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.

That one entry where Valerie obsessively logs what she eats for a week.

Does what it says on the tin... I'm not sure I'm going to bother "dieting" after this so much as try to be a bit more conscious of what I'm eating.

Sunday, September 21, 2008

Breakfast/Lunch (as I got up late and was hungover from last night's debauchery):
- a bit of soyrizo
- two eggs
- two slices of toast
- half a small melon (don't recall the name, looked like a honeydew on the outside, a cantaloupe on the inside.

Snack:
- Mission Tortilla Chips (possibly more or less than the recommended serving size of 12 chips)

Dinner:
- leftover Navrattan Curry from India Grill (the amount filled about half of one of those small folded paper takeaway containers)
- bit of rice
- 1 6 oz. container of Tillamook French Vanilla Yogurt

Snack:
- another bit of leftover rice mixed with sesame seeds and wrapped in nori

Monday, September 22, 2008

Breakfast:

- bit of leftover ramen found in the fridge before realizing it had gone off and tossing it

- two packets of cinnamon instant oatmeal

Lunch:

- cucumber roll and salmon skin salad from Mio Sushi

Dinner/snack:
- two yukon gold potatoes julienned and roasted in toaster oven
- half a small pearl honeydew melon
- 10 pieces of Full Moon Feta and Squash Ravioli with tomato sauce

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.

Story ideas from dreams #(I lost track): "Corridors"

Story idea: Based on dream I had last night (09/14/2008). I was at my old high school, walking down the hallways, rows of lockers painted red on each side. The corridor kept getting smaller until I had to crawl through to the other side. For some reason, the Ladd's Addition Videorama was on the other side and Will was still working there. He seemed a bit puzzled to see me, especially since it seemed like I had just randomly come out of a tier of shelves from the back wall. He told me that he wasn't going to be able to make the Neal Stephenson talk (which is oddly timely and relevant for one of my usually non-sequitur dreams). Of course, I was mildly disappointed, but I was still glad to see him again. Another time, I was walking home in the middle of winter, going down various hallways that kept getting smaller and smaller until I ended up going under a set of stairs. When I got there, I ran into Will. We had a long conversation, at some point we held hands. Yes, it was a rather sweet, sappy wish-fulfillment dream, but it was still nice.

Anyway, to further develop this idea/geek out in a horrible way, what I would like to do is write  a story about a man who keeps coming across a young girl/woman who stumbles into his store (either a scientific equipment shop or bookstore, although bookstore might be a bit too "Time Traveler's Wife" ). He watches her grow up, navigate through the confusion of adolescence, becoming an adult, finding her own way through life and develops a fondness for her.

Well, it turns out that he is actually a supervillain (I warned you that I was going to geek out in a horrible way). He had jumped universes to try to make sure that this version of the girl did not grow up to be a hero, but someone normal. But of course, she ends up uttering the age-old line, "No matter what (universe I'm in), I'm still me" and proceeds to kick his ass.

Although there will probably be a bittersweet ending where both of them somewhat regret what happened.

Maybe the universe explodes.

I haven't made up my mind yet.

Waning Nostalgic

Four days isn't a long time, even if the two of them spent in airport terminals and transcontinental flights feel lengthy.

I went back to my old alma mater this weekend, but without the prerequisite drunken scaling and attempted making out with of the bronze sculpture. For one thing, my knee was still slightly messed up from wiping out on my bike and I'll be damned if I get injured due to my own stupidity while on vacation.

First obstacle, my flight was delayed, so unfortunately I was unable to make it to my old employer's/textbook store in time before they closed. I had even transported a pink box of Voodoo Doughnuts for their enjoyment, as per our unofficial tradition of me going somewhere and then bringing back some sort of goody for the text department to share. I texted and called a couple of people to check in/apologize for not making it. Then I alerted whoever I could think of who was in my cell phone contact list and most likely to still be in town that I would be at Murphy's around 8:00 p.m. when I arrived at the airport.

Anyway, Green Street was pretty deserted considering it was 1) summer and b) Memorial Day weekend so anyone actually still taking class was probably home visiting family anyway. Jenna and I ate dinner at Za's for old time's sake. It was the first and last campustown place we ate at as students, not to mention a bunch of times in between that. Jenna and I then walked around the quad, tried to get into the English Building to find a bathroom, but in vain since the building was locked up and then wandered off to the Union building to use the ladies' room.

We ended up at Murphy's a bit early. The crowd was a bit thin and conversation was easy to hear despite the random spurts of blaring country music from the jukebox. The first to show up was BJ, whom I introduced to Jenna. I was amused that they had both taken Mammalology together and exchanged various biology/environmental sciences course related stories. Forrest and Mendez showed up not too long after. I had not expected to see Mendez considering he was going to school at SIUC now. They almost fooled me by saying that Steve was in town, but I probably ought to have known better considering he's in med school somewhere in the Caribbean. Sadly, I knew Danielle was in Chicago looking for a job post-graduation and Kerri was out of town until Sunday (which turned out to be later than that due to car problems), so the TIS reunion was far from complete. Honk showed up, much to my surprise considering he had said in his usually brusque, but honest way, "I don't particularly like Murphy's much and I don't know any of the people you'll be hanging out with, so I may or may not come."

It was almost like I never left, the dudes made fun of me and my somewhat squished and slightly stale donuts (I had picked them up Thursday night) yet seemed to appreciate the sugar. I ran into my friend Will(Liam) from high school newspaper and talked to him briefly before returned to the group he had come in with. Then Ben showed up and I disproved my theory that he and BJ are the same person.

In all truth, I really don't need to recap a play by play. The important part is that it really was a lot like I had put my Chambana life down like a novel with a bookmark in it and then just picked it up right where I left off. I even spent the night at Honk's, sharing a cigar with him and watching Venture Brothers after our usual constitutionals. We did joke a bit about how we're becoming old people. After breakfast and a day of Scrabble, crossword puzzles, watching House and even more Venture Brothers, I packed up my little bag and went to Jenna's for even more sugar and anime and strolling about on the quad taking random pictures of interesting things.

The weekend went by so quickly that I feel like I blinked and four years of my life evaporated. Granted, not everyone who was involved in those four years were there, but I feel at least some of the most important people were there.

Part of me wishes that I could say that I learned some sort of huge lesson this weekend... or came to terms with the baggage I carried with me to Portland or resolved some unfinished history. This wasn't one of those vacations. It wasn't meant to be. It was just a chill, lazy couple of days when I got to see some people who actually missed me. Even if I wasn't on their minds every day, it's nice to have someone glad to see you when you do turn up randomly.

What's sad is this is reading more like one of my old myspace entries, but without any mentions of angsting over exes or drinking myself sick. Granted, I felt a mild pang of wanting to try to convince Honk to come out to Portland, but hell, I've been doing that for awhile now. Besides, we're not really exes if we never dated.

But yeah... growing up. Losing touch with friends despite best efforts. Figuring out what I want before I resign myself to being an office girl for the rest of my life. I'll sort that all out as it comes.
All I know is that even though I'm slowly becoming an old lady, I'm still me no matter what time zone I'm in.

I am a consumer whore.

I've always been fascinated with the psychological aspect of cosmetic changes: the whole idea that changing something about yourself on the outside could help spark a reaction to change something inside, increase confidence or what-have-you.

If I could afford it and somehow had magic hair that grew on a whim, I would get my hair cut at least once a week. Not necessarily because I'm vain -- granted, I am, but that's beside the point-- but because I like the intensity of someone paying that much attention to me for that long of a period of time without me having to do anything or try to be impressive or intellectual. I also like the idea of being a living piece of art, which also draws me to body modification. But as far as the attention thing is concerned, I spend a good deal of time being not so much invisible, but unobtrusive.

Maybe this is also the real reason why I go out to eat when I've had a bad day. I could probably cook a good deal of the types of food that I end up ordering, so maybe it really does come down to my ambivalence toward having attention paid to me. I generally like being unobtrusive, but at least a consumer exchange between me and a server or a hair stylist is in a controlled setting where there are certain types of protocol concerning interaction.

However, instead of getting my hair cut again, I decided to do something a bit different. I had tried to find the stylist at Cutting Crew on Hawthorne who had did a good job cutting my hair the way they did at Red Hair back in Champaign (next to the Evo's and a couple doors down from TIS bookstore), but apparently she works somewhere on Division and 43rd. I actually walked down there only to not see her in the window, so I ended up going back to Hawthorne and going into Bishop's. I did have the original intention of cutting my hair, but then I remembered that I was actually trying to grow it out again. So, out came an old idea I had: to color my hair a shade of grey. It was meant to be in rebellion against the "family tradition" on my father's side of going gray early in life, but spending a ridiculous amount of money over the rest of my life hiding that fact. Also, to touch on my more nerdy sense of aesthetic, some really cool anime and comic book characters have gray hair.

I spent a pleasant two hours at Bishops getting the ever-loving hell bleached out of my head and after the initial wooziness from the bleach fumes wore off, I had a beer. At first when they called my name from the sign-in sheet, I was afraid that Sonsirea (the colorist) was just looking at me as if I was crazy, but as it turns out, she had actually been working on a new formula she referred to as "blue steel." I almost made a joke about her coming up with another one called "magnum" but figured I already used enough of my dork points as it was with my anime and comic book references without pulling out a reference to Zoolander. I loved the fact that she was completely into the process of color experimentation. I imagine painters are the same way, mixing pigments trying to find the perfect combination. I also love hanging around barbershops just to look at the various pieces equipment each stylist uses. I'm especially fond of places that keep their kits in craftsman tool-style metal cabinets and toolboxes.

People would come by just to visit. One guy had the most adorable wrinkly-faced puppy, which was only 9 weeks old but good-sized and still growing. One of Sonsirea's friends came with another friend who wanted a haircut. After almost an hour, it was a bit of a shock to see myself butter-blonde, but I'm glad that didn't last long before the dye was put on. I honestly don't think the universe could handle me as a blonde.

After two bowls of bleach, two applications of toner, here are the results (don't ask me how much it cost but I believe that the end justifies the means):

I have superhero hair.

It's sort of funny since the pictures make it look like my hair hasn't changed all that much. But in the right light, my hair pretty much looks like the sky on any given day in Portland as opposed to the rather nondescript mottled black and brown it has been for the past couple of years. Maybe another reason I went with the gray was because with the random sunny days here, I still need my head to be in the clouds.

As older bro would say, peace and chicken grease.

Only in dreams...

...am I able to do the following:
1.) Run across town at superhuman speeds to be with the guy I'm in love with.
2.) Have a cigarette with Elliott Smith.

I used to stop logging my dreams since I thought that the whole "reading into the subconscious mind to fulfill potential and unaddressed desires" thing was a bunch of crap. Still, these two were the most interesting I've had awhile.

1.) My friend Liz from middle/high/college and I were working backstage back at our old high school for some reason even though we were the ages we are now and nowhere near SHS. Out of nowhere, I decide to leave so I can be with :name excluded due to current relevance: who is across town at the movie theater/astronomical observatory. Liz gets a bit mad and asks me "What about all the hard work we put into this?" And I just shrug and tell her things will be fine, the show can run itself after all the setup I did.

The amazing part is the running. I was somewhere between flying and running really fast. I could feel my feet hitting pavement, grass, even the hoods of cars just to get all the way across town (which oddly seems to be more like Portland and not Springfield). I run at an incredible speed without my joints giving out, my muscles aching from lactic acid buildup, my heart pounding or my lungs gasping for air. I don't even think about traffic, but actually run over the cars regardless as to whether or not they are moving.

When I get to the theater/observatory, the "show" is over and the house lights are up, revealing a gorgeous old-style movie theater surrounding me. The ceiling is high. The walls and pillars are beige with gorgeous detailed tapestries on them. I can see that the curtains are still drawn open though, with a gorgeous night sky/universe swirling around on the stage/screen. :Name excluded due to current relevance: is standing in one of the aisles as the rest of the audience has mostly cleared out. He smiles at me as if to tell me that he wasn't expecting to see me tonight.

This is when I wake up. I was a bit disappointed that this hadn't happened...but of course, not as disappointed as when I woke up from the next dream.

2.) For some reason I'm back at TIS Bookstore and Danielle of all people is excited about winning some contest she won where she gets to hang out/go on a date with Elliott Smith (who is mysteriously still alive without anyone commenting on this fact). I mean, for one thing, as I mentioned in the parenthetical expression, Elliott Smith is dead. Another thing, Danielle is engaged. What would she be doing going on a date with Elliott Smith?

However, the even more bizarre fact of Elliott Smith even participating in such a PR gimmick is actually explained in my dream. I have a smoke outside the front of the store (which would probably cause Jon to pitch a fit since he usually wants the smoking employees nowhere near the store) and there's Elliott Smith, leaning against the large glass storefront window (that Jon hires someone to clean at least once a month) and having a cigarette. He actually looks exactly the same as he does on the cover art of the albums, although, come to think of it, it wasn't that long ago when he committed suicide.

I'm probably filling in more details than actually occurred in the dream since I remember the dream being much shorter than it probably takes to write/read this. But anyway, Elliott explains that his record company randomly thought this "win a date with..." was a good idea and he actually went along with it just for the hell of it. He thought Danielle was cool, but not really his type. I just nod and shrug, almost uncharacteristically laconic considering if I had actually met Elliott Smith (and he were still alive), I would probably be going all annoying fangirl on him. For the most part, we just lean against the window, smoking and not saying much of anything.

Right before I wake up, he finishes his cigarette, crushes it on the pavement and walks away. My first thought as my radiator rudely wakes me is, "Holy shit. I just had a smoke with Elliott Smith."

I sort of got married...over the internet. I got better though!

For a little context, Jake is my pseudofacebookboyfriend. Yes, that is all one word. I'm pretty sure it will be in the dictionary someday. Perhaps not Merriam Webster will take it, but I'll write my own damn dictionary to accomodate it...damnit.

Anyway, we were talking about the usual mindless repetitive tasks of temp work, writing and losing sleep. This is the end result of one of our mad conversations. That's right, I somehow managed to get married over teh internets.

[18:07] Jake: well
[18:07] Jake: it's bedtime once again
[18:07] Me: ok
[18:07] Me: I won't deprive you of sleep.
[18:08] Me: I've got to get to writing this batshit crazy ending anyway...
[18:09] Jake: both are important
[18:09] Me: indeed
[18:09] Me: :tucks you in and gets you a glass of warm milk...but keeps the cookie:
[18:13] Jake: hey
[18:13] Jake: that's my cookie
[18:13] Jake: i theory
[18:14] Jake: i guess that's presumptuous of me
[18:14] Me: ok...fine...:gets you another cookie:
[18:14] Me: :takes a bite out of it before handing it to you:
[18:14] Me: hm...better be careful...you never know which cultures recognize food sharing as a sort of marriage ritual...
[18:15] Jake: sometimes a cookie is a commitment
[18:15] Me: indeed
[18:15] Me: :offers you choice of cookie with bite taken out of it and whole cookie that has nuts in it:
[18:17] Jake: hurm
[18:17] Jake: i have to go with nuts
[18:17] Me: ha! it was a trick
[18:17] Me: there was a bite taken from beneath the cookie
[18:17] Me: ha! now we're married according to someone's arbitrary ritual
[18:18] Me: (all it means is that you can't marry anyone else unless you reimburse me with a cow or something)
[18:18] Me: haha
[18:18] Me: so sweet! I get a free cow!
[18:18] Jake: okay
[18:18] Jake: or a free me
[18:18] Me: that works too
[18:18] Jake: well, a cookie isn't really free
[18:18] Jake: everything has its price
[18:18] Me: it is if you steal them
[18:18] Jake: right
[18:19] Me: (or steal the ingredients from orphans)
[18:19] Jake: haha
[18:19] Jake: you've got it all figured out
[18:19] Me: but not the ending of this book
[18:20] Me: (or how you're going to sleep with these weird ideas in your head of how we're apparently married now)
[18:20] Jake: haha
[18:20] Me: this conversation has to get posted somewhere (I'll put it in my blog or something)
[18:22] Jake: nice
[18:22] Jake: i'll sleep quite comfortably i think
[18:22] Jake: nice and warm
[18:22] Me: especially after the warm milk and inadvertent marriage cookie
[18:22] Me: good for you...I miss being warm
[18:22] Me: you know what, screw it, I'm getting in that bed with you. it's too cold in my apartment for me to finish my novel.
[18:23] Jake: i'm into long underwear now in a big way
[18:23] Me: ah...I like the flannel jammies, but I'm going to have to invest in the longjohns again
[18:24] Jake: i only ever wore them skiing but now i put them on when i get home from work
[18:24] Jake: they're so comfortable
[18:24] Me: ah
[18:24] Me: well, either way, move over. I'm getting in.
[18:25] Jake: gladly
[18:25] Me: just know that while you're all snuggly and asleep, some part of my brain is there with you while the rest of me shivers over my laptop and tries to end this novel once and for all
[18:26] Jake: good luck!
[18:26] Jake: you can do it!
[18:26] Jake: have a good night
[18:26] Me: g'night
[18:26] Me: and tanks
[18:26] Me: *thanks

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.

I am a bad daughter

This is just something I wrote, tongue-planted-firmly-in-cheek concerning my relationship with my parents/writing. It's probably been done before, but I still like the idea.

Parents, do not let your children grow up to be writers. No matter how much love, money, or love thinly veiled as money you could throw at them, they will inevitably hate you. This is only because they are "supposed to" hate you. After both you and they are dead, scholars and others who you had never even passed on the street while still alive will speculate numerous abuses and neglectfulness on your part that helped fuel their self-destruction as well as their edge-of-madness brilliance. That is, if your child's work is even worth such notice at all.

You could even be supportive, understanding enough to the point of offering your home "for the time being" during their post-graduation/drop-out doldrums. Of course, this does not fuel rugged dreams of individualism or glamorous self-reliance. Doing the laundry in the basement of one's parents is hardly something to write home about, especially when still living at home. If
you ever want to see or hear from your children in their 20's to 30's, make sure the notion of writing professionally never so much as flashes through their minds at an earlier age.

Even when they're in college, expect listening to mechanized automated answering services over the actual sound of your child's voice. If you have a son, expect him to run around with loose women, drink alone and have a few experimental dalliances which may or may not result in the discovery he is homosexual or bisexual. Even if such dalliances do not occur, be certain that the scholars will speculate on that matter anyway. Do not ever expect to meet any significant others since there are many of the insignificant one-night or three-month sort, but none to take as seriously as his work. If you replace "work" with "drinking, alienating others, and not giving a shit," it makes more sense.

If you have a daughter, expect about the same thing. She will take up smoking as a teenager, but not really be addicted since she only does it socially to be "connected with the other artist-types who have no time to bother with cooking to the point where they solely sustain themselves on coffee or tea and cigarettes with a bit of drinking and pot smoking if they need to "balance" their stimulant diet with occasional sleep(ing around). It goes without saying that she will never bring home "a nice boy" because she knows none. In fact, her relationships, should she choose to become "involved" will be tumultuous and occasionally violent (on her part, resulting in flying half-empty bottles of vodka) and she will learn to hate any man who so much as looks at her. Do not be surprised if she realizes she is a lesbian.

After awhile, the binaries will not apply to your children. Boys in tight jeans and long hair, girls with close crops and large overcoats, they switch clothes as often as they switch beds.

"But what of the writing?" you may ask. After moving across country to get away from you and the monotonous bourgeois ideals of your society, they will have to support themselves somehow so as to raise the shackles of middle-class obligation from their wrists. Rejection letter after rejection letter will arrive. A few acceptances with drastic editorial changes will come rarely, but the "published" work will still feel unfinished and ultimately unsatisfying, especially considering the meager scraps awarded for all the toil which went in it.

Sometimes the writer will be discouraged, allowing his or her creative mind to be stifled so as not to go completely mad in their banal day job. After this full-out dejection, they will drink themselves into a stupor to the point where "maybe in a few months, I could be promoted to assistant manager" will be a comforting thought. Then they will stay out less, stop hanging out with their compatriots who resent them for "selling out" (but still anxiously wait the checks from their parents to clear at the bank so they can go pay off their bar tabs). Even worse yet, they may decide that existence is no longer an option and that razorblades, pills and guns are cheaper than playing out the farce of their life. More often than not though, your children will probably fall into a monotonous routine of work, eating and sleeping.

Perhaps then, they will finally come home for Christmas with a nice man or woman they met from work or on some random mundane chance meeting, buy a house and settle down somewhere outside the city they had hoped would foster their creativity. Even if they still write and somehow eventually sustain themselves with it, they will have become exactly like you. In the end, isn't that the greatest tragedy of all?

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.