Something I meant to post sooner...

This was just some rambly piece I wrote sometime last summer prior to my coast switch. Sadly, I don't think I ever got around to actually getting a copy of Portland Noir let alone actually review it. I probably never posted this because it's pretty incomplete, but I am now... 'cause that's just how I roll.

* * *

It may not seem like it under the broiling blue sunlit sky of July, but Portland was made for noir. Most months out of the year average about 40 degrees and cloudy, with the occasional sprinkling or downpour. After writing a few reviews for Akashic Press's Noir series, I've known the score: seedy deeds in shadowy backdrops that are just in the backyards of others. However this time, they dumped their exquisite literary corpses in my backyard.

Where do I fit in? Me, I'm just an archivist, or at least I will be when I get back from Boston in a couple of years. Boston, the other side of the coin that is Portland, and not just because of that slice of history that ordained that the naming of the city was by pure chance: either after Portland, Maine or Boston. Massachusetts. I've never been to either, but from what I've heard, Portland, Maine is just about as chill as we are here in our latitude.

I was standing in the basement of The Blue Monk, Miles Davis playing on someone's iPod hooked to some speakers, the editor, Kevin Sampsell reading from Portland Noir's introduction. The drink in my hand is sweating more than I am, despite being fresh off the bicycle, backpack straps still damp, hair plastered in a permanent flip. I see a lot of dames all dolled up, red slinky dresses, an old 40's-style black floral print that looks like it's fresh out of Chinatown with a perfectly curled coiff to match.

If they're playing the old school noir angle, I guess I could consider myself the new school. Spaghetti strapped tank top, rolled-up jeans, no bra, tattooed and pierced, the sort of siren who'd sucker some poor schmuck into a drinking contest and leave him with the bill or just to wake up the next morning with his wallet and a few organs missing.

No, that's not my style at all. The wardrobe matches, but I wouldn't do something as urban-legendary as hunting alligators in the sewer. Surprising that there haven't been such reports in the Shanghai Tunnels, but there's enough lore to keep a tour guide busy, shilling the tourists. If anything, I'd rather be like Pynchon's V., ever-elusive, but always present during interesting times. Either that, or I'm thinking of Carmen Sandiego. I did once have in my possession a rather sweet red leather trenchcoat.

To applaud the readers and the blues singer they got in for the night, I violate an inveterate law of drinking: never set a drink on the pool table. I frown at the ring on the green felt. Even though others have their equally sweaty beers set on the table, the waitress addresses me specifically, saying "it would be great" if I kept my drink off the table.

Christ. I thought I had left the Midwest to get away from passive aggressive politeness. Still, she had a point. Marring the felt of a pool table is an unforgivable sin most likely punished by banishment, exile. Figures that I'm going to Boston, all the way the hell on the other side of the country to the point where it's practically time travel.

I had finished that drink, some ridiculously sweet concoction modeled to be a grown up iced chai (pretty much an iced chai with "good" vodka), I ordered another house specialty, called the "purple rain." It reminded me of the purple drink you see in the Sunny Delight commercials, sweet, almost so much so that it hurts your teeth. Still, this was what I wanted. I wanted a night of expensive girly drinks, listening to the reading of one of my favorite fiction genres and a safe, but slightly tipsy bicycle ride home to evaporate the sweat from my neck and bare shoulders.

As sweet as the drinks were, they still packed a good wallop. Deceptive little minxes, they were, like a pretty porcelain doll with painted rosy cheeks, dressed in tulle and satin, but used to smuggle dope through an airport.

The stories seemed to be fiction mixed with a strange dose of reality, the authors stating "This is basically me, except I'm not actually dead" or "This is a story sort of about a friend of mine."

Today, I picked up a book from Powell's about various poisonous plants. I figure if I leave this on my nightstand and the guy sticks around the next morning, I've found myself a keeper.

* * *

You can't take it with you... or can you?

I left my beloved Portland behind about a week ago for Boston. Temporarily? I hope so.

In packing to leave, I had to get rid of a bunch of things. I suppose this was appropriate preliminary training in becoming an archivist, trying to figure out what was worth keeping, what was not.

Some minor physical object things I couldn't take with me:

• Futon
• Toaster Oven/Other Gadgets
• Space Heater
• Pots and pans

Some objects I managed:

• my massive collection of books (thank you USPS Media Mail)
• more clothes than I should have taken
• my computer (which was delayed. screw you, UPS Ground)
• my bicycle (in theory as it is still in transit via Amtrak)

Other important things of varying levels of tangibility that I couldn't take with me:

• waking up next to Will, the smell of his hair, etc.
• my morning and afternoon bike rides on Water Street and the Esplanade
• lunch kvetch-fests with my co-workers
• the Food Carts (whether on 12th and Hawthorne or Downtown) that sustained me when I had $6 in my pocket and was too lazy to cook
• karaoke nights with my Portland friends and other crazy debauched activities taking place late at night
• soy milk automatically available in carafes at almost all coffee shops
• no sales tax
• my various "territories"

More on "territories:"

When I first came to Portland, I mostly stuck around the Hawthorne area. After living there awhile and getting a bicycle and friends all over town, I explored much of the close-in area. I liked playing a game on the map sort of like a military campaign. If I had ever driven, biked or walked there, I claimed it as a territory. If I frequented the area enough, I referred to it as a patrol.

Territories:

• The random places in NoPo where I went to various social gatherings (either escorted by Will or with Blue, Kev and everyone)
• Sandy Blvd to the airport (driving only), to 74th (or wherever the Roseway Theater is)
• Movie Theaters: Bagdad, Laurelhurst, Roseway, Hollywood, Living Room, Clinton Street, Cinemagic, various Regal Cinema locations
• Excalibur Comics to pick up the latest issue of Chew
• The Springwater Corridor
• Oaks Park
• Interstate bike lane all the way to the Kaiser Permanente facility on the bigass scary hill (*huffpuff*, *huffpuff* going up followed by "OMGIhopemybrakesstillwork!" going down).
• Alberta from 10th-ish to 30th for First Thursday
  

Patrols:

• SE Hawthorne from the bridge down to Mt. Tabor
• SE Belmont from 12th to 39th
• Anywhere between the two streets listed above as well as the streets surrounding the area.
  
• SE Stark from 12th to 39th (including Laurelhurst Park)
  
• The bike ride from my apartment to the NE where I would meet up with Blue, including Lloyd Center and 7th street.
• The bike ride on the way to work from 12th and Stark down Water Street (or Grand and then Burnside if I got up late) and around the Eastbank Esplanade to Steel Bridge
• The bike ride to Kev's place all the way the hell out in Woodstock.
  
• The patches of Downtown/SW Will and I wandered down, mostly the West Hills and Goose Hollow leading to W Burnside and then to NW 23rd.
• Old Town (Ground Kontrol, Voodoo Donut)
• Pearl District
• Powell's Bookstore (City of Books on 10th and the Hawthorne store)

Sadly, I think I may be forgetting some areas in the lists of territories and patrols. For example, I think I might be embarrassed by the bar list I'd make: too long for my parents, resulting in shame and too short for my friends who kept yelling at me to get out more often.

I like to think that I make the cities in which I live mine in a way, based on how I claim them in memory, hold stories that could only take place in these spaces.

I aim to do the same thing in Boston.

So far, I have claimed the following as territory:

Not sure if these count since I just took the T and didn't walk/bike this way:

• Orange Line from Sullivan Square to Haymarket
• Green Line from North Station to Museum of Fine Arts

On foot:

• My patch of East Somerville from Everett Avenue to Broadway down to Sullivan Square station. There are a lot of Brazilian/Mexican places here so I don't think I'm likely to starve soon.
• The 4 block walk to the Stop and Shop
• Washington Street past Union Square
• Cambridge Avenue in Cambridge from Harvard to the Lechmere Green Line station.
• Boylston to Chinatown and the edge of the Financial District (yay for Dim Sum and Asian Food stores where I can get a lot of rice noodles for a dollar and hair salons that will actually know what to do with my hair)
• Time traveling through Commonwealth Avenue by reading the historical statues along the greenway.
• Being a consumer whore on Newbury (not really, I just picked up a new set of headphones and an AC charger for my iPod). I have yet to go to the comic book shop though, but I think the new Chew is out so I ought to.
• a bit of Massachusetts Avenue near Berklee school of music. Found a pretty awesome army surplus-esque store where I got my awesome "tactical bag" (like this one, but in black)
  
• and of course, the Fenway area, where my school is. The Fens area is pretty too and has a bunch of garden areas, which I can't get into as they are sort of privately owned as part of a garden-share.
  

Once I get my bike (aka the Mark II... Mark's an awfully funny name for a girl) back, the claiming of territories may become easier.

Anyway, I hope this update is enough to tie you guys (all 4 of you) over for the next few months while I stress over class, papers, projects and internships (part time job=maybe at this point). I also realize that I more or less gave out information that would be useful for tracking me down and stalking me. Ew.

California Love

Ok, I am blogging to you (all three of you who read this) from sunny Vallejo, CA in the upstairs area of my Auntie Alma's house.

Yesterday, I drove my parents here from Portland. It took about 12 hours due to traffic (and that one time we sort of got turned about). I liked the Oregon bit of driving, all winding mountain roads, pine trees all around, half-expecting a deer or bigfoot or something to pop around the next corner.

Then there was the California part of the drive. Maybe we took a wrong turn into the Twilight Zone, but it reminded me of Illinois, straight stretches of farm country, highway hypnosis kicking in enough to make me wonder if my parents had somehow tricked me into coming back.

As I groggily made it up the ramp to American Canyon (I am not making that name up), I noticed that the houses were a lot like my uncle's place in Las Vegas, that sort of pseudo-Spanish adobe style with tile roofing where every house in the subdivision looks exactly the same. If it wasn't for the GPS, I don't think I could have found Auntie Alma's house. I don't know, I figure if I'm going to spend that much on a house, it should at least be interesting looking or at the very least not look like every house in the subdivision.

I also couldn't help but notice how brown the rest of the hills looked, but not only was there green grass and trees in the subdivision, there was an entire golf course plus some sort of waterfall by the sign welcoming us to the subdivision. Isn't there supposed to be some sort of water shortage or am I just imagining things? Not to mention the "gated" aspect of the community. I had the paranoid fear that if I stepped on the grass, several armed guards would have me pinned on the ground before I could even say "sorry."

This is just sort of why I never really got into living in California. Sure, it's pretty, but there's an artificialness to the pretty. For example, when we went out to eat yesterday at some Chinese buffet in American Canyon, there were almost-pornographic glossy posters on the window of glistening meats on beds of fresh, green vegetables. From what my friend Emily, the nutritionist, told me, a lot of the ads for food put things on the food that render them inedible, but appetizing-looking (like shellac on meats, shaving cream instead of whipped cream on desserts, etc.). The food itself was more or less the usual buffet fare, sitting under lights for awhile and of course, looking nothing like the poster. Still, after an entire day of driving, I probably would have eaten the tires we drove in on.

Then today, as we drove through Napa Valley, the olive groves did vaguely remind me of the Tuscan countryside and there was even a castle (the Castello di Amarosa), albeit painstakingly re-created for accuracy, still nowhere near centuries old. At some point, Dad even made a crack about how Old Faithful in Calistoga was probably powered by machine every 15 minutes instead of a natural geyser (although I still think it would be in poor form if the US Geological Survey lied about something like that).

Steinbeck would probably roll in his grave at my rather unfair assessment of his country. Then again, he would probably roll in his grave at what has become of it: air-conditioned strip malls, all-you-can-eat buffets, paid tours and tastings at vineyards, skyrocketing real estate prices. Not to mention my parents commenting on how cheap the produce was as listed (3 for $1 cantaloupe?) on various signs on the side of the road. Part of me wonders if that is due to a direct "discount" as bought directly from the growers or if this is due to unfair labor practices. Of course, that just reminded me of the documentary I saw recently about labor organizers back in the 20s like Jose Garcia Villa and of course, Cesar Chavez from the 60s.

At any rate, as snarky as this post may seem, I'm having a fair enough time here, seeing family, etc.

... I just fear that I may have to bike extra-long routes to and from work when I get back to make up for all the eating we're doing here.

For example, Seafood City is this huge Filipino grocery store. Along with the grocery area, there are a couple of fast food restaurants, a travel agency and a hair salon. There's also a video/music store that specializes in import media. Most of the movie posters looked similar to ad campaigns for US films. From the look of it, Filipinos love romantic comedies (or weepy romantic tragedies where you can tell that someone probably dies at the end just from looking at the poster). One movie titled "Desperadas" sort of looked like it was the Philippine version of Desperate Housewives.

We ate at one of the restaurants ($4.75 for a combo of rice+two entrees and a bowl of soup). Pinakbet, kare-kare, bangus, bistek, lumpia... all of these things I have missed in the past couple of years. Naturally, I overdid it, but it was so worth it even if my heart is still palpitating from the fried fish and eggrolls and my arteries are clogging due to the massive amounts of sodium I took in. If there's one thing Filipinos love, it's to have food that is salty and fatty as fuckall. The kare-kare came with bagoong (naturally) and Dad still asked where the patis (salty fish sauce) was.

If you'll excuse me, I think I need to sleep it off. Chances are, when I wake up, everyone else will be up and about... searching for the next thing to devour or at least talking about going somewhere to eat.

Sorry y'all. It's been awhile.

Ok, I know I've kept rather mum for the past few months. I'm at the point where I'm not even really pretending to be a writer anymore. Still, Will has a point when he told me that the question "what do you do?" really is a bullshit question, so it's just best to answer it on your own terms. He's a writer and a filmmaker, not just that snarky guy at the video store.

Sure, I identify as "office girl extraordinaire," or "wannabe writer" when asked, but in all truth, I don't know what the hell I am anymore these days.

I attempted to write a comic book script for ScriptFrenzy 2009, where the minimum requirement was 100 pages in 30 days. I got to about 60 pages and ran out of steam/interest near the end. Still, this is an idea I'd love to see other people (especially illustrators, writers, bicycle enthusiasts) pick up and help me build this wacky supernatural bicycle Portland universe.

I won't lie. The Flat Fairy is basically a snarkier, bi-racial version of me if I died and had to redeem myself by helping fix flat tires in SE Portland and earn my bicycle to ride to heaven.

Here's a couple of snippets:

Part I: The Flat Fairy


PAGE THREE

PANEL

1. Silhouette of BIKE COMMUTER going along Waterfront Park with the sunrise and Mt. Hood in the background.

2. Broken glass on pavement.

3. Other garbage strewn on empty street.

4. BIKE COMMUTER attempts to go around broken glass.

5. Closeup of tire. Blurry images in background indicate motion.

6. Almost microscopic closeup revealing tiny fragment of glass embedded in tire.


PAGE FOUR

PANEL

1. Transition "That evening." BIKE COMMUTER is making his way back home, more or less the same route as before, but with more cars on road. He's wearing a brown suit, but with a raincoat and his pant legs rolled up and bound to prevent them from snagging in his chain/gears.

2. Closeup of BIKE COMMUTER's face getting concerned look on face for a moment. He is an average bland looking white dude.

3. Look of concern gone while weaving through traffic.

4. BIKE COMMUTER weaving through pedestrians and other bikers carefully on Steel Bridge pedestrian walkway. (sfx: whumpa-whumpa-whumpa)

5. BIKE COMMUTER now on Eastbank Esplanade this time instead of Riverside Park.

6. Closeup of tire, visibly squishing against the pavement as it turns.

VOICE
You really oughtn't do that.

PAGE FIVE

PANEL

1. Dark silhouette beneath overpass by Hawthorne Bridge, clearly female in a dark trenchcoat, toting a large *something* over her shoulder. It could be an axe, it could be anything potentially dangerous.

2. BIKE COMMUTER stops his bike suddenly. (sfx: screeeee!)

3. Closeup of BIKE COMMUTER shielding face from rain, trying to peer at the figure.

BIKE COMMUTER
What? Who are you?

4. FLAT FAIRY steps out, smoking a cigarette.

FLAT FAIRY
How long you been ridin' on that?

5. BIKE COMMUTER and FLAT FAIRY face each other. He is taller than she is by at least a head.

BIKE COMMUTER
(scratching his head)
I dunno, I just noticed it a few minutes ago.

6. Front view, mid-shot of FLAT FAIRY, with eyebrow raised and what is clearly a floor pump slung over her shoulder. The floor pump is very nice, complete with pressure gauge and has both presta and schraeder adapters. She is also another mid-20s character, pick a race, any race. Then pick another and combine the two. She is not necessarily beautiful or striking, but still looks "interesting." Young, gifted and mixed indeed.

FLAT FAIRY
Uh-huh. Then why did you keep riding?

PAGE SIX

PANEL

1. BIKE COMMUTER has dismounted from his bicycle, scratching his head sheepishly. The bicycle is a nice commuter bicycle, black and complete with panniers. Faint remains of daylight visible in the sky. FLAT FAIRY stomping out cigarette with her shoe.

BIKE COMMUTER
I dunno... I figured I could make it home.

2. FLAT FAIRY places a hand on the frame of the bicycle, staring at it intently. Only her face, hand and the bike frame are in this panel.

FLAT FAIRY
Where do you live?

BIKE COMMUTER
Over on 60th.

3. FLAT FAIRY scowling. Both of her hands are gripping the frame. Her hands are rough-looking and covered in grease.

FLAT FAIRY
You're a freaking idiot.

4. The bicycle is now upside-down. The FLAT FAIRY is kneeling before it, eyes closed in reverence, like a pilgrim at an alter... or something.

BIKE COMMUTER

What? Hey, what are you doing?

5. The FLAT FAIRY has her hands in the brake release of the back tire.

6. The tire is now off of the bike, cradled on her knees. Both of her hands, now dirt-covered, are at 10:00 and 2:00 like she's driving a car.

PAGE SEVEN (or right about when things look like an instruction manual)

PANEL

1. Close-up of the tire, FLAT FAIRY's hands inserting a plastic tire lever between the rim and the tire.

2. Closeup of the tire, lever now almost all the way around one side, tire halfway off rim like a peeled orange. (sfx: vvvvppppppppt!)

3. Closeup of tire, other side half-way peeled. (sfx: vvvvppppppppt!)

4. Closeup of FLAT FAIRY peering at the tube, holding the tire at the same place.

5. FLAT FAIRY runs hand inside tire thoughtfully.

6. Closeup of "eureka!" look on FLAT FAIRY's face.

FLAT FAIRY
Bingo!

PAGE EIGHT

PANEL

1. BIKE COMMUTER is standing, leaning against the concrete wall of the overpass, looking at his watch in amazement.

BIKE COMMUTER
Holy crap, that took seconds!

2. FLAT FAIRY still on knees in front of bike tire with what appear to be a pair of tweezers.

FLAT FAIRY
That was the easy part. Now's the hard part.

3. Closeup of sweat beading on FLAT FAIRY's brow.

4. Closeup of tiny shard of glass cradled in the shiny tweezers, gleaming in the dim light.

FLAT FAIRY
Looks like we've got the culprit.

5. She puts the shard in a tiny plastic vial

6. and puts the vial in her coat pocket. (sfx: clink-clink-clink)


PAGE NINE

PANEL

1. The FLAT FAIRY attaches the tube to the floor pump.

2. She pumps it up quickly (sfx: pmfa-pmfa-pmfa-pmfa-pmfa!) to an almost cartoonish size.

3. BIKE COMMUTER is moving forward with look of shock on his face.

BIKE COMMUTER
What are you doing?

4. FLAT FAIRY has the tube in one hand next to her ear, the other one out hushing him. Intense-looking panel with frenetic looking background, maybe something stripey or swirly.

FLAT FAIRY
Hush.

5-6 in sub-panels. Closeup of tube, moving along FLAT FAIRY's ear, her eyes are closed. Last subpanel has (sfx: hsssssss) and the tube going back to a more normal size.


PAGE TEN

PANEL

1. FLAT FAIRY'S eyes open wide.

2. Another intense-looking panel series: where a hand comes out of a pocket with a patch kit.

3. (sfx: POP!) The patch kit comes open, shooting out a patch with a green heart on it and a piece of sandpaper.

4. The FLAT FAIRY seizes both in one hand.

5. The FLAT FAIRY sands the tube right over the tiny hole. (sfx: scritch-scritch-scritch)

6. Closeup of FLAT FAIRY's thumb pressing the patch down onto the tube.

FLAT FAIRY
Va-BAM!

PAGE ELEVEN

PANEL

1. BIKE COMMUTER's stares on in amazement.

2. FLAT FAIRY deflates tire a bit. (sfx: kssssssshhhh)

3. Close up of hands working a tube around the rim.

4. Close up of hands working the tire back onto the rim.

5. FLAT FAIRY fully inflates tire again (sfx: pmfa-pmfa-pmfa-pmfa!)

6. FLAT FAIRY re-attaches tire to bicycle.


PAGE TWELVE

PANEL

1. BIKE COMMUTER is on his knees, jaw agape, nose bleeding.

BIKE COMMUTER
Marry me.

2. FLAT FAIRY has eyebrow still arched, one hand grasping the floor pump like she's about to pummel him with it.

FLAT FAIRY
Heh. Well, that's definitely a first.

3. FLAT FAIRY looks sheepish, resumes sitting on feet in kneeling position.

FLAT FAIRY
Hey there, think you can settle
for giving me a hand up
instead of a hand in marriage?

4. Closeup: Their hands meet. Hers is covered in grease. His is still in its attack glove.

5. They are standing face to face again. He is grinning like an idiot schoolboy, still holding her hand. She is clearly uncomfortable. A row of sleeping bags and shopping carts can be seen beneath the overpass in the background.

FLAT FAIRY
I'm gonna want that back.

BIKE COMMUTER
What? Oh, sorry.

6. He has released her hand, which she is wiping with a grease-covered rag.

PAGE THIRTEEN

PANEL

1. FLAT FAIRY is walking away facing the reader. BIKE COMMUTER is standing in background.

BIKE COMMUTER
Wait! You never told me who you are!

2. From perspective of BIKE COMMUTER. FLAT FAIRY is walking beneath the overpass past the bike racks.

BIKE COMMUTER
But what about your bike?

3. FLAT FAIRY turns around momentarily, putting on a pair of sunglasses despite the evening cloudiness visible in the background.

FLAT FAIRY
I haven't earned it yet.

4. BIKE COMMUTER still stands there in awe, touching his rear tire.

FLAT FAIRY
(op)
You should earn yours...
Always maintain tire pressure.
Never ride on a flat, you'll
ruin your rims.

5. BIKE COMMUTER looking reverently, sunset barely visible in clouds behind him in the West Hills/view of Downtown from the East bank.

BIKE COMMUTER
(thought rectangle)
I never forgot her parting words.
(spoken)
Will I ever see you again?
Where will you go?

6. Silhouette shot of FLAT FAIRY toting her floor pump over her shoulder.

FLAT FAIRY
Wherever I'm needed.

PART V: Flat Fairy vs. the Gear-Nixies

PAGE FORTY-FIVE

PANEL

1. Back to 6 panel format in full color. FLAT FAIRY at her usual afternoon haunt, the Eastbank Esplanade beneath Hawthorne Bridge, floor pump in tow. She is wearing her usual trenchcoat, tshirt and jeans. (sfx:musical notes to indicate whistling)

2. FLAT FAIRY looking down toward river, surprised expression.

3. GEAR-NIXIE sitting on a rock with a bicycle lying on its side, looking forlorn. She is blonde with long wavy hair and eyes as green as the Willamette, but not as cloudy. She wears a white billowy shirt and green pair of pants. Basically, she looks like she is celebrating Pirate Day a bit too early. Strangely enough, she is barefoot.

GEAR-NIXIE
Please help.

4. Closeup of FLAT FAIRY'S face, characteristic eyebrow arched.

FLAT FAIRY
No.

5. GEAR-NIXIE looks clearly taken aback.

GEAR-NIXIE
What?

6. FLAT FAIRY holds her floor pump in a defense position, braced in front of her with two hands.

FLAT FAIRY
You heard me.
I said no.

PAGE FORTY-SIX

PANEL

1. GEAR-NIXIE starts weeping, face in her hands as she curls up on her rock.

GEAR-NIXIE
Please, my bicycle is broken!

2. FLAT FAIRY lighting a cigarette, one foot possessively planted over the floor pump on the ground.

FLAT FAIRY
Stop it. You ain't foolin' anyone.

3. BIKE COMMUTER from earlier pulls up with look of indignation on his face.

BIKE COMMUTER
What is going on?
This is all wrong.

4. FLAT FAIRY looking toward reader, hand cupped slightly over mouth.

FLAT FAIRY
Except him, apparently.

(cap that wraps around the panel: Is she allowed to do that? I mean, break the fourth wall. Fuck. She's got me doing that now. Damnit!)

5. BIKE COMMUTER tries to grab floor pump.

BIKE COMMUTER
Aren't you supposed to be
helping people? Give me
that thing!

6. With a deft stroke (arc of different locations of floor pump), FLAT FAIRY knocks BIKE COMMUTER to the ground with the floor pump.


PAGE FORTY-SEVEN

PANEL

1. FLAT FAIRY, cigarette still at corner of her mouth. BIKE COMMUTER breathing heavily (sfx: pant-pant-pant)

FLAT FAIRY
Yes. I help people,
but only when they
need it. Also, never
touch the pump.

2. GEAR-NIXIE reaches out in supplication, eyes heart-meltingly wide and brimming in tears.

GEAR-NIXIE
But my bicycle is broken.
Please help.

3. FLAT FAIRY scowls, cigarette between fingers on left hand and floor pump slung over shoulder.

FLAT FAIRY
Help yourself. I'm gone.

4. FLAT FAIRY walking away. BIKE COMMUTER chasing after her, trying to pull himself to his feet.

BIKE COMMUTER
Wait!

5. BIKE COMMUTER running at FLAT FAIRY'S side. (sfx: huff-huff-huff!) She is still very much annoyed. They are walking beneath Hawthorne Bridge. The GEAR-NIXIE continues waving down pedestrians.

FLAT FAIRY
What do you want?

6. A man passes the GEAR-NIXIE while jogging, headphones on and completely oblivious to her presence. (sfx: more musical notes coning from headphones)

PAGE FORTY EIGHT

PANEL

1. Two bicyclists chatting, riding side-by-side pass the FLAT FAIRY and the BIKE COMMUTER walking in the opposite direction. They are in sight of the GEAR-NIXIE.

BIKE COMMUTER
Let me get this straight,
you'll help a cute guy
in distress, but not some
poor woman? Double standard!

2. FLAT FAIRY pointing accusingly backward. The cigarette is falling out of her mouth as she yells at the BIKE COMMUTER.

FLAT FAIRY
That is not some "poor
woman." Get your facts
straight before you start
making wild accusations!

3. BIKE COMMUTER still looks angry. FLAT FAIRY still looks annoyed, but eases up a bit in her expression.

FLAT FAIRY
Besides, you ain't
even that cute.

4. BIKE COMMUTER looks over his shoulder as he walks with FLAT FAIRY.

BIKE COMMUTER
Ok then, what is she
supposed to be, if not
some "poor woman?"

FLAT FAIRY
Good question. Here's
a cookie.

5. FLAT FAIRY hands him what looks like an Odwalla/Cliff Bar.

BIKE COMMUTER
This isn't a cookie.

FLAT FAIRY
Don't argue semantics.
This was my lunch,
but I grabbed the wrong one.
I don't like raisins.

6. BIKE COMMUTER taking a bite and looking at FLAT FAIRY warily.

FLAT FAIRY
As I was saying,
she's not human.
She's a Gear-Nixie.

BIKE COMMUTER
A wha?

PAGE FORTY-NINE

PANEL

1. GEAR NIXIES playing in Willamette River at night beneath moonlight. Ruins of old bicycles poking up from the banks, rusted and covered in slime.

FLAT FAIRY
(op)
A Gear-Nixie. They
dwell in bodies of water
near bike-dense cities.

2. GEAR NIXIE looking coy on the shore by Waterfront Park. A broken bicycle sits at her feet.

FLAT FAIRY
(op)
They lure unsuspecting
good Samaritans close
to the water.

3. A smiling young man in spandex cycling gear with a bicycle of his own crouches near her bike to see what the trouble is.

FLAT FAIRY
And that's the
last anyone ever
sees of the would-be
bicycle savior.

4. Spot of water as seen from the shore of Waterfront Park. Nothing but a ripple is seen, a series of wavy concentric circles in the murky water.

5. BIKE COMMUTER stuffs the food bar wrapper in his pocket. FLAT FAIRY is tying her left shoe, firmly planted on her floor pump.

BIKE COMMUTER
You've got to be kidding me.

FLAT FAIRY
Serious as a blown out tube.
I never joke about important things.

6. Another jogger passes the forlorn GEAR-NIXIE, also wearing headphones, sunglasses and plenty of lycra.


PAGE FIFTY

PANEL

1. BIKE COMMUTER rolling up his sleeves and walking back toward shore.

BIKE COMMUTER
That has to be the most
ridiculous thing I've ever
heard. I'll take care of this...

2. FLAT FAIRY pulling out another bar from her jacket that has the words "chocolate chip" printed on it. She is not looking at BIKE COMMUTER, but at her snack with a blase expression.

FLAT FAIRY
No, don't, stop.

3. The GEAR-NIXIE is smiling up from her rock, gesturing at the broken bicycle at her feet.

4. The BIKE COMMUTER reaches down to place what looks like a fallen chain back onto the pedal gears.

BIKE COMMUTER
(thought)
Pfft. Gear-Nixies. Why
would someone call
them that anyway?

5. The hub gears spinning wildly (blurry), causing the chain to wrap itself around his wrists, cutting deep and drawing blood. The BIKE COMMUTER has a horrified look on his face.

6. FLAT FAIRY chewing thoughtfully on her food bar. Peering at carnage through her right fingers.

FLAT FAIRY
(thought)
Should I...?

PAGE FIFTY-ONE

PANEL

1. Splash panel of FLAT FAIRY walking on Esplanade sidewalk down at the lower right hand corner. She is as indifferent as ever.

FLAT FAIRY
Naw. I tried to warn him.

Behind her, the GEAR-NIXIES are in full form, with the bodies of scary looking women with rows of sharp teeth, fish-like tails with a broken bicycle attached at the end of each tail. They are splashing in the Willamette River with the BIKE COMMUTER. (sfx: graarl-splash-graaarl-splash-splash) A wall of blood-tinged water is up around where the BIKE COMMUTER was dragged.

BIKE COMMUTER

Oh God! I can see
my pancreas!

New Ink

There's always been something about the buzz of a tattoo needle that comforts me. After a few times of listening to this sound next door at Scapegoat while having ginger beers at Food Fight, I decided that my birthday present to myself this year would be new ink.

To commemorate about a year of bike commuting and loving Portland, I decided to get the bike route symbol done above my right ankle where I roll up my jeans every morning. The bike route symbols are pretty ubiquitous here. I know that no matter how dark/lost/drunk I am, if I just keep seeing these, I will eventually end up home (or at the Potato Champion, which is close enough). So, no matter how far from Portland I could go, I'll always have a little piece of it to guide me back home. It also reminds me of Biketember and all the crazy bike-related adventures from Allen Hall back at U of I.

I originally wanted it in forest green, but Dylan talked me into black ink because it ages better and doesn't fade.

It smelled clean and of soap when I walked in yesterday to make my appointment. They use Doc Bronner's soap there and try to minimize the amount of waste they throw out by using medically laundered linens. All inks are Vegan (most are anyway, but apparently some use bonemeal).

I was in and out pretty quickly when I got it done at 2:30 today. It was warm, sunny and the door was open to let the fresh air in. The longest I had to wait was for them to clean up the last person and to set up for me. I stood on a chair with my jean leg rolled up as Dylan ran a single blade disposable razor and prepped my leg with alcohol. The razor made a quiet scraping sound as it slid dry against the top dead layer of skin cells, taking whatever hair I never bothered to shave that also never really bothered to grow in the first place. Before any needling was even done, I felt the cool sting of the alcohol rub into my ankle. After a test stencil was put on, I decided I wanted it slightly bigger than it had been, so another stencil was printed and I was good to go.

I read Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell again as Dylan ran the machine. My foot involuntarily twitched, and I apologized and said I'd try to stop, but he just said it just came with the territory and that the area he was tattooing was not moving so it was ok. I guess it's like when you're at the doctor and they hit your kneecap with the hammer thingy that makes your leg kick. I had gone in barefoot/flip flops to make things easier, but I've always been a bit self-conscious about my feet. I think even though it was warm out, they were probably cold to the touch from my weird circulation thing where even though the rest of me is okay temperature-wise, my hands and feet feel corpse-like.

I had barely finished three chapters when it was done. I got the usual after-care instructions. Leave the bandage on for four hours, clean it twice a day. Use plain lotion after a couple of days.

And it goes without saying, I shouldn't allow this (NSFW).

It's about time I can take the bandage off... so pictures:




Ok, it's a bit red and gross looking right now (honest, I don't actually have cellulite. the wrinkling is from the surgical tape and sterile bandages), but I think it looks awesome and will look better once it heals.

My parents are sooo gonna kill me...

Open Letter

This probably should go on the Portland/Portland blog I share with Jake (yet to be viewed by eyes other than our own), but I figure Jake hasn't posted in it lately, and neither have I, so oh well.

This is also a brief "break" I'm taking on my NaNoWriMo project during the home stretch.

... and reading through it, it may as well be an advertisement for the Oregon Tourism Board along with a "get Jake to come to Portland" campaign from how many businesses I link.

As much as I complain about being cold, I have to admit that autumn is my favorite season. It's the perfect weather for leather jackets. I now have three thanks to my rather doting father. I have two short ones I bike to work in that just go to the waist: one in black and the other in a patchwork of browns and tans that is a bit more suede-y. Then there's my black leather trenchcoat. As much as I love strolling around the Southeast side, watching the leaves cascade to the ground and smiling at occasional passers-by, I enjoy it much more when in the black leather trenchcoat. Yes, I'm a dork, but I just can't help but feel completely badass while walking, hair blowing in the wind, but not feeling cold since the black leather shields me like armor.

I get home from work by bike, glad that it hadn't rained and extremely grateful for the driver who stopped on MLK, causing the other lanes of cars to follow suit while I made the crossing. The sun had set as I was biking down the Eastbank Esplanade. I like passing through the bronze archway and I usually say hello to Vera (or at least the bronze sculpture of her sitting by the Main Street turnoff, considering they named the Esplanade after her) as I cruise by.

It is dark and a slight wind had picked up. Still warm from biking uphill the rest of the way home from 12th street, I switch from my black short jacket to the trenchcoat, sort of like Mr. Rogers, but without the cozy cardigan. I grab an apple from the kitchen, rinse it off and depart once more. I have to pick up some things at the produce tent on 23rd and Hawthorne to prepare for dinner Friday night (post-Thanksgiving). In particular, acorn squash and the brussels sprouts still on the stalk that I had been curious about the last time I had been to the produce tent, a couple of days ago when I got the apples. My squash stuffed with succotash experiment (lima beans, corn, sweet potatoes and spicy fake sausage) seemed to have worked out, so I figured it would make for a nice offering for our post-Thanksgiving potluck.

My boots feel much heavier as I walk on the ground than on my bike. For some reason, I'm much more comfortable on the bike with heavy shoes than my usual light pair of chucks. I crunch into the apple after locking the door. It is sweet with a bit of bite to it. My lips automatically press together, sinking my cheeks inward. I can barely hear anything over the chomping sounds, bits of apple grinding against my back teeth before I swallow. Tart juice runs down my throat and stinging my slightly chapped lips each time I bite into the apple.

I cross the intersection at 18th and Madison diagonally, perfectly in line with my theory of pythagorean walking. Even though I wasn't that hungry when I got home, I take large, gouging bites out of the apple. When I had pulled it out of the paper bag on the kitchen table, it was probably one of the most beautiful things I had ever seen. It was round, flat at the top, tapering to the bottom. The mottled red and green shone even in my dim kitchen light. Then again, it was probably just as beautiful when I was rummaging through the basket of honeycrisp apples in the produce tent, checking each apple for bruises or spots, occasionally smelling them. I remember when I had been walking home from the store hugging my reusable bag out of the risk the straps would rip from their seams due to the weight. The paper bag of apples sat on top, right against my nose and I could smell their sweetness.

My boots make whispering sounds as I shuffle my feet through the yellow leaves on the ground. The leaves seem to follow me once I get to a clear patch of sidewalk. A block later, I try to stay out of the way of the lady raking her yard, stuffing rake-fuls of leaves into a tall brown paper bag. It was around here that I thought about how much I wanted to share this all with you, the taste of the apple, the pavement beneath my boots, that somehow I should write this all down or tell you about it the next time you're online. So, I did.

I figure it's the next best thing to actually having you around.

At 20th, I turn for Hawthorne. I usually take Madison to avoid the noise of traffic, but the lights draw me out. I wait to cross in front of the CineMagic and Coventry Cycle Works. The new James Bond movie's playing, but I wasn't too keen on seeing it. Also, the guys at Coventry managed to save my precious bicycle twice when I managed to mess up the shifter cable and when I somehow screwed my new pedals onto the crankshaft wrong, resulting in the threading getting completely fracked up (not to mention the steel from the new pedal sort of cut through the aluminum crank as if it were made out of cheese).

The little white man in the walk signal flashes on. I wait for a bicyclist to turn, but it seems like they're going to just go straight and pass me. There's some construction going on where a huge church used to be. Someone had written in sharpie "Ask about affordable housing" on the "For Rent" sign. Large tarps flap in the wind as I pass. Nearby a set of condos loom, slightly taller than the surrounding houses down the block. I casually toss the core of my apple into their bushes. It's biodegradable, so I don't really consider it littering. I lick the remaining drops of juice off the palm of my hand, but it still remains slightly sticky. A block later, there is broken glass all over the sidewalk. It glitters, menacing, like a false reflection of the night stars. A girl cautiously passes me on her bicycle and I almost instinctively shout to her, advising she should check her tires when she gets back to make sure none of the glass got embedded in it (yeah, that's another way I fracked up my bike), but I don't. She probably knew that anyway.

I soon pass the Bakery. A woman passes by me in a long black wool coat, munching on something in their familiar wax paper. It might have been a scone or a croissant or even one of their cinnamon rolls. The apple was gone, but not forgotten enough to the point where I would feel like noshing again. I remember many a time I had walked home from the bakery with the original intent of just picking up a como loaf and ended up picking up something sweet or buttery as a snack, tearing into it as I walked back home, not in the least bit self-conscious that I was getting frosting on my face or crumbs all over my chest. I couldn't help but almost relive that sort of simple enjoyment after watching that woman bite into whatever was concealed in that wax paper.

Then I think about when I was searching online for things about Cannon Beach. Apparently, there's a Cannon Beach Bakery that makes a signature bread called the Haystack loaf. It was modeled after Haystack Rock. If you come out here for a visit, I might rent out a zipcar and drive you up there. I hear there's a good plenty of hiking spots and getting you here might give me an excuse to finally get a decent pair of hiking shoes and get some proper use out of them.

Across from the bakery, my destination. A good number of people trickle in and out, picking up supplies for Thanksgiving dinner. I saw a lady carry out a rather large bag of chestnuts. I said hi to a friend of a friend who lived in the building next to my old apartment. He waved, gathered his change and produce from the clerk and left.

There were only a few acorn squash left, but I made sure to pick a couple of small ones along with a different squash for good measure. It was small and orange, like a pumpkin, but smoother and without the ridges. Apparently it had "the distinct taste of chestnuts," so that piqued my curiosity. At 89 cents a pound, it didn't hurt to be curious. Then I fingered through the standing stalks of brussels sprouts. They were more or less identical in greenness, but I ended up picking one that had an additional partial branch off from the bottom, picking another one that did not have additional branches, then going back to the original one anyway. In a brown envelope were printed recipes for grilling them. I probably should have picked up the recipe for the strange new squash I picked up, but I figure all else fails, cutting it in half, putting a bit of olive oil on it and popping it in the oven at 350 degrees for about an hour should work well enough.

I linger a bit, even though I don't really need much else, since there's a line at both check stands. I pick up a couple of sweet potatoes for good measure (yay sweet potato fries!). As I wait in line, someone stocking fruit behind me points to the other check stand, letting me know that I can go there. The guy behind the counter comments that I made it easy for him since everything I picked (except for the brussels sprouts stalk, which was $1.99) was the same price per pound. I hadn't realized that, but that was pretty awesome.

The stalk is a bit awkward in my bag, so I end up holding it in one hand, leaning into my shoulder like I'm holding a rifle. I walk home with the thought, "I'm safe. Should anyone attack me for whatever reason, I am armed with brussels sprouts." I also muse that I'm pretty much preparing a good amount of post-Thanksgiving dinner food for at least four people for less than $10.00. Although, to be fair, it is a potluck.

Of course, no one attacks me, or even gives me a peculiar look for carrying a stalk of brussels sprouts with pride. When I get home, that's pretty much right about the time you came in to read this.

For all I know, this just bored you out of your mind. I know that in all truth, it is just a mundane exercise, going out and picking up food, coming home from work. For some reason, I can't help but dwell on it sometimes, the fact that the actions, while similar, are never exactly the same twice.

Neal Stephenson is Awesome

So, after another day in the tech support mines (seriously, we're inside a cave inside an old loft-converted warehouse inside a really nice neighborhood), I walked down Madison and Hawthorne to the Bagdad Theater to see Neal Stephenson, author of Snow Crash, The Diamond Age, Cryptonomicon, The Baroque Cycle (which I prefer to refer to as "The M*therf*cking Baroque Cycle" because it's so hardcore... it's like the Samuel L. Jackson of Historical Fiction). He was there to read a bit from his new book Anathem followed by a Q&A and book signing. I was slightly disappointed that it wasn't more of a formal talk, but it was still fun and interesting.

There's also apparently an actual talk that he had done regarding the ever-changing world of technology and how it's affecting science fiction online. He had brought it up when someone had asked a question regarding this, but his succinct answer to it, other than "linking" us to the talk online (even referring to fora.tv as "a thinking person's youtube"), was to state that science fiction permeates the world more than other genres. We see it in books, movies, video games. Also, he made a rather witty aphorism (perhaps I am not thinking of the right term) regarding technology. I will attempt to paraphrase (albeit badly in comparison to what he probably did say):

"Technology is whatever was invented after you were born and is so new that it doesn't work yet. The buttons on your shirt are not technology to you since you're familiar with them... and they work."

But I'm already sort of getting ahead of myself.

Stephenson (I don't know, calling him "Neal" seems a bit too casual) opened up with the literary equivalent of opening a 40 and pouring some of it on the corner for David Foster Wallace, who killed himself recently. He said that Wallace was "the best of us" and highly recommended that we read his work, especially seeing as how there will no longer be any more of it. I'm not sure if it is a sad or a good thing that when I looked at Powell's Online to find the links for the above books that David Foster Wallace's Infinite Jest was in the top five.

After peering around the theater and saying something to the effect of, "You all have beer. I would have come here sooner if I had known that we could have beer at these things." in bemusement, he read a bit from Anathem, which I think was from somewhere near the beginning where the main character Fraa Erasmus (Raz) and Fraa Orolo interact with an extramuros (someone who lives out the math/monastary), called Artisan Quin. It got a few good laughs, particularly due to details that seem like they would fit well in our world, but we take them granted as such. The fact that Fraa Orolo has to have a questionnaire for the saecular world in order to navigate it for apert (the rare time when the math opens and allows outsiders in and when the Fraas and Suurs get to leave for ten days once a year, decade, century or even millennia depending on the math).

I guess I ought to pull over and provide a summary of Anathem. If you were to boil it down to really reductive basics, it's about monks in the future who devote their lives to science as opposed to faith because the world around them is so politically and socially unstable that they have to cloister themselves off. The world is divided into the avout (the science/philosophical-minded) and the saecular (everyone else). This whole premise reminds me of what's going on in our country right now and the tried-and-sadly-true strategem of the GOP of "disparage and devalue intellectualism." Not to mention all the hoopla and "what's the point" regarding the Large Hadron Collider. Would it be all that hard to believe that the world will split off into two such groups?

During the Q&A people lined up and asked their varied questions. Of course, I had expected the sort of crowd that surrounded me, mostly geeks. One of them even came up and plugged an event they were hosting, asking Stephenson if he would make an appearance. I think it was some sort of cyborg-related convention. Stephenson politely declined, claiming that he already had commitments that weekend.

When it came to more literary questions, it ranged from the polite/not-so-polite version of "Why are your books so damn long?" to a really wordy question asking about the effects of the world on his writing or how he thinks sci-fi writing affects the world. The answer to the first question was rather astute, just saying that he writes until he's done. Someone next to me commented that it was the dreaded "ending" question, especially considering how he writes endings that tend to completely screw with people. The answer to the second question was pretty much the one mentioned above, "linking" to a talk online regarding the subject.

I particularly liked his answer to a question regarding how or if he takes "literary" angles into consideration. He basically said that if you think too much about what grandiose aims you mean to prove or how to sell something, you'll never get anything done. This is similar to advice other authors have given to me. The guy in front of me in the signing line was another writer was also a writer, so Stephenson stated that he (and I) should just keep writing. He said to just write, keep going and then throw it away... not throw it away, but just put it down. By the time I had gotten through the line, he had already signed over 200+ books, so I understand how some of the communications wires can get crossed. I sheepishly confessed that I'm not good at revision, to which he replied that even that will get easier if I just do it more often.

It's pretty much what everyone, writer and non-writer has been advising me to do, just to keep trying. Or, more accurately, keep doing. It does me no good just navel gazing and having existential crises. Even shitty writers who do that and still manage to crank out a few novels get paid at least some of the time. In other words, I will not get any satisfaction, let alone compensation for novels or short stories that I don't write.

What is interesting is that Stephenson also recommended writing an hour a day at most. In the back notes for The Baroque Cycle, there are scans of the longhand manuscripts that he had handwritten. It's one thing to write a book that is 1000 pages. It's another to have handwritten it first. So, I may have to be a bit more focused in my approach, as opposed to rattling off a few pages on google documents here and there when I have breaks at work. I suppose it's sort of like how I used to practice the piano every day for at least an hour (sometimes much more than that during festival season).

Well, I don't play the piano anymore (though I did just start the dulcimer), so I'll have to rehone my focus elsewhere.

Also, in the mean time, I have quite a bit of reading to do.

On a closing note, when I get to meet an author or performance artist I admire, I usually go blathering psychotic fangirl. I suppose I went sort of quiet fangirl who was cautious about keeping the line moving instead this time. Maybe I wasn't as giddy as a teenager at a boyband/emo/whatever the hell it is those damn kids are listening to these days concert, but maybe I'm finally starting to see my sort of "heroes" as real people. I mean, I've hung out with enough Guests in Residence at Allen Hall to realize that fate doesn't just tap some people on the shoulder and tell them that they're either going to fight the power, help change the world and/or just tell a damn good story. You (and by "you," I really mean "I") really need to work your ass off, even just to stay afloat.

Also, I think I'm at the stage where I'm not so much in awe of an author like Stephenson for "making it," by being able to draw crowds at readings, sell a good number of books, be relatively recognizable and well-known in the sci-fi/literary world, etc. Instead, I deeply appreciate the fact that he does as previously mentioned, tell a damn good story and tell it well. He creates characters that I would like to meet in person, whether it's someone like Hiro Protagonist from Snow Crash, Eliza or "Half-cocked" Jack Shaftoe from The Baroque Cycle who live in worlds I'd either like to see or worlds that don't seem that much different from my own.

Ok, before I completely go off the deep end of ceasing to make sense, I ought to call it a night, hit the showers/hay/what have you.

The Portland Literary Salon or, Why Valerie Is No Longer Allowed Near Absinthe

So Steve asks me via google talk while I'm checking my email if I'm going to the salon tonight (it was Saturday) and I had completely forgotten about it despite Heather (not Helen) telling me about it last week.

I am already getting ahead of myself.

For those of you who don't know and actually do care despite perhaps not keeping tabs on this seemingly defunct blog, I am now living in Portland, OR. I have for the past couple of months lived in relative isolation, scrounging up work here and there, getting a bit of writing done. At a National Novel Writing Month-related event, I met Steve, who introduced me to Heather (along with a bunch of other writer/musician/artist types) at his book release party a couple of weeks ago. Heather told us that she was going to read a piece at this literary salon hosted by Jessica (who I met last night). The idea was supposed to be like the French salons and coteries from back in the day (hence the wine and the absinthe...but I'll get to that later).

When I got there, I had my usual preliminary apprehension at going to a social function where I knew nobody except the person I arrived with and had my usual cigarette outside. There, I met Winona and Cari (at least I think she spelled it that way) who were friends with the hostess, but likewise didn't know many other people at the salon.

Once I got in, it was a good time, lots of good company, lots of wine and baguette bread to go around. The readings were interesting, starting from the noise/spoken word combo O'Grady (at least that's what I think they were called). The guy (one of the Mikes?) had a sweet tattoo of a typewriter keyboard which reminded me of Naked Lunch and read pieces about working in a pen factory (with a receptionist who had a nice ass) and going to a strip club. While he read, his girlfriend (?) did interesting things with sound involving a crushed can and some electronic equipment ... experiments in feedback.

One of Steve's friends (I don't remember his name either, so I'll just assume it's Mike) read too, but not from his book "Help, a Bear is Eating Me!" (or was it "Help, I'm Being Eaten by a Bear?") Unfortunately, I'm drawing a blank as to what it was about, especially considering like most of the other pieces tonight, it was funny or intentionally humorous ... Ok, now I remember, it was a satirical commentary on the whole "natural food" trend "Hi! I milk the cows for Sunnyview farms! ... Hi! I'm the person who fucks the cows at Sunnyview farms! ... We put love in everything you eat!" (or something like that).

Another guy (I think his name might have been Mike too) read a short story about a woman talking to a lizard at the side of the road about her relationship/life problems (deadbeat stoner boyfriend), wanting her life to be like a poem, only for the lizard to say "It sounds to me that you just need to grow the fuck up." When I asked him if it was from personal experience, he explained that for awhile, he agreed with the lizard, but his (ex)girlfriend Jennifer actually randomly went to New York to become a documentarian, and things actually worked out, so he figures that it's better to be idealistic. I agreed, but sometimes people do need to grow the fuck up when it comes to relationships (by now one would think I would have learned that lesson at least), but it is better to be idealistic and go after "crazy" dreams when it comes to careers. There was a funny moment when this Mike and Steve talked about the awkwardness of being either the oldest or the youngest person in the room. As soon as Steve told Mike his age, Mike immediately said, "Thank God!"

Jessica's friend Tara sang, projected well in the crowded room with the wood burning stove. When I spoke with her, she told me that she had been singing since she was three, on stage since she was six. I just started piano at six, let alone be at any sort of performance level. It never ceases to amaze me how many incredible people I meet here in Portland.

One of the artists who had work on the walls was there, Jason, a Puerto Rican metalworker who was in the military for awhile. I think I spent the most time with him talking about, of all things, food and the fact that food now not only does not look like food, but actually isn't. He worked in a meat packing plant/warehouse which supplied food for McDonald's. Apparently even in the freezer, while wrapped in plastic, the food smelled like French fries and hamburgers, a scent synthesized in a lab somewhere. How horrifying. We also talked about what our immigrant parents/grandparents in the old country ate and how they got by without having to go to the gym because they worked and cooked their own food.

I also asked him about the masks he had made, which were quite beautiful. One was based from a photograph of Montezuma's death mask he had seen in his nephew's social studies book, another was the "sister" of another piece (the sister was fire and the brother was water), another one was inspired by the patterning on a motorcycle he had built and painted.

The next morning when Steve and I went to collect my keys (I was a dumbass and didn't make sure my keys were secure in my coat pocket before leaving, thus resulting in me crashing at Steve's), Jessica commented that she would have liked to see more women reading, especially since it seemed a bit unbalanced. So, at the next one in January, I'll try to have something written that I won't be completely ashamed of reading. I wish I had my old blue notebook with the stuff I did from Blue Room, although I had a policy of never reading the same piece twice back then. On another note, the one person we would have known otherwise, Heather (not Helen) wasn't there. I'm trying to remember if she said at some point on Tuesday that she wouldn't make it, but I can't. I think her pieces would have fit in well with the brand of humor prevalent last night.

To think, I was just going to stay in, knit, watch Doctor Who and try to get some NaNo-ing done last night. Crap...speaking of NaNo, I'm falling behind and we're getting to the final stretch.

But yeah...the bit about the absinthe. Jessica got a bottle of "fake" absinthe and demonstrated the process of dripping cold water on a sugar cube rested on a slotted spoon. I made a comment about how I had heard that they sometimes lit the cube on fire before dripping the water. This was to my downfall, as they insisted that I go up (especially since I had my lighter at the ready from having had a smoke earlier) and demonstrate. I tried lighting the cube directly, which only resulted in it being immediately reduced to elemental carbon. Then someone suggested pouring a little absinthe on it. Ok, keep in mind at this shindig, we were all using plastic cups. Usually there are special glasses specifically made for the purpose of drinking absinthe. So, 180-or-so proof alcohol+plastic cup+flame=holy crap! The cube burned nicely, but then the fire only spread to the alcohol in the cup, melting it even as I was trying to blow it out. Then we had to use the pitcher of water to put it out.

Thus I learned a very important lesson: I should never make suggestions concerning fire and alcohol preparation when plastic cups are involved.

The guys up at the podium with me just reassured me that things would be ok. One of them (the beatnik with a hip hop cadence poet whose name escapes me at the moment, something beginning with D) started stroking my back in a way I interpreted (at least in that moment) as being less solicitous than somewhat presumptuous, especially when he joked "well, now your face matches your jacket" (I was wearing a red jacket). So, I immediately freaked out and shouted "Ok, why is everyone touching me?!" He was probably just adding levity to the situation so I wouldn't feel like such an ass, so I can appreciate that. I still felt like an ass though, especially after that outburst.

Ok Valerie, way to make an already awkward situation worse. I immediately headed for the back of the room and got another cup of wine. Things turned out all right in the end and I don't think anyone even remembers their near brush with immolation at my inept hands.

At any rate, I had an excellent time last night. This is pretty much the sort of thing I've always wanted to be involved in, meeting like-minded people and not being too serious all the time. Bleh, I need a shower and to deposit this paycheck. I also need to get more groceries and get more writing done. Look forward to more dispatches ... if I feel like it.

Portland Part-time Post #1

Note on the title: a little bit of alliteration never killed anyone, right? Also, Portland's motto is "The City that Works," but unofficially, "The City that Works...part-time" as a reference to the fact that there's such a large music/arts community here that just have "day jobs" to pay rent while they can pursue their passion in whatever field they chose. I just hope I can create something good while I'm here. Otherwise I'll be doing the city a grave injustice.

Gargh, why am I staying up late to make a post when I should be sleeping so I can be fresh and pert and perky for tomorrow's 7 a.m. clock-in?

Perhaps it is the same answer which explains my other self-destructive behaviors: masochism.

So, today was my first day employed as a temp for the Fred Meyer corporation. The crew in accounts payable seem friendly and well-humored, perhaps even as snarky-in-the-good-way as my former co-workers at TIS. One of them even joked that one of my responsibilities (along with refilling the coffee machine) was to pick up Krispy Kremes every morning for everyone.

There was a slight mixup which I only realized once someone started calling me "Evelyn." It turned out that not only, I was in the completely wrong department, I was in the wrong building. The corporate office for several chains of grocery store, naturally, was enormous. It was like floor after floor of identical labyrinths made of cubicles. The only problem was I didn't even have an ID passcard to get through all of the security doors, let alone Ariadne's golden thread (although I did eventually get an Ident card attached to a retractable string).

It turns out that I'm replacing another temp whose contract is being bought out by the company from the agency. For some reason, I'm thinking of "Memoirs of a Geisha," but without the vague sexual things, the sometimes-purple prose and the ridiculously pretty outfits and ornate ceremonies. Maybe because the woman training me was very personable, but also deliberate about it. I don't mean "deliberately nice" in the fake way, but in the way that nice people want you to know that they really do want to be nice. Either that, or I secretly have the hope of getting my contract "bought out" at some point despite my itchy-feet syndrome (my proclivity towards wandering).

An email from an acquaintance/former co-worker mentioning his own personal journey in finding himself (although over a greater distance and longer period of time with more drastic and dramatic turning points) only confirmed my knowing that I'm probably not going to stay in Portland too long no matter how much I adore it here. As Honk once said to me, "You've still got a lot of wandering to do."

At any rate, the work was like a twilight-zone version of what I used to do with Session A, but was now called Session F. Instead of ISBNs, I had to work with Employee IDs and SSNs. Instead of sorting and cateloguing books, I filed away people under convenient numbers. I'm basically being paid $10.50 an hour to reduce human beings into numbers for the sake of convenience.

Still, at least the people I work with are amicable. My trainer (I was almost tempted to refer to her as Mameha and myself as Chiyo/Sayuri to continue the "Memoirs of a Geisha" comparison, but thought better of it) seemed genuinely interested in even the most boring details of my former life in the Midwest, sometimes wide-eyed and saying "wow, really?" at my details of flat land, corn and soybean fields, the time they shut down the university for two days due to the crazy amount of snow last February.

I guess I'm the same way about the fact that it is possible for me to walk uphill and then downhill on the same street, the fact I can see Mt. Tabor as I walk to Safeway and that it rains here much more than it snows. Then again, perhaps I should have known I wasn't quite in Kansas (or rather, Illinois) anymore when my trainer said "Really? You're from Illinoise?" Then again, my former roommate did get ragged on for saying "Oregone" at her internship.

I was even more amazed that people here actually take their 15 minute breaks unlike at the bookstore. I just felt unproductive and kept staring at the clock in between half-heartedly reading the newspaper/recipe magazines and chewing on my peanut butter sandwich in the break room. Downstairs is a cafeteria where I should avoid taking lunch (even though the guys who work there are generous, one of them ended up giving me enough meatloaf servings for two meals...although I would have rather had a surplus of steamed broccoli, which was slightly soggy, but still good and way above the canned green beans they had offered as an alternative vegetable) despite my rather bad habit of not cooking and eating out resurfacing...I guess some things don't change.

I probably should have mentioned earlier that I ended up getting off the bus at the wrong stop and walking around in the rain, getting lost before I was even able to get lost in the corporate headquarters and assigned to the wrong department. I don't know why it didn't occur to me considering how upset I was by it while it was actually happening. Oh well, maybe I am growing up a bit after all if I don't let little things like that bother me for long.

Speaking of the rain and the gray and cold, the weather I came here for is finally here. I thought it was funny that one of my new co-workers once said to my trainer that she was disappointed that her vacation was always sunny but with no rain. Maybe I will fit in here after all.

Still, I feel the occasional melancholy once I realize how alone I really am. Then again, staying inside out of the rain while listening to Elliott Smith probably doesn't help. Or, when I actually do go outside, having "Alameda" (which also happens to be a street in Portland) stuck in my head probably doesn't help either. The funny thing is, I live on Hawthorne and walk up and down it quite often, so having a song about another stretch of Portland road playing in my mind is sort of like cheating.

Gaah...it's almost 1 a.m. and I'm still not that sleepy. I'll probably crash hard tomorrow. Maybe instead of staying in and watching sappy romantic movies while eating fresh baked bread from the Safeway (because I can't always afford the artisan breads at the "good" bakeries on my street, that and I have a penchant for irony) and pre-made soup (I told you, I don't cook...it's better that way otherwise if I get food poisoning, no one will really notice until it's too late), I should take up knitting, or better yet, running.

Ok, now I'm just delirious...time for sleep.

Melancholy that can only be brought on by watching French films and listening to Kind of Like Spitting

Note: This is (for the most part) fiction. I am actually very happy with my recent arrangement in Portland. Yet for some reason, I still come up with the most horribly emo poetry possible. I think I'll just chalk it up to the overcast weather lately (although I love overcast weather...never really did well under direct sunlight). Worse yet, I'm not even sure who I'm talking about in this.

Forgetting you
is about as easy
as drying my hands
with the towel I took
from the dryer too soon.

Bits of fuzz
still cling
on my moist hands,
speckling them
like the lint on my used futon,
but I can't recall
the last words you said
before I left.

All I can remember is this feeling.

Sometimes I think I moved
two time zones away
just to try making up
for the first two hours I spent with you.
Even if I can't get back all of the time wasted
on you, I can at least try to cancel out the first two
that led to so much trouble in the first place.

Maybe I'm just kidding myself
thinking that moving thousands of miles away
will help me grow up a few years,
that magically, a few gray hairs will sprout,
I'll grow a bit taller, "find a real job"
or worse yet, "find a real boyfriend."

My friends still talk about you
like you're just a blow-up doll,
a silicone vibrator I randomly
ordered online.

Well, I'm just not ready
to grow up yet.

I am, however,
ready to walk
into an actual sex shop,
look the clerk in the eye
and ask for suggestions.

I figure this is at least a first step
towards meaningful human interaction.