button... who knew what would happen? We hesitated quite a bit, until finally, an older Korean woman came over to show us how to use it. She pressed the button, the lights came on, and she gestured for us to get onto the platform, which we did. But the three of us (because Claire had joined us by then) didn't want to lie down, so we sort of crouched there. This was apparently silly business, because it didn't take long for another Korean woman to come over to show us how to do it correctly. She put three towels down on the platform and gestured to us to lie down, which we did. But she kept gesticulating, mostly emphasizing whatever it was she war trying to tell us. She looked at Tara, who was standing nearby, as if she could somehow translate the message, which seemed urgent. Blank exchanges circulated among us. We had no idea what the woman was trying to tell us.

This seemed to frustrate the woman a little. She was standing, hips tilted forward, crouching ever so slightly, while still upright. She was very dramatic, insistent in whatever it was she wanted us to know that we were not understanding. Finally, exasperated with is, she reached out her open hand and slapped herself, but not in the face; she slapped herself directly on the mound of her vagina. Hard. The sound reverberated through the platform chamber. Missy looked for a moment as though she were considering whether or not we were being asked to mimic this gesture. When we still had confused expressions, the woman again turned to Tara, dumbfounded as to why we could not understand and why Tara could not make things clear. Tara gave it her best guess, given the action that had just occurred. "I think she wants you to turn around to that you are facing the wall and not the room," she said. So we did. This appeased the woman; finally we had understood that our naughty bits should not be exposed to the room as such.

Of course, once we figured this out we couldn't stop laughing. Was there really no other gesture that would have sufficed? Did we really all just experience a grown naked woman slapping her vagina at us? Certainly this is an experience I will never have again. We lay there, Claire, Missy and I, on the towels, under the red light, giggling uncontrollably. After a while, we decided that we had no idea what the benefit was of being under those lights. We weren't any drier, and we weren't quite close enough to be warmed by them. So, apart from looking fabulously like the cover of a 60s album, we weren't sure what the point of that particular experience was, so we got up to rinse off and leave. You can imagine this made for quite an entertaining dinner experience right afterward, when we relayed the entire event in detail.

So, now, today, I have met with my homestay family: Mr. Jo, Mrs. Koh, and their daughter Sinae (Shin-ay) and they are all very nice, though each of us has our nose in a dictionary trying to communicate. My Korean is obviously terrible, and the daughter's English is minimal, while her parents' is non-existent. She plays the piano and the drums, and her father is learning to play the drums. They all seem very sweet and their house is in the countryside of Haenam. The surrounding area is rice paddy fields as far as the eye can see. And the attend church four times a week. I am curious how this will unfold over the next two weeks.

I have told them I am agnostic and that half my family is catholic and episcopalian while the other half is atheist. I have not told them that the atheists tend to make more sense to me. But, I respect everyone's traditions and they seem good people, so I am keeping an open mind. I am hoping to use their church time to either write, or do yoga, things I feel a bit awkward doing around them. I am staying in their son's room, who is older that Sinae, but I don't know by how much; he doesn't appear to live at home any longer. I think dinner is almost ready, so I will be cutting this post short. Ad if this beast could be considered short. I hope you all are well. More to come later.

post from inside a cloud

Well, it only took three planes, four airports, and two bus rides to get here, but we've arrived and are staying in the Park Meudung Hotel in Gwanju (though, each city I've seen has an average of three different spellings, depending on the map, so don't take any of my spellings as fact) and have begun our orientation with the Jeollanamdo English Training Institute. It has become quite clear that our being here is actually a very big deal. We knew this, to a point, since our airfare was something like $1,500 a piece and there are 35 of us and the provincial government is picking up the tab. But, we had no idea how big a deal.

Yesterday, we met the Jeollanam-do Governor, a Mister Park Junior if I've got that correct, and there were news cameras and lots of photography. We have become the defacto ambassadors of Portland, Oregon and we are slowly discovering what exactly we are to do here. And, it's turning out, we are to be much more involved in the teaching than we were led to believe. We will be running one booth for the duration of our work at the Jeollanamdo English Camp, which means we will teach lessons on art, music, nature, science, math, etc. to elementary and middle school students every day. We think they have lessons planned and supplies, but we don't know for cerrtain yet. I know they thought we would have chosen which booth we would be working in, which we have not, because we didn't know. Obviously, the language barrier is presenting a bit of confusion, but they are taking this whole thing very seriously and are otherwise very organized, so I don't think it will be a problem. Besides, this will not be the first time I've had to do any sort of improvisational teaching. Still, wish me luck.

I've almost adjusted to the time change (16 hours ahead of home, so most of the time, I'm on a different day than most of you) and the weather is hot and sticky. We are literally walking around inside a cloud most of the time. Looking out at the sky, through the air out in front of me, it reminds me a bit of Ireland, in that the air is just different, thicker. You can see it and feel it in a way we don't usually. You can feel it as you inhale it through your nose. Looking out over the city at night, one might think it is a smoggy haze, but it's not. They are clouds. I'd seen paintings that give this sort of dreamlike impression, which I mistook for artistic license, but this is actually what the surrounding countryside looks like. We are almost always inside a cloud. Even when it is sunny. And, did I mention it is hot? It will get hotter in August. By about 10 degrees I think. I will be glistening and sticky for weeks yet.

Last night Abbye (one of the other girls here) and I were in the hotel gym looking at the back of the TV to see if I could plug B's iPod into it to do some yoga (thank you again for that B, I have already used it!) and then we caught sight of something interesting outside the window: a snack shack with moving chairlifts shooting out of the back. We decided to explore. Of course, not speaking much, or really any (hello and thank you are very limited in their use, but we've used them a lot) Korean, it took a while to figure out what the deal was. After much charades and broken questioning (imagine me waving my hands in a circular motion, then pointing up the mountain and making "look out at the view" motions, saying the Korean word for "where") we determinied that the chairlift took us up to the top of the mountain and back. Of course, we missed the part about us being able to get off at the top and look out at the view from up there, so we stayed on and came right back down. It was still an amazing view.

We traveled up through the trees, the sun had just set, and the higher we went, the more incredible the view of the city lights spread out behind us in the distance. A large bird flew out in front of us and the trees were alive with the singing of what I think are cicadas. So loud. The Koreans call this sound crying. Birds cry, crickets cry; they do not sing. South Korea is also a very philosophical sort of place. We had visited a garden earlier and were told to discard our pragmatic thinking and to use our imagination. They believe that to cultivate the mind is one of the highest and most important pursuits. We also happen to be in the province best known for it's cultural heritage, specifically for it's poetry and literature. I learned about sijo (short form poetry) and gasa (long form prose poetry and/or novels) at the Museum of Literature yesterday. So, as you might imagine, I am enjoying myself quite a bit. We find out what city we are going to today when we meet our Korean teacher/partners. We meet our host families this weekend and will stay with them for two weeks and two days before being transferred back to hotels in our respective cities. I am still hoping to make a weekend trip to Jeju-do, off the southwestern-most coast, near Haenam, which is said to be the Hawaii of Korea. I am also considering doing a temple-stay one weekend and living like and among Buddhist monks for a spell. It will surely all be interesting.

There is more, of course, and I'm still digesting it all. They call the vegetarians among us "the different ones" and assume that this means we eat fish. I am doing better than others in this regard, since I am no longer a strict vegetarian, but it has been interesting. I'm feeling sorry for the meat eaters, because apparently the rest of the world thinks Americans are extremely fond of beef, and so far they've been served it twice in one day, once as something resembling salisbury steak, and again as what we think may have been chicken fried steak. The meat eaters are wishing they'd get Korean food and not the Denny's special as the Koreans here have interpreted it. In any case, I am off to discover what we are having for breakfast today and then to begin our training.

Much love to you all.

twenty-one days

I will be on the other side of the planet in twenty-one days. Twenty-one days to complete the course I am teaching. Twenty-one days to figure out how to say a few necessary things to people I have little to no ability to communicate with. Twenty-one days before a 12 hour flight to Seoul, and then on to another city, and then another, with no idea where I am going or exactly what I'll be doing until I'm there.

What I know: it will involve teaching English to 9-13 year olds and I will live with a family I have never met in one of three cities (Damyang, Goksung, or Haenam). I am excited and nervous and doing lots of yoga in preparation for my time away. I will miss my kitties and my sister, who will be taking care of my kitties, and the beautiful Portland weather, and the five weeks of summer that I could be on a beach somewhere recreating the universe, or laughing uncontrollably, or maybe even kissing.

But, I'll have some good stories when I return, and a renewed sense of gratefulness and appreciation for what I love and am leaving behind. Plus, the tail end of monsoon season and lots of HOT humid weather to remember.

post in which the poet wonders

How is it that a whole school year has passed already? It seems not so very long ago I was freaking out about teaching composition and now I feel like an old pro. I'd also like to know where, oh where, have all the good apartments gone? Buster would very much like it if I could find him an outside to be a part of again. Minou, of course, doesn't really care so long as there is food available.

So, these are my challenges: lesson planning for a four week accelerated version of the class I taught in the fall; finding a fabulous apartment and moving myself and all my necessary stuff into it (I'm working so hard to get rid of the unnecessary stuff); a big publicity push at work; and planning for Korea.

The poet would now like a nap. For about a month. But will settle for unlimited massages and a few glasses of wine. And perhaps some fresh flowers from the farmers' market.

the fucked up truth

this is an act of public purging. if you don't want to think about a disturbing truth, please don't read any further.

yesterday, I was awoken from a dead sleep at 4:49 a.m. to the sound of a girl screaming, pleading for her attacker to stop anally raping her. I won't repeat her exact words, but suffice it to say that I heard each and every desperate word she cried out. I shouted out my window. I called campus security, who sent the police. I couldn't tell which room this was happening in. I couldn't make him stop. At one point the offending male shouted back at her, clearly irritated that she was messing up his game, saying, "I'm having some fucking fun!" Her anguished cries continued for at least two minutes. I learned that I was the ONLY person to call the incident in.

This fact, that so many fellow students, neighbors, ostensibly decent human beings, would sit back and passively let this happen is possibly what disturbs me most. No one knocked down her door. No one else even bothered to call the police. It has been twenty years since I was raped; it saddens me to no end that the world has changed so little since then. It pains me to know there was nothing I could to do stop it, to protect her, to help her clean up the mess. I did the only thing I could do, which was to report it and to give my statement, and that is only useful if she decides to report it, which most women do not. I can corroborate her story. I can try to put positive energy in the universe. I can choose to never let myself be a victim and to help others learn to own their power and to not foster victim mentality and the kind of toxic culture that permits things such as rape to be so commonplace. I am tired of having this in common with others.

As it turns out, this is the FIFTH rape in less than one month in the building behind mine. No action seems to be taking place to do something about it. Part of it (and I hate to play to sterotypes but here it is) is that this is a building largely populated with athletes. There are fights that break out in the parking lot, some quite vicious, every weekend. There are girls being raped, three in one night three weeks ago. This is athlete culture. This is our toxic American culture.

So, here is my request. Please tell the men in your life, the good, kind, respectful, thoughtful considerate quality human males in your life that they are recognized and appreciated for who and what they are. It does not go unnoticed. Ben-- this means you. Thank you so so much for talking me through yesterday morning. Christopher, this means you too. Heather will surely let you know. There are others: Frank, Riley, Rylan, Dave B., Andi, Dave W., Joshua, Wilson, Chris, Antoine, Jeff, Alan, Brian... There are fathers that are raising sons. There are others. You know who you are and I love you all. I admire your strength and your willingness to be both strong and gentle in equal measure. The world needs your compassion. Women like me, and my fabulous women friends, need to know you are in the world and are unafraid to be all that you are independent of what our culture seems to think 'being a man' is all about. Don't forget.

the black hole

Recently it has come to my attention that my left pupil is larger than my right; this is usually a sign of neurological trauma, ranging from a random cutting off of the blood supply due to a particularly nasty migraine to other, rather rare and disturbing things, like cancerous tumors pressing against the ocular nerve. I'd actually been noticing it myself, but thought that perhaps I'd been imagining things, especially because it is mostly noticeable in lower light when the pupils are more dilated anyway, but I didn't believe it to be real until someone else said to me, "hey, did you know that one of your pupils is larger than the other?"

Conveniently, in my work at the writing center, I have a weekly appointment with a man who is a cancer research specialist at OHSU and I thought I'd ask him whether I should be worried. Many minutes later, after he'd run through the litany of potential causes and thoroughly panicking me, he told me to go find a photograph of my eyes to see whether I could pinpoint when this change occurred, or if I'd had one larger pupil my whole life (a rare, but possible genetic condition). If it were something that had changed recently, there was a reason, and I'd need to get it looked at immediately.

So, I found a picture of myself taken when I was eighteen and, as it turns out, the left pupil was larger than the right even way back then. No one had ever noticed. Not my mother, not my boyfriends/lovers, not even me. My OHSU friend had said to me "It isn't possible that no one has ever looked into your eyes closely until this time?" (he's German) but truly, I guess not. Not really anyway. How could I have missed it all this time? Oh well, it would seem that I am in no danger of needing brain surgery any time soon, so that's a plus.

between the darkness and the light

I have not emerged from under the weight of all the work I have to complete before Thursday, but I am taking a moment to gasp for air. I've had a lot of things on my mind lately. I won't pretend to understand them all.

Earlier this week, I found myself thinking about love and cruelty. It's no secret that it is easiest to hurt those we love. But I wasn't thinking from this perspective. It was more about the dissolution of boundaries. About trust. I was thinking of the darkness we all carry within ourselves and how we can't truly be present with another in their pain, in their darkness, unless we have a firm grasp on our own. I was thinking of what it means to join someone there, to allow someone inside to see that part of ourselves and to trust them enough to be gentle. I was thinking that one would have to love me, truly love me, in order to be cruel with me. And that in the right hands, with complete trust, this pushing of the boundaries would not manifest in more pain, but would actually harness the power of that pain to liberate one from the darkness. Does that sound fucked up?

A dear friend once said to me that he thought anyone would have a hard time hanging on to me, because I really don't want to be caught. I asked B about this. Wouldn't I know, if I were to meet that proverbial "one" (letting go, for a moment, of all the crap associated with such a concept)? If I were to meet, face to face and heart to heart, the person I was meant to be with, would I not somehow just feel that and know? Don't people know such things? B's response was that yes, people know, but that I would not. I have, he said, too many doubts to be that certain of anything. This struck a chord with me. Am I so faithless? And, the truth is that, for the most part, yes. I believe in many things, in many people. I like to think I have faith in them and in myself. But the doubts creep in. They are poison. I have never had such blind and committed faith in anything and I slightly envy those that can. But how to rectify this? How to reconcile it with all the things I say I believe, and which I really do believe in?

I've had it in my head, I don't know from where, some saying I remember reading, or hearing about, that said, essentially, that when one meets their soul mate (again, casting aside all of the problems, misconceptions, and confusions associated with such terminology) they will not feel the chaos and giddiness that is typically related to new found love, but instead a profound sense of calm. I wonder then at my tendency to want to be swept off my feet, to swoon and gush and otherwise lose my mind? I am so eager to believe in those sensations, but rarely do those things work out. I have had good love, and very good partners with which to walk around in that love. I will not categorize my past relationships as failures because I am somehow still not in the place I thought I wanted to be. Every person whom I have loved or who has loved me has taught me something, usually lots of somethings, and generally quite important things. They have helped shaped me into who I am and give me the strength, daily, to push forward. I can only hope I have gifted them with something of myself and that this is a source of strength as well. I want to let go of the hurt, the misgivings, the confusion.

I want to be anchored.

I realize full well that such anchoring is largely my own responsibility. I cannot look for it in others, though often others provide exactly that. I need to seek out and discover what I lack, which makes me flail under duress, looking everywhere but right here, within me, to find some way of pulling me back down to earth, to keep me from drifting out to sea. I need to become my own anchor. I know this. And yet, there is still this dark space, on the edges of my being and right down in the middle. It is not necessarily negative, this space. There is power there; something which requires unlocking and mastery. It can drive the white light of all my other pursuits. And it waits, untapped, unharnessed. This place, it feels to me, has something to do with my need for anchoring. But I don't know how to access it. I don't know how to push past my own limitations, to dissolve my own boundaries, to love myself cruelly enough, passionately enough to access all corners of my own being and thus free myself from my own habits, ideas, and poor patterns that no longer serve me.

I wish to be uncategorizable. I wish to be worthy of one I deem worthy. I wish to unlock what I have inside, to become free, limitless. This is not to say that I wish to have no constraints, that I want to do what I want and damn everyone else. I simply wish for the limits I have to become conscious ones, the boundaries in place, chosen, not imposed from outside, and certainly not stemming from my own sickness, or weakness. I want to learn to trust completely. I want to be still, in that place of profound calm, without being pinned down or trapped in place. I want to finally and completely have faith.

a bit overwhelmed

Twenty-two essays and the accompanying twenty-two pages of required response, eleven grad student essays and the accompanying marginalia and full workshop write-ups, 28 poems to respond to each week, and all that I need to read and all I need to produce of my own work, comprise my workload in the next twenty days. This is what master classes are about and I asked for it. I like it. But I can't escape the chorus of "what did I get myself into?" that occupies my thoughts. I am tired all the time. And with that, I will sign off in order to practice Yoga for Fatigue. Appropriate.

sometimes it's you.

I'm not sure I know really what to do anymore with this blog. I seem to use it as a means of communicating with myself, working things through, processing verbally as I do, or at least linguistically anyway.

Syntax baby, yeah.

It's like an extension of my head. Sometimes, most of the time, I talk to myself. Sometimes I talk to strangers. Sometimes it's you.

In this particular sentence, it is Heather. Hi Heather. I hope you are well. I will call you later this week to see about an evening with the girls.

But usually, this is just a place where I write for the sake of writing something, anything, because that isn't always forthcoming in the areas of my life where it should be. But, is this a self-indulgent and pointless habit? Is it potentially destructive to more important and creative urges (as say, myspace, or computer games, or general internet surfing, or television can be)? Should I give it up? Should I refocus my energies elsewhere?

It wasn't even my idea to start this thing. It was B's idea. He thought I should have one and that I might benefit from the personal/public aspect. Like it was a dress rehearsal for something else. I don't know exactly, but he convinced me and here it is. Now what?

another benchmark moment

I've mentioned before, yes, that I enjoy the subtle pleasures that only MySpace can produce?

Here is another beauty:

Subject: hi

Body:

i like the strappy shoes pic, you have very pretty feet !

any chance of similar pics wth maybe a bit more leg ?

kane

~~~~~

Seriously? I get a foot fetishist AND a random, ridiculous message from a stranger all in one! Does it even get any better than that? I mean, the husband cheating on his wife who sent me a message to ask if I was his mistress, who then later followed up with me, post-divorce I assume, to see if I wanted to be friends with him, well, that is pretty hard to beat. But this comes close.

post in which the poet asks...

for a glass of wine, a massage, and a nap. In that order.

okay universe...

Give me what you've got. I'm ready.

because I cannot drift away like that

I am imagining the world across two oceans joined. I am enjoying the many silences outside my windows. I am unable to sleep.

There is a part of me that is so tired, so road weary and dust blind, I hardly remember how I've gotten here. And another that remembers each step traveled, recovers them like sand dollars and mussel shells on the shore.

What to do with these thoughts? What am I but a collection, memory bones, rattling the darkness of my night mind?

I want to write, but feel too quiet. There is a story about deer and islands and bare grass, but it escapes me. I want to dream, but Dream is an elusive bugger, and not playing games with me tonight. I want to be done with what needs to be done already. I want it to be spring.

But why rush to the end? Why reach the heady conclusion? Why turn towards anything but this elemental shift taking place all around me? Why not be patient, be kind, pay attention damn it. And what if?

I have never been so discovered. I don't expect mountains to get up and move of their own accord now, but it's nice to imagine the heavens aligning, colliding world into world, like two oceans joined.

what if I told you...

I am willing to wait as long as it takes. I don't mind so much, this being alone, despite what my bathtub might tell you about it. That I wish I could right my wrongs and be better for it. What if I could take it all back, or move it all forward, what then? What if I told you I am sorry for the things I've done, or didn't do, the things I've yet to; would you believe me?

And what if I told you I despise my own tendency to keep people at arm's length, that I've been battling it for years, that I often run far and fast from the people I want closest to me. Or that I am not afraid of dying alone, but rather terrified of becoming bitter about it. Or that I've never meant to live my life slightly askance, all the while believing in a dream I know to be real but that I'm too afraid to touch. Would you find me there? Would you know?

Would you crush me with such knowledge, or hold my still beating heart in the quiet hollows of your open palms?

close enough to touch and still so far away

In 1996 I went to Europe. It was hectic. Six countries in five weeks, a vocal jazz tour, a relationship on its way out, a lot of first class experiences crammed into a really short time frame. If I had it to do over, I'd rather have the second class eurail pass and a backpack and let my wanderings lead me where they may.

Still, it was a good trip. I sang jazz in France (4 parts -- the vocal arrangement of Miles Davis's Freddie Freeloader; I sang Miles' part in his key, back when I was in practice and had that sort of range). I saw dame Judi Dench and Vanessa Redgrave on stage in London, I went to the river I was named after in Ireland, spent an afternoon walking the staircases in Montparnasse, visiting the Dali Museum, thinking up ways I could live for a year in Paris...

I remember one stretch, a four day break from the tour, where we left Germany to take a train to Italy. The train took us into Austria briefly and through the northern Italian Alps. I remember looking out the window of the train, these massive green mountains jutted up against the rolling hills beneath them. Austria close enough to touch, Italy just unfolding. I remember thinking it looked like a painting. A small house, more of a shack really, might appear here or there, dotting the landscape, but otherwise it was like an unoccupied dream. I remember wanting to throw myself off that train and wander these hillsides indefinitely.

I haven't made it back to those countries, though I hope to one day. There is so much of the world I haven't seen and so much that speaks to me. I have the urge to travel. I always do, and traveling only feeds the traveling bug. It quells it for a time as well, but it has been too long. I can feel it in my bones; I need to go somewhere.

there are such things as perfect moments...

Today, while having coffee with my friend Sarah, she complained that she was not only a hopeless romantic, but also merciless cynic. "How does that happen?" she asked me.

I've always known one could stumble upon pockets of happiness, whether in love or just a very good day, the trouble for me is that usually I simply continue stumbling. There has been love, there has been kindness, there have also been pains too innumerable to mention. There have definitely been moments that I will always be grateful for, people who have touched me, shaped me, made me hopeful. And, I have always wanted to believe that love was enough, that it truly could conquer anything.

When Sarah asked me this question, I immediately said, "It happens because everyday your romanticism is thwarted by the overwhelming presence of reality." I paused. "But that doesn't mean it's not possible."

I thought of all the hard lessons I have learned, the times when love wasn't enough, the failures, if one can call them that, to be faithful to the love that has been created. I thought of certain conversations I've had with my mother, where I described the kind of life and the kind of love I wanted. She would respond as the cynic. She would tell me that the reason Hollywood makes such good money from films about true love is because they are selling the myth--the dream-- that everyone wants to buy, but that doesn't really exist.

I love my mother, but I had to tell myself she was nuts. Despite the mounting evidence to the contrary, I have always held on to this dream of love. Real, imperfectly perfect, honest, bone-shattering, mountain-moving, everything-you-ever-wanted kind of love. In fact, I'm fairly certain that I've fucked up quite a few good relationships on account of this belief.

This past summer, during the crush of wedding season (which deserves an essay all to itself: the effect of one person's wedding on everyone else's relationships), I saw my lover, the groom's Best Man, walking down the aisle with the Maid of Honor. She was already married. She is a fine person, beautiful and kind. There was nothing remotely inappropriate unfolding, but, watching them, watching her smile up at him, I saw what he might look like if he were truly happy.

It was beautiful and it hurt. I think a part of me gave up on love right then. Looking at them, looking at the bride and groom and seeing what was so obviously between them, I knew that was not us. I really wanted it to be him. Truly, I did. He is a good man. He'd have been a good father. He is the first person I have ever been with that I actually wanted to remain friends with, after the end. But when I had thought about our future, this burgeoning desire to have a child, I did not ask myself whether this was a man I would love, who would love me until the end of time, but rather, once it all goes to crap (as it always had before, seemingly inevitably), is this a man I would want in my life forever?

I could answer yes, because he is really a fine human being. What more could a person ask for? But I saw how unable I was to make him truly happy. I knew he deserved that kind of happiness and I knew, deep down, that I couldn't give it to him. And I knew that I deserved to be that happy too. No matter what either of us might have wanted, we didn't seem able to do that for each other. There is more to this story. There is always more. I will always love him and he has taught me much about who I am and what I am capable of (both good and bad) and I will be grateful to him always, deeply grateful for all the moments we lived inside together, for a long time.

I have been jaded. I have been thwarted. I have been so down. And there I was this morning in the coffee shop telling Sarah that anything was possible. Despite everything, it seems, I have never stopped believing, no matter how tenuous my hope and how thin my belief. This dream of love... for it to be possible, it is vital that one never cease to believe in it. Right now, I feel in love with the whole universe and I want to shout at the top of my lungs to anyone who will hear me-- anything is possible. I know it now, in my bones. Even with all the hurt and sadness, this cynic in me has been put to rest. I have never been happier.

not quite spring

There's a phenomenon in Portland (well, actually, in a number of places, but it happens so often here that it bears mentioning) where the sun shines while it is raining. A bit further east and I've even looked up to watch snow fall from an otherwise blue sky. A friend of mine told me there is a saying people (which people, I know not) have for when this happens: the devil is beating his wife. I have no idea what that means, but I can't help thinking of it whenever I am walking through town in this sunshiny rain.

I've had a completely unproductive weekend. I've spent most of it rather antisocial, procrastinating by any means possible yet still managing to have accomplished close to nothing all weekend, save for doing my laundry and a handful of dishes, watching episodes of Smallville while drinking port, and slapping a bunch of green mud on my hair in order to make it more red. Meanwhile, the editing project I have sat on my desk, taunting me. I'm ready to spend time with it, but in a few minutes I'll need to rinse the horse-food-smelly concoction from my head and then I'll try to sleep off all the tea I've consumed so that I can do yoga in the morning. I hate when I get like this.

My impulses are in a 101 different directions, so I stay in, try to keep my head from spinning off my shoulders. If I go out in the world, I am confronted with memories and confusions and I feel ill-equipped to deal with it all just now. I haven't written anything I've been happy with in weeks. I haven't revised all the things I keep telling myself I need to revise. I haven't selected the poems I am planning to send out, nor for which publications I should like to risk ridicule (because, it seems, all bookish offices have a wall of shame I hope to never be slapped upon).

And yet, there were good things too. I made plans to get ridiculously dressed up to do nothing more than walk around, perhaps feeding birds, perhaps knitting, just so our small group will have an excuse to wear some of our more costume-y attire. I read something that made me stop everything else I had been doing to reread it on the spot. My neighbor made me coffee so that I wouldn't be forced to go to starbucks, since I was feeling too lazy to make the 15 minute walk to stumptown. One of my cats did a thing that I like, which is to begin to meow and, midway, get distracted by a yawn while the cat sounds are still resonating, and this always makes me laugh. A stranger made me smile. And the sun shone continuously while it rained and I walked around in it, getting wet, but only slightly.

because whatever neil wants, neil gets...

It's the least I can do for the man I'd marry if he'd only have me. Yes, I mean that. Neil makes me think, "Crispin who?" so what does that tell you? Anyway, at Mr. Gaiman's behest: Penn Jillette