What are you doing for New Years?

I admit it: I have no clue what I want to do for New Years. And I know more than a few people in the same boat. We all have a fall back party (or two) but whatever we really want we’re certainly not saying it, doing it or believing it’s really going to happen.

Frankly I find New Years even more wrapped in pressure and hype than Valentine’s Day. Valentine’s Day; if you’re single, well, none of your single friends throw parties and frankly your partnered friends aren’t doing anything nearly as exciting as you’re imagining. New Years; “So, what are you doing? What are you doing? What are you doing?”

I’ve enjoyed New Years maybe once. 2002. Went to a party on a whim where my friend Bryan DJ’d. Exchanged wise-ass comments with a cute guy while watching a terrible bad. Found a helmet and crowned the cute guy the king of 2002. Spent the rest of the night on the roof of a gas station talking to said cute guy. He lived in SF, I didn’t; perfection.

And the three times I’ve been in relationships over New Years? The first always had to work up at the mountain. The second, over the big one, 2000, he spent in California and I spent in Washington. And the third left me at home to go to a party he announced he was going to at about 8 pm.

So, what am I doing for New Years? Going to a really great fall back party. Or for some really great soup at a friend’s house at midnight. Or a midnight hike with a bunch of strangers. Or ditching it all, renting Waiting to Exhale and spending the night at home with my phone off.

What are you doing for New Years?

Saddam.

They say the execution of Saddam Hussein will take place before 10 p.m. EST.

James Brown wake at the Apollo wraps up. The casket of Gerald Ford arrives in Washington this weekend.

Gerald Ford whose death released his true stance on this war.

They will make movies of this some day. The death of this man, these men. How we sent the leader of a country to the gallows before a victor emerged. If ever there is a victor in these things. How we lauded the great democratization of a nation and then afforded its citizens none of the process that notion implies.

Time for a New Year.

You're Looking At Country

Yes, everything is bigger here, I think every time I cross the border. Not because anything becomes, instantaneously, bigger or greener or colder. More, perhaps, because even the speed limit – the Portland 55 becoming the ‘Welcome to Washington' 60 then the 70 all the way to Oly – quickly accelerates, propelling you back into the bigness of it.

I am writing a new book entitled You Know You’re in the Country When… ; as in, you know you’re in the country when you pass the first ‘Archery House’ shop, you know you’re in the country when the first major town requiring a reduced speed zone lasts for less than a minute, you know you’re in the country when you remember why your love for "You’re Looking at Country" is not ironic. When you remember, you learned to drive on a dirt highway hugged by the rocky canyons of an Idaho sunset. When you remember that you and your high school sweetheart used to take clandestine rolls in the hay in your neighbor’s hay shed.

The mountains humble me.

But, this is not a country house. Do not be fooled by the elk skull by the front door, however authentically found on the riverbed that summer by your cousin. You will only find one dog here, literally rusty and bought in a gallery in Sun Valley. Do not be fooled by the towering river rock fireplace; notice the cord of firewood from the tree they took down stacked bare and wet in the rain. No, this is not a country house.

I wished I had the shotgun – the country shotgun – twice while in the country. Once while walking the dog at dusk. For this is the only time I truly want a gun; in the country with the dog with the very real probability of meeting a cougar or bear. And once after I forgot to remove my wellies before entering the house. He found a speck of mud and immediately went for the broom. Upon retiring that night I had the sudden urge to break the willful ignorant silence. I wanted to show them a real mess. I wanted to imagine what that would do to their country beige carpet, country sage walls, country oak furnishings.

I’m drawn to the North like a magnet. And then repelled just as forcefully. I flip off road signs driving North than East. I flip off road signs driving West but not South. As I drive South relief pours over me like an embrace. Both are home. But I appreciate the choice more and more.

What my friends and I really do at parties

"Pigs In Paradise"

How I feel about finals, my "A" paper, Christmas and 17 credits next term...

Scent

Scent is a funny thing. I just spent my requisite dawdling time at New Seasons gauging the accuracy of a myriad of bottles promising, among other things, the scent of childhood dreams, allure, moonlight and clarity.
I keep a trifle thing in a box to remember less for the thing and more for the way it still smells of him, miraculously; his laundry detergent or skin or pocket. I rarely open the box for fear the smell will dissipate a bit with each opening. I know the thing may smell more of the box than him but that is the way I remember.
French parfumeur Thierry Mugler recently launched a limited edition of scents based on the novel “Perfume” with fifteen scents mimicking everything from a baby’s skin to a virgin’s. Human Existence includes the essence of rare cheeses. Orgie emits chocolate as well as molecules mimicking sweat and sperm. For $700, you can smell all this, along with the Scent of Paris in 1738 and much more.
Ah, but there are things you would pay much more to smell again, aren’t there? Scent; the most overlooked sense. You forget it and then, all at once, it comes back to you, floods your nostrils and constricts your heart before your mind can catch up with the memory.

Incoherent Playlist

Sometimes my playlists make no sense whatsoever. Ask anyone who was subjected to "You're Looking at Country" alongside "River Deep, Mountain High" this week (ok, that makes a lot of sense if you actually know me).
"Danny's Song," Anne Murray, The Best...So Far. By the way, the album title cracks me up.
"I Want You," Bob Dylan, Blond On Blond. Wow, that album title cracks me up too.
"Beast of Burden," Stones.
"I Will Always Love You (Original Version)," Dolly Parton, The Essential Dolly Parton.
"Don't Cry," GNR, Lose Your Illusion. I love Axl, but I think he lost more than his illusion when he made this album.
"Hole In My Soul," Aerosmith, Nine Lives.
"Dream On," Aerosmith, A Little South of Sanity. Why is Aerosmith so damn sweet? Even though Steven Tyler is such a cheeseball?
"What It Takes," Aerosmith, Pump (remastered). I fuckin' love this song.
"Always On My Mind," Elvis, The Country Side of Elvis. This is a great song.
"Blue Moon," Elvis, Elvis Presley.
"Bridge Over Troubled Water," Elvis, Heart and Soul.
"Can't Help Falling In Love" Elvis, Elvis Presley and The Jordanaires.
"You Got It," Roy Orbison, Anthology. One thing I really hate about a lot of Orbison tracks is the music is so awful but his vocals are SO AMAZING. Like, "I Drove All Night" is such an amazing song, but the cheesy music (not melody, just effects) kill it.
"Love Hurts," Roy Orbison, Crying (bonus track).

What they really teach us in law school

"In a bilateral contract (a promise for promise) there's no consideration for the promise of A if the return promise of B is illusory in nature. The contract is unenforceable: A had a free way out, B was tied and bound without any definite guarantee of consideration."

I've had to study this particular gem about 20 times in the last 3 years and the deeper moral implications only just occurred to me. It's an interesting little piece of Dogma, isn't it? I don't quite know what to think about it.

Lone Tree

This is my Christmas present.

My Grandmother took it: she became a photographer late in life. She titled it “Lone Tree.” When she died, we scattered her ashes by that tree. And when her husband Lyman died, 16 years later, we scattered his ashes there with hers.

The Cemetery Pictures Never Fail to Entertain me.

The Dancing Bear

I don’t like dreams sometimes. I’m not talking hopes and aspirations: if you want to stick a daily affirmation on a post-it note and dream a little dream, go for it. I’m talking all the latent, subconscious, inner workings of the psyche unleashed by sleep.
Now, when did we all learn that dreams had to mean something?
Last night, for instance, my date wanted me to wear a stolen bear costume all night for escapades around town in his RV. What the fuck is that supposed to mean? That I like costume sex? That I’m a closeted furry? That I once had to wear a bear costume while working at Mrs. Field’s in high school? That my impression of people in bear costumes was forever warped by my manager Debby having sex with her boyfriend in the back room on top of said bear costume?
Jesus Christ. This is exhausting. I think I should go back to sleep.
No. This is so important. This is Freud reading the Di Vinci bird dream. All my desires will be revealed. Why do I see myself as a bear? Why do I see myself as a bear?
Does it matter that I could take my head off while I was in the bear costume? Does it matter that the zipper to the bear costume broke? That I could be unzipped? That I was taking dance lessons before I put on the costume in the dream? Does that make me a dancing bear? Does that make me RUSSIAN?
Email all dream interpretations to the proprietor. And remember, no one wants to hear about your dreams: unless you’re telling someone they were in your dream, you’re just boring the shit out of them.

I Love Traffic

I love traffic. No, really; I love traffic, so much so that sometimes I get in my car with a good mix CD and a cup of coffee and set out for a good hour of bumper to bumper thinking. I did this two nights ago, in fact, for a steady two hours of grid lock; just me, some good Soul tunes and the city of Portland all around me.
I traveled West across the Sellwood Bridge then North down Macadam towards I5 for the evening pilgrimage back to Washington. Within 10-minutes my right foot trembled and quaked doing the first gear rock. And all around me; concrete, steel, arcs of grey and white and blue cut the glare of the setting sun. I felt so happy, so content, I thought ‘God, if you took me now I’d be OK with that, I would.’
Traffic stands still where 99 meets 5 kissing the East River blocks. And this is what I truly love about traffic; watching everyone. Hundreds of drivers, all going the same place, the same way, at the same pace. Hundreds of expressions, reactions – singing, frowning, happy, smiling, swearing, gesturing, blissful, indignant, patient, cell phone talking, nose-picking, wistful – all with the same outcome. Each driver an island with their own soundtrack insulated in their own little cell yet each pull forward sets off a chain of events affecting everyone on the ride. One idiot picks the wrong lane and the flow stops. One tired mother falls asleep at the wheel and ten cars collide.
I exited at 302b/Swann Island and circled West to the City. Onto Burnside, the esophagus of Portland, the festering mainline cutting North from South. A gamble; constant construction, bridge open? bridge closed?
You can tell a lot about a person by how they drive. Do they stop for pedestrians at crosswalks? Do they leave intersections open? Do they alternate where lanes merge or selfishly skip turns?
Back to the Eastside. A nice drive.

Almost worth the wait.

Just one of the more notable things Shelley and I have seen while sitting in the waiting room of Planned Parenthood before my stupid all things cervical appointments (Shelley gets equal credit for this one, for being there and appreciating the hilarity of the situation):
A woman talks loudly on her earphone cell. She’s telling her friend about adoption and paternity tests while pacing around.
First she says something like, “Yeah, I mean, when we applied for adoption we’d been married for something like two years, according to the state.”
Then she says, “you can tell them you want to name your kid Bill Fucking Clinton if you want to.”
Next, she’s explaining to her friend how she’s at Planned Parenthood for an STD test: “they make you fill out this questionnaire so I lied and said I’d been with a bunch of guys and never use condoms.”
And then, here’s the kicker, “I don’t know, I’m in this waiting room right now, this place is kind of weird.”

What I love about 3d year finals

Here's what I love about being a 3d year law student:
(1) You understand damn near everything without having to pay attention.
(2) Since you understand damn near everything you read damn near nothing.
Here's what I hate about being a 3d year law student:
(1) When finals come around you realize you've read damn near nothing.
(2) You've got one week to figure out if you really understand damn near everything.

Soundtrack to my western pure language roadtrip.

After I post this I will go to bed and take a fake road trip to Sun Valley where I will listen to the following songs during afternoon hikes up rocky hillsides and talk to no one for an entire week excepting other forms of communication such as pure language via eye contact, back to back sleep osmosis and a unique form of ESP you can actually believe in. Just so you know.
(1) "Portland, Oregon." Loretta Lynn: Van Lear Rose.
(2) "Don’t Look Back In Anger." Oasis: (What’s the Story) Morning Glory.
(3) "Melissa." The Allman Brothers: The Allman Brothers.
(4) "When the Stars Go Blue." Ryan Adams: Gold.
(5) "Come Here Boy." Imogen Heap: I Megaphone.
(6) "Winter Killing." Stina Nordenstam: The World Is Saved.
(7) "9 Crimes." Damien Rice: 9.
(8) "Bizarre Love Triangle." Casual: Casual.
(9) "Samson." Regina Spektor: Begin to Hope.
(10) "Halah." Mazzy Star: She Hangs Brightly.
(11) "Don’t Think Twice, It’s All Right." Bob Dylan: The Freewheelin’ Bob Dylan.
(12) "Carolina." M. Ward: End of Amnesia.
(13) "Say Yes." Elliott Smith: Either/Or.

keep walking

We walked the snow walk, the snow dance, all the way down the esplanade and I wanted to walk until the cold penetrated mylungsmyhearteverymoleculemyblood and froze me until some warm spring day comes with the first camellia. We walked by the river, past the church I walked by as a daycare child where we pretend marry her, down the dock I’ve never walked lining a beach I haven’t returned to since I watched the dock with a boy the place we sat now knee deep in river. We tracked the clouds and stomped the puddles and tested the crispness of the leaves and mud and little blades of grass. We stopped and listened to the crisp rustle of the wind through the brittle leaves and for a moment I felt almost better than the twenty times a day I secretly close my eyes while walking while driving a little bit longer each time.
When is the last time you kissed? No, a real kiss?
When is the last time you loved? No, really loved?
When is the last time you felt truly known? The last time you felt truly seen? Without saying a goddamn thing?
Fuck if I know.

the things we'd say.

“What if we had a week of honesty?” Shelley asks. And we talk about all of the things, unsaid things, we’d say and who we wish we could be honest with.
The longer your friendships last, you see, the harder – the infinitely harder – it becomes to wade through the motions of getting to know anyone new. All the stories and the history assumed known are unknown and is it even worth the effort when too often you wonder if these people – these new people – give a damn or will even stick around? Honesty, too rarely given, too rarely appreciated, too rarely earned.
We walk a rainy walk and talk the Portland talk necessarily the Portland v. Washington talk and in our disparaging love Portland in that way that love breaks your heart. Yet Portland’s a cruel love; no mountains or ocean or anything so much bigger than you to carry you away when you get too carried away.
Oh, the things we’d say.

Putting the fun back into dysfunctional

This one goes down in the Mom Hall of Fame. She sent me a card today saying she hates to leave town without talking to me/just wanted to say she loves me/etc. Which is very sweet.

The quote on the front of the card says, "Chance makes our relatives. Choice makes our friends." (Jacques Delille)

I love this woman.

Proof that Dylan really isn't always such a spaz.

It's like water...but minty.

Not much to say other than I’ve discovered spearmint flavored water and I can’t decide whether I love it or feel I’m drinking mouthwash. Is innovation dead? Sometimes I wonder what’s left to market, really. There’s damn near nothing you can sell me at this point that I actually need. Except VitaminWater.
Oh, and I’m pretty sure I’ve run into every person I’ve been missing and out of touch with for the last couple years in the span of one weekend. Creepy and wonderful and a bit overwhelming but great.
I’ll have to get back to you on this whole minty-water thing.

What I'm Listening To

No playlist for now. Getting used to Damien Rice's new album 9: came out Tuesday, check it out (and if you still haven't heard the guy, start with O). Also ended up buying all of The Best of Blur because it's the only way to get "Tenderness" and I have to admit I was a fickle Blur fan, they lost me after Parklife and the later self-titled Blur.
By the way, free cookies or gratitude or whatever to the first person who can tell me if there was a 90's band called The Squirrels or if they know who sang a song with a "where did you go?" chorus that had a verse something like, "and you were happy/as a clown/dancing around in your new 501's (where did you go?)." Because I'm constantly searching for this song, can never find it and I highly suspect it's not as good as my memories of listening to it on college radio in, like, 1994 are. So, help me get over it already. Then we can sort out the song I always think is by Built to Spill but can never find (bring back the words....).

Democrat my ass.

This just in: Lieberman now wants us to call him an "Independant Democrat." Yep.

I Love Gibbons

Sometimes I feel like a Gibbon in a world full of chimps. But then I remember, "fuck that! I'm a mother fucking Gibbon!" And I feel all better. Yep. Just look at that hot male Gibbon up there.

A real flood.

This week the Cowlitz River rose and completely flooded the vacation home of two close friends of our family. In the span of a weekend, the water rose to the height of their chimney and they lost everything. By Monday, the river washed over the highways into the small town of Packwood, where my mother and her boyfriend also own a home, and residents could only enter or leave by helicopter. Our friend’s father built their home and they have lost not just a home but over 50 years of memories. This weekend they will try to find a way back to their condemned garage to recover the last remnants.
Talking to my Mom, though, we had to acknowledge this was no Katrina. These are our second homes, after all, our little big cabins in the little ski town next to the mountain. While our friends went to see what was left they stood in a grocery store next to people who had truly lost everything; cars, homes, land. Pretty humbling.
Crazy.

You might not want to read this if you have a penis.

Dear Every Man Who Just Wants to Get Laid,
Why do men who just want to get laid go through courtship rituals? Of course you want to get laid: we all want to get laid on some level. But if all you want is a fuck, a lay, a roll in the hay then why not own it? By using courtship as a tool to get in a girl’s pants you really only lessen your chances of getting any. First, believe it or not, we can tell when you like us and when you just like our pussys. Second, you’re creating expectations (and headaches) you never wanted in the first place. And finally, haven’t you figured out that girls only like boys who don’t like them? You’d be much better off admitting you just want to get fucked in the first place: we girls love to futilely try to prove you wrong on that point and do you in the process.
And since you got me started, what’s with the whole courtship thing anyway; the text-messaging, the rapid fire emails, the sweet nothings? You do that and you’re just paving the way for the memory of “the way you used to be when we first met.” What’s with the bullshit fantasy? I don’t want some weird super-interested version of you. Can’t we just skip to the part where I nag you if you don’t call the nano-second you get off work, you don’t pretend to care about my “problems,” I don’t pretend to care about your “ideas” and we admit we’d rather stay in and rent a movie? At least then we’re both getting laid by someone who knows how we like it, right?
Sincerely,
Every girl who’s laid there, done that and wants more

Or maybe "Wet Nose, Warm Heart"!

You know you love your dog when you have a pair of jeans permanently hanging on a hook to dry because he will get a real walk, rain or shine, whether he likes the rain or not. Speaking of which, isn’t it sad that I would probably make more money off a book of bullshit phrases like that one entitled You Know You Love Your Dog When… than I ever will as a second rate lawyer? I could even put out bumper stickers just like that god awful Dog Is My Copilot book everyone assumes you want for Christmas when you have a dog. A word to the wise: just because someone has a dog, even an annoyingly cute dog some people might like to dress up, doesn’t mean that that person wants a feel good book about how pet ownership saved their soul or another pug calendar. Not that I know anyone like that.

GUUUUUUUUUHLP!

You know how you get to that point in a relationship where someone’s cute little quirks turn into fingernails on a chalkboard? Well, last night my boyfriend, Anderson Cooper, and I were hanging out about 7 p.m., as we do, and I noticed something about him for the first time that irritates the shit out of me! He started talking about something (he’s sort of loquacious) oh so passionately and quickly, something I love about him.
And then I heard it; little gaspy gulps for air like a little dying fish between every pause in his rapid fire sentences: With six days left until the elections will Kerry’s botched joke cost the Dems the house – GUUUUUUHLP – Bush makes a show of confidence for Rumsfield but is it genuine or an election ploy – GUUUHLP- Are polygamists training pit bulls to join their church in an effort to bring down monogamy – GUUUUUUUUULHHHHP????
Anderson and I have been through a lot. My flirtation with Dan Abrahms. His struggles as a closeted reporter. His failure to understand why I’m not ready to join the army of the silver foxes at age 26. But now? I want to believe we’ll get through this. I really do. But I expected more from him.

there - 't' = here

There are days when being there is the hardest part (and by there I mean here, as in there minus the ‘t’ = here, or even more apt, shuffle the letters about, add a ‘b’ and ‘a’ and you’ve got how hard it is to breathe). The day when you wake up and every moment out the door is a compromise, a struggle not to just stay home. We do not congratulate each other enough for simply leaving the warmth of our beds, our homes that are really what we think about returning to most the day most days after all.
And then on these days the hardest part, it seems, is finding any space. The world seems to close in on you making the there, and the here and the breathing part even less a triumph. I went outside to breathe in that way smokers breathe counter intuitively and found myself sitting with an arc of five people standing within five feet of me. I tried to remember separateness is an illusion, we are all connected, I looked at the leaves of a tall maple kissing a fir tree and thought about molecules and the blanket (this blanket is the universe, and here is a war, and here is an orgasm, etc). But all my atoms just seemed to repel their atoms and I sat there doing nothing but trying to stop my atoms from screaming at their atoms and wishing but not wishing I had Tourette’s.
But then to contradict myself I don’t really want to be there either, home in total separateness. It’s the sort of day when you want other people to become complicit in your not being wherever you’re supposed to be.

Do you need a companion to feel complete?

“Do you think you need a companion to feel complete?” someone asked me tonight.
I think he asked a really good question. I wonder what other people think. I don’t know if I need a companion to feel complete. But I know I want one. And I can’t explain why. If I want one do I need one?
Why do we want love? Why do we look for love? In wanting and looking for love do we acknowledge some hole within ourselves? Can we be whole people without love?
”Love is all you need,” sang the Beatles. But, “What’s love got to do with it?” asked Tina Turner.
All I know is that even when I feel so happily single there are nights I imagine feeling someone’s back against me as I fall asleep. I guess “everybody needs somebody sometime.”

More reasons why I'm so happily single.

My favorite MySpace messages from this week:

“hey you look awesome!
you know any girls who would be willing to kick me in the balls for fun?”

“do u have any pics of ur barefeet?”

And this one's so good I had to come back and add it...

Subject line: "Closet Freak?"
"hey would you wanna meet up wit a athletic 18 yr old in lake oswego.. i have a thing women that are older than me.. Give it a shot... im on that very right in my pics"

OK, I have to go kick some athletic 18 year old guys in the nuts with my bare feet now.

You give germphobia a bad name.

Riddle me this. Why do the same germphobics who feel the need to use toilet seat liners so often inconsiderately leave them on the seat (usually without flushing the toilet either, because then they’d have to touch the goddamn handle) when they’re done? I can somewhat understand the fear of your ass coming into contact with other people’s ass-germs. But can you not touch the paper you just left your own ass-germs on and flush it down the toilet? Oh, I forgot, you can’t touch the handle: it’s laden with germs. Here’s a thought; toss the liner in the bowl and use your foot to flush the toilet. Jesus people. I mean, I don’t have a problem using a public restroom but I’m sure as hell not going to flush your liner and waste for you you dirty little germphobic you.

It's coming down, down, down.

Fall, fall, fall. I sit at law school surrounded by windows overlooking trees and damp grey sky. A crash of thunder just rolled overhead for the first time I can remember in the longest time.
I finally figured my woodstove out this week and now I really feel like I live in a cabin. Quiet nights at home with the fire going, sitting on the porch at night smelling the smoke mix with the rain all perfect for curling up with a good book.
Winter of our content.
It’s true. This weather instills a desire to gather round the fireplace with friends and drink, drink, drink ourselves silly listening to good music.
The rain’s really coming down now. That’s what the boy who just walked by said to me, after all.
It’s coming down, down, down. Is that a song? I likes the rainy day songs. Rain makes it’s own songs these days too.

Panda Cam

Leah posted this first. It will never get old. Everyone needs it. May I present:

PANDA CAM!

Love Thy Neighbor

Yesterday I walked out of my house and all of the leaves on the sidewalk in front of my house had disappeared. They had not gone with the wind; they had most definitely gone with a “helpful” neighbor’s rake. A very helpful neighbor, at that, for the sidewalk spanning my house reaches a good 40 feet and a massive persimmon tree, indiscriminate pine as well as two maples with thousands of tiny beige leaves arch over the walk.
My neighbor’s “helpful” act enraged and confused me.
The state of my sidewalk was no different from many of the houses I see on my nightly dog walks and better than two houses across the street.
Were my neighbor’s helping or making a subtle hint? Was my sidewalk pissing them off? Did they decide they would just do something about it? In a way, that is easier than going through the discomfort of bringing it up with me.
All the same, I can’t imagine doing another’s yard work without some sort of conversation. Living in an urban neighborhood we all navigate subtle yet vital boundaries. Invisible boundaries that somehow maintain both our sense of community while respecting our sense of privacy (even when there’s often very little noise or space filter between us).
At the same time, I may be all worked up when in reality my neighbor was just really psyched to use his new leaf blower/vacuum.

Will Walk for Beer

I love my neighborhood but hate the transportation issues. What I really mean is GOOD FUCKING LORD I HAVE TO THINK SO HARD ABOUT GOING OUT I ALMOST DON’T HAVE ANY ENERGY LEFT TO LEAVE THE HOUSE. Tonight for instance, I’m meeting friends a whopping 3.8 miles from here. And the questions begin:
Should I drive? What if I want to drink? What if they’ve all got their bikes? Could I walk 3.8 miles in the next hour? Do I feel like running in a plaid skirt and boots? Should I take the bus? Shit, takes 66 minutes to get 3.8 miles by bus, that’s crap! Take a cab? Oh, I’ve been meaning to put the cab numbers in my phone. What if I don’t like the cab driver? What if I do take a cab, get totally shit faced and then don’t want to interact with the cab driver? What if I drive, don’t think I want to drink but then watch my friends drink and realize I WANT MORE THAN ONE GODDAMN DRINK FOR ONCE (like last Sunday night, for example)?
See, this is just too exhausting. I need to move my butt back downtown or at least closer in South East. If I can’t walk home drunk I’m just not sure I can handle the decision making.

Prokofieff Kills the Squirrel

I stepped out onto my porch yesterday afternoon and happily noticed “my” two squirrels chirping away in the persimmon tree. Then, as I settled into my chair, a sudden thump too loud for a persimmon and a grey-brown streak of fur hits the ground. A second like a minute passes before I hear the squealing and the struggling realizing my cat Prokofieff fell from the tree with a squirrel trapped beneath him. I take too long to shout “NO!” jump from my chair, stomp my feet and try to scare Prokofieff off the squirrel. Finally, I shout or stamp loud enough and the squirrel runs away into the neighbors’ yard. And Prokofieff runs right after him.
Every thirty seconds, it seems, I hear a horrible, unnatural trilling screech or squeak. At first I scream “NO! NO! NO!” And then I give into the guilt. For I have not managed to save the squirrel I have only prolonged his death with my cruel hero fantasy.
The logical part of my brain tried to appreciate what a wonderful day this was for Prokofieff. Prokofieff runs up that tree everyday. To somehow run up the tree, pounce on a squirrel and get both the squirrel and himself to the ground for the kill was quite a feat. But there's something unsettling about it: they’re too evenly matched yet not equally matched at all. The second squirrel watched from the tree frantically chirping the entire time.
I told Prokofieff he was an evil killer for the remainder of the day. I wondered how I would ever let him back into my bed again. I forgave him. But, it will never be the same. I’m living with a homicidal maniac.

Crazy talks crazy.

So, tomorrow I give my seminar on mentally ill children. Why did I think this was a good idea? I’m pretty afraid of what’s going to come out of my mouth. Either it’ll be bloody brilliant or I’ll say something that will get me sued for Intentional Infliction of Emotional Distress (they’ll lose on the mental state).
I’m reminded of the sage advice my friend Rebekka’s dad gave her and her brother when he took them to a dance at the school where he taught developmentally disabled kids: “Now, don’t you two act like a couple of fuckin’ retards tonight!”
Yep.

Swell photos to use for your Holiday Cards!

Just a few of the FIFTY ONE (fifty one jpegs in one email, I kid you not) pictures of the cemetery my mom sent me yesterday:

Outside today, the City of Portland cuts down summer one overgrown branch at a time; the branches that tickle your windshield as you drive down the street, the branches that hint at snapping with the first wind, the branches that make you duck as you walk down the sidewalk. They saw away at each offending branch then thrust the remains through a compactor.

The temperatures remained in the high 70’s this week. Hard to believe the rain will come. Hard to believe there’s a snow emergency in NY.

Down the street, the movie on the marquee finally changed. The reminder of the last film of summer, the one we could’ve seen but didn’t see, leaves.

They saw away and, yes, I actually wonder if this constitutes a taking. A substantial portion of that tree’s root structure was on our property! There goes the screen between my neighbors’ and my house. There goes your hand holding back the branches. There goes the measure of my height where I need not duck.

Funny how sometimes the weather just happens and sometimes we try to shape the seasons.

Christmas tree umbrellas.

Last night I dreamed I got to give Christmas trees to kids whose families couldn’t afford them. They were extra special Christmas trees with candy cane trunks so they sort of looked like Christmas tree umbrellas. I think that would be kind of delightful for a child; an umbrella that looked like a Christmas tree on top with a candy-striped handle. When my alarm went off I felt so happy I hit snooze because I wanted to go back to giving the kids their trees. But the dream was done. Sigh.

How do we define the Foley "wrong"?

The Foley scandal just gets more and more interesting. If the age of consent in D.C. is 16, the question becomes did Foley engage in a legal "wrong"? A moral "wrong"? Does the difference matter? If so, does it depend who’s attacking his behavior? And, if he didn’t commit any legal wrong, in what capacity were the Republican leadership complicit in his behavior?
From where I sit even if there’s no legal “wrong” in hitting on a 16 year old – and I don’t give a shit if it’s a 16 year old boy or girl – there’s a definite ick factor given Foley’s age and position of power. But, with the legal consequences removed, can we really distinguish his behavior from Clinton’s?
The larger question regarding corruption and accountability still troubles me. Certainly you’d think there’d be some concern about the scope of Foley’s communication and an inquiry into the age of his on-line buddies.
I just think if we’re going to hold anyone accountable for this, Republican or Democrat, we need to be very clear about what we’re holding them accountable for.

Foley Fallout

I’m as excited as any of my fellow lefties to see the Dems take back power this November, believe me. But with five weeks to go until election night I think attacking the Republican leadership on this Foley scandal could blow up in the Democratic Party’s face. Moral attacks seem generally hypocritical in the post-Clinton political climate (even though I agree that pedophilia – wherever you draw the age line – does trump private indiscretions). The larger issue, as I see it, is whether anyone believes only the Republicans had caught wind of Foley’s behavior?

Yes, I get the corruption argument. But I think the thing speaks for itself. I’m thinking the DNC shouldn’t push this too hard. The dominos are already falling, you know? Point one finger and you’ve got three more pointing back at you.

Sick day karma.

Why is it whenever you take a “sick” day you’re bound to actually get sick and need a real sick day? Damn sick day karma. No! Damn my mom and dad for having two cats named Karma and Gita when I was born!
Snuffling the day away.

Why I am so happily single

My absolute favorite personals from this week:

"What I'm looking for is simple: someone single (read: not married or in a romantic relationship with another person), sane (read: not bipolar, on head meds, currently in therapy or skipping out on it, or diagnosed with a mental illness), not into drugs, not an alcoholic, not deeply religious, 18+ Being down syndrome is also right out."

"I like to start backwards with my relationships. Instead of getting to know someone really well before we have sex. I like to have sex then get to know someone. I figure if the sex is not good for both the relationship will not go very far. Any ladies out there want to possible have some good sex and then take if from there send me a pic. If I like I will send you one in return. Worst thing that can happen is we get together have sex and then never talk again. Doen't sound that bad. Happy hunting."

"Seeking a woman who is seeking a man, but not a big social life. A woman that wants to be with a man all day affectionately, but isnt interested in going out a lot, or lots of social engagements, who just simply wants to stay with me as much as possible, something really attached physically and mentally..Someone who will be with me at every moment and not want anything else, few desires but us. In short, a woman who will live with me, walk with me to places, sleep with me, and generally be there with me without a lot of ambitious we-must-get-ahead activity."

NY fat attack

Have you heard this? The NY Health Department asked all NY restaurants to voluntarily ban trans fat rich ingredients. Now, as bad for you as trans fats may be I think this is just STUPID. I don’t think food - healthy food, not so healthy food - is the problem: I think people - NOT SO HEALTHY PEOPLE - are the problem.
I have worked (among other places) at a Mrs. Fields Cookie shop, as a baker for a chain of Seattle coffee shops and as an assistant pastry chef for Tom Douglas’s restaurants in Seattle. I know what goes into your madelines and sucre and tartes and crème brule and scones and pies. And I know, as you know, that “healthy” should not attach to certain foods. If it takes a pound of Crisco to make you a damn fine apple pie, it takes a pound of Crisco. I know, you know but would rather not know, and that’s the way it should be.
Here’s a thought NY: it’s not what people eat it’s how much they eat and how they live. How ‘bout this? Require every New Yorker to get a license to eat out. Or, have every NY Restaurant index their menus to the Body Mass Index. Waiters will wield calipers and qualify diners before taking orders. Got a healthy BMI? Then you can have the Alfredo. Unhealthy BMI? Sorry, you get the steamed fish and veggies.
Because really, I’m sure removing trans fats from restaurants will make up for all the crap New Yorkers will continue to purchase at the Grocers. And, processed foods remain one of the highest sources of trans fats.

I choose happiness

I put stock in few absolutes. Disclaimer provided, I feel more and more strongly that happiness is a choice. I won’t substantiate my belief with any sort of context. And before you disagree with me, don’t. Because I’m more than aware that anyone who doesn’t believe happiness is a choice cannot be convinced it is. It’s just a belief you come to or don’t. Believe me, there was a time when I was in the other camp.
But hey, I also put stock in the belief that people can change but only if they want to. Which is really just a more general way of saying happiness is a choice. And people feel pretty strongly on that one too (though many leave out the "if they want to" part).
So there you go.

Did you see that leaf in front of her house?

Talked to my mom last night about how I don’t understand why all my neighbors spent the weekend raking leaves. I mean, one of my neighbors actually came up to my next door neighbor last night and congratulated her on how much better her place looked since she raked. The most pressing leaf issue I know of concerns their clogging of drainage systems and the subsequent flooding of streets. Yet, none of my neighbors bothered to remove the leaves lining the street curbs in front of their houses.
As far as I’m concerned, aesthetically speaking, I enjoy seeing all the fallen leaves blowing about. But, my mother made the only valid point I’ve ever heard on the subject. The leaves will get wet if it rains and then taking care of them will be a pain in the ass.
So, having found some rational basis for the task (not to mention feeling slightly shamed into it by my neighbors) I set to work raking my leaves this morning.
I have to admit, I felt ever so industrious. And amused that anyone could ever stretch such a simple task into even an hour-long activity (anyone with less than half an acre). I started missing simple little things I used to do on the farm or working as a gardener in the cemetery.
I still haven’t a clue what to do about all the persimmons falling about the sidewalk. But, later this week, I think I will take care of the leaves in front of my curb. And perhaps shame my neighbors into doing the same with theirs.

Call it Fall

All at once, Fall; how do the seasons change so quickly? They don’t, I suppose. They just seemed to change differently this year. Record high temperatures sapped the trees by late July and leaves fell prematurely. Green bleached to beige long before the remnants began the turn to redsorangespurples. And so the shift seems less subtle. Call it El Niño. Call it what you will. Suddenly, seemingly, rain pours down and temperatures plummet. Call it Fall.
As in grinning ear to ear while puddle jumping in a downpour walk with the dog. Hearing the wind whip through the window. Glistening drops hanging from each leaf of a tree. Stripes of daring color shouting out from a mass of trees. Horrid, muddy puddles challenging you to leap like a schoolgirl. Morning mists soft focusing even the most mundane days.
Such a literal season. As if to fall down. Fall into something, fall out of something. And just two letters away from feel. Because how can you not, really? Whether wonder, delight, depression, or whatever you’re prone to, how can you not see so much rain, so much change and not fall into feeling just a little bit more? Can you anthropomorphize the weather? If nothing else, it’s just so damn cathartic.
And I love it.

"Do you mind?"

Running late this morning and no parking in front of the coffee shop so I circle the block to get a spot in the lot. Just past 9 a.m., a line forms to the counter, everyone on their way to work, and I dutifully take my place. And then, it happens:

I hear joyful squeals and giggles as the woman in front of me greats her friend who has just come through the side door. And the latecomer turns to me as she joins her friend in line in front of me and asks – asks?, who is she kidding, this really isn’t a question – “do you mind if I join my friend and cut in front of you?”

And it’s the way I say it, I guess. Because I’m running late and because I just don’t have the energy to be a very good liar and also because this really isn’t a question.

“Sure,” I say, in a voice filled with contempt.

In a voice filled with something that makes her say, “that’s O.K., it doesn’t seem like it’s O.K. with you.”

And I’m supposed to feel rotten, horrible really, because I was supposed to say,“Oh no of course! Go right ahead!” in a voice displaying my glee for their little friendly outing. But actually, I feel pretty happy with myself. Especially after her friend turns to her and says, “here, I’ll pay for you, what do you want?” No lady, you’re not going to make me feel bad.

Here’s the thing. If you’re going to cut in line, just do it. Don’t look to me to validate your rudeness, because I won’t. And don’t try to make me feel bad for your rudeness, because I won’t. But most of all, don’t ask dumb questions. Because I’m sure as shit not going to give you a dumb answer.

Herzliche Grüße aus dem schönen Nürnberg

“Warm greetings from the beautiful Nuremberg” reads the postcard from my mother: Die Hauptstadt Frankens, an der Pegnitz gelegen, ist als Stadt des Spielzeugs, der Meistersinger und als Dürerstadt weltweit bekannt. Something about a toy-like city known worldwide?

Lost in translation, again.

I just can’t believe the first postcard my mother sent me from one of her overseas trips came from Nuremberg.

a-b=bob?!?

Found this today in a journal from about four years ago:


Aside from having no idea what the hell that "math" was all about I was beside myself when I saw the
a-b=bob equation.

Either the twelve-hour shifts working pastry did something inexplicable to my brain or this is further evidence that watching Twin Peaks a few too many times does strange, strange things to a person.

The first skipper of the term

Dear Professor So-And-So,
I regret to inform you that I will skip class tonight for the following reasons:
1. My thirty-minute hunt for parking on campus earlier today resulted in a lingering headache and homicidal urges.
2. I just learned that my favorite Italian restaurant has pulled gnocchi from the menu which I consider an insult to anyone with a reasonably decent palate.
3. The decided lack of cute guys in your class has foiled my ability to form a class crush which is the only motivational system I’ve found works to get my ass to classes. That, and even if I had pickings for a class crush it would be really hard to think about anything lurid while you went on and on about old people.
4. It’s just about to really rain in Portland for the first time this almost fall. And, it would just be too dramatic and emotionally charged to walk out of class, see the rain, get in my car, hear some Tom Waits song and deal with the sudden onset of Fall. I’d much rather eat second string Italian food and watch the rain from my porch.
Yours ever truly,
The first skipper of the term.

This is freakin' hilarious:

Bro Rape: A Newsline Investigative Report

Dear George Whatthefuck Bush,

thanks for turning your 9/11 presidential address into a ginourmous vomit inducing sell for the war in Iraq (within days of the report admitting no link between Al Qaeda and Iraq, no less) and adding yet another inch of icing on the rhetoric cake on this day of "memorial" (not an anniversary, not a celebration either)because, really, seeing three Hillary Clinton interviews in the last three hours and hearing endless debate on the "freedom" tower just wasn't enough.
Fucktard.

Play. List.

1. “This Magic Moment.” Lou Reed. Still the only notable part of Lost Highway.
2. “Out of My Head.” Fastball. In case you didn’t get the memo; Oakland, summer of 99.
3. “Back On the Chain Gang.” The Pretenders. The grind, the chain gang, “circumstance beyond our control” = never sounded so good.
4. “Here Comes Your Man.” The Pixies. I’m a big fan of comparing relationships to trains, boxcars, whathaveyou.
5. “Someone Has to Die.” Maritime. This song rules: “I don’t care if it happens in Argentina, or way up North, off the coast of Norway on an island with no name…all I know is someone has to die to make room for you and I, our love goes crazy all the time.”
6. “Beautiful Girl.” INXS. If I were living in I Heart Huckabees I’d be having a Michael Hutchence coincidence of epic proportions. First, I hear “Never Tear Us Apart” in a bar. Then, someone mentioned his death at a party. Then, my friend Kevin brought him up the next day. And then, Lucas brought him up in a blog. Oh my.
7. “Gravity Rides Everything.” Modest Mouse. Good Song.
8. “In Your Eyes.” Peter Gabriel. A college radio station played this for River Pheonix when he ODed. Did you know that the only Enquirer I ever bought was for River Pheonix’s funeral coverage?
9. “Cannonball.” Damien Rice. I got nothing.
10. “Questions.” Old 97’s. Just a sweet little song.
11. “Good Feeling.” Violent Femmes. Just time traveling.
12. “Yesterdays.” G’N’R. I love me some Guns’n’Roses.
13. “The Scientist.” Coldplay. Got stuck in my head on a dog walk and I’m trying to unstick it.
14. “Pain In My Heart.” Otis Fucking Redding. I have it on good authority his middle name really is Fucking.

Downtown Drive

I drove Shelley to work at the Art Museum today on the ruse that I needed to pick up my contacts in NW. In all truth, I knew the odds they’d be open on a Sunday were slim to none. I just wanted an excuse to drive around Downtown: I miss it.
I drove past our old terrorist attack meeting spot, remember:

We all agreed to meet on top of the circle. And then abscond to some bar or coffee shop. Now, I think we’ve all moved to SE, actually. I still want to be in a bar with you guys if anything happens. Kind of like election nights.
Anyhow. This is why I have to drive through Downtown now and then.

Save the Salmon!

Does anyone else find this really funny?

Five Years

Five years since the day Lyman died. He may be one of the few people who have really, truly seen me, understood me. He saw me long before I wanted to be seen.

They sent me down to visit him when I was maybe twelve, long after my Grandma died. On the first day of my visit, at the sandwich shop, the only one he probably ever went to, he sat across the booth and said something that really pissed me off. “My father left me too,” he said. And by day three he sat across from me at the dinner table telling me I was really, really smart and I stood across from him screaming “NO I’M NOT!!!” And by night three I laid on the guest bed hating him to the sound of Poison blaring on my headphones.

There’s the last time I saw him and the last time he saw me.

The last time I saw him, he was lying on the couch after we got him out of the hospital to die. He woke and asked, “where did the music go?” I turned the radio back on. He smiled and went back to sleep.

The last time he saw me, we went to his favorite Mexican restaurant, the only one he probably ever went to. He got progressively drunk and tried to get me drunk, typical of Lyman, given that I wasn’t yet legal and he always tried to get me into trouble. He told me he was considering suicide. Between him and I that was a pretty reasonable proposition. We went home, watched a movie, and he fell asleep about half way through.

We had to wait to hold a funeral after September 11th. I took a flight back down to California the first day the airports opened. Got into a car accident on the way to the airport. And as I walked through the terminal I thought I didn’t really give a fuck if anyone blew up the plane. Did anyone flying to a funeral that day care?

Musicgasm

Blissful happiness; this is all I need today. I have happened upon two songs I haven’t been able to find because I didn’t know their names and lumped them with the wrong artists. Love ‘em or hate ‘em, I am in love:

1. Out of My Head, Fastball. Came out the summer of 1999. I’ve always thought this was an Elvis Costello song, even though I know he went the piano bar route by then. Why do I love this song? I just remember driving around Oakland, my first summer in Oakland. I don’t think I’ve heard it since then.
2. Question, Old 97’s. Carla played this at Wimpy’s one night about a year and a half ago when Wimpy’s was still Wimpy’s. Stuck in my head since. I thought it sounded like Evan Dando or the Lemonheads. And I’ve found it!

Deep Thoughts de Tine

1. Occurred to me tonight that salsa should really either be categorized as a vegetable or a food group upon itself. A good salsa surely surpasses the “condiment” label. Although, condiments do make me happy. Salsa though, when doesn’t salsa make a meal better? Mac’n’cheese, tamales, quesadillas, eggs, potatoes. Some of my best friendships are founded around the mutual appreciation of hot sauce. Thank God for the Texas friends. They know the meaning of a good plate of juevos. And the holiness of salsa.
2. Also occurred to me that walking the dog every night is the most reliable high point of the day. Dusk. We walk just to the river and turn back. He does the most genius things. Digs, digs, digs. Kicks the ground like crazy. Charms the pants off everyone and makes me worry I’ll have to talk to people. You have to love someone a lot to handle their shit. Dear Dylan, still crazy after all these years.
3. Shelley returns tomorrow and Portland will feel a bit less “like a dumb baby some jock knocked me up with right before I got into a really good school.”
4. Finally. To the girl in the class I won’t name: I hope for your husband’s sake you shut your fucking pie-hole at home forsaking the rare times you perform certain conjugal duties because if you don’t I swear to God the poor guy's gonna end up pulling a double Van Gogh by your first anniversary.

"Don't Think Twice, It's All Right"

Ever lose something you never really had? Right now I feel I’m on both sides of that equation. There’s someone who never really had me. There’s someone I never really had. One ended terribly: one never really had a chance to begin.

This week I listen to all the goodbye songs. All the songs that should move me on. “Don’t think twice, it’s all right.” Reminders that we all get but a window to say the things we should’ve said and those words don’t usually work outside that window. Reminders also that it’s not fair to sit outside a shut window trying to read lips.

I need the one who never had me to let me go. And I’m having a hard time letting go of the one I never really had.

I like to leave my windows open. Even in the coldest stretch of winter, I need to know the cats will not spend the night in the rain except by choice. Once I open a window, I rarely shut it. Even for the cat who rarely sleeps at home.

Don't even pretend to care. I wouldn't read this either.

Flatter me into believing you actually read these play lists because they’re just a hell of a lot more indicative of how I’m feeling than anything you’ll hear from me:
1. Don’t Think Twice, It’s All Right/Bob Dylan. I’m not going to cheapen any of the Dylan songs by saying a damn thing about what they mean to me. I’ll just clarify that my dog is not named after Bob Dylan. My dog is named after Dylan Thomas. And so is Bob.
2. Had Ma a Girl/Tom Waits. Pretty particular about my Waits. Used to listen to him on the drive home from the bakery in West Seattle, watching the sun set over the industrial sky line. Exhausted. That was a good year in the sense that I took a break from knowing just about anyone. And I can do that for about a year.
3. Wild World/Cat Stevens. Somehow I don’t believe that Cat Stevens has seen anything truly wild: did he write this? Nonetheless, this was a real heartbreakin’ song when I was about 15 discovering Cat Stevens. And it’s still a good one.
4. Tangled Up in Blue/Bob Dylan.
5. The Only Living Boy in New York/Simon & Garfunkel.
6. This Year’s Love/David Gray. I only feel this way after it’s too damn late to make a difference. As I realized a few years ago, for instance, that I should really get in touch with my high school sweetheart. You know? It’s a nice thought, that the game could be over.
7. I’m Your Late Evening Prostitute/Tom Waits. But ya know, the last song just kind of brings me here.
8. A Hard Rain’s A Gonna Fall/Bob Dylan.
9. Something/The Beatles.
10. Danny’s Song/Kenny Loggins.
11. Long Way Home/Tom Waits. Maybe my favorite Waits song.
12. The Blower’s Daughter/Damien Rice. I always forget about this one. And it’s good.

Housewife Seeks Placement

So, some of you have heard this before but I really think becoming a housewife is my true calling. Following is a list of my unique qualifications and rationale:
1. While some people may think housewifery would bore me, you’d be astonished at how much work maintaining a household can take! You’d also be astonished to learn how much I love mundane projects. For example:
2. I love cleaning! I love cleaning supplies! The sight of a janitorial supply store gets me oh-so-excited! Attacking the floor boards with a toothbrush; pure bliss! Cleanliness, oh, I won’t call it Godliness. Because honestly, it gets me too hot.
3. I make really yummy cookies! I genuinely love cooking. And I admit it, I love cooking for men! I pretend to resent doing it, but I love it.
4. Someone has to take care of the dog and kids. Yes, I put the dog before the kids. But the dog came first, didn’t he? I imagine the dog and kids will want walks and rides and food and entertainment. I can do that better than anyone we can hire.
5. I can run errands too! I love to drive!
6. Once I pop out kids it will take a lot of work to look good. Between the workout and the shower, I’ll need at least an hour and a half a day. I can’t work a 9-5 with those demands. And as between my ass and a job, well, that’s not even a debate.
6. There are a lot of important phone conversations I need to have everyday. My friends and family need to know that I am but a phone call away. This takes time, commitment.
7. I’m over educated and I can read! That means not only can I read to the kids I can impress your colleagues at the company parties! I can even play the piano. Nifty, eh?
8. I have the unique ability to become exhausted after completion of the most mundane tasks. Frankly, I’m not sure I need to do more than blog and walk the dog everyday. So I will feel like a fully actualized person if I do nothing more than pick up my husband’s dry-cleaning and wash the dishes on any given day. In fact, I can make that take at least six hours!

Ah, but therein lies the rub, the whole husband thing. Yeah, that’s kind of an issue. Especially since I’m fairly particular about holding out for someone I give a damn about. Damn principles.

My mom always says I should do what I’m passionate about though. And I’m passionate about staying home, cleaning, cooking, fucking and being a good wife and mother. So, I really think I need to go after my dream!

What. Do. I. Want.

I feel bitter and uncharacteristically disenchanted with life of late. The closer I get to the end of law school the more I realize that I’ve been acting out of a sense of duty for longer than I care to admit. I gave up on the whole “what do I want” question a long time ago.
Christ, for over ten years of my life “they” acted like I should get a Nobel Prize just for waking up every day. I wanted nothing more than minimal, functional, happiness: it’s all I’ve felt entitled to.
And then I got into law school. And “they” seem to assume I became not only “functional” but super-functional overnight. Because, really, most functioning people don’t go to law school, much less the people that get Nobel Prizes just for waking up every day.
And how did I get here? Blind spite. Didn’t think I’d graduate from high school? Fuck you. Didn’t think I’d go to college? I’ll make the Dean’s List every fucking term. Didn’t think I’d get a job? I’ll get into law school.
Everyone loves a bastard*. Especially a bitter yet witty bastard. Shows the rest of the country club how compassionate “they” are. But when the bastard turns out alright? Well, there goes the tarnish on the silver spoon, no?
Bitterness, what is it good for (absolutely nothing). Got me through school, I guess. But now? What is it good for? What do I want, really?
Just admitting it. Because I’m usually so optimistic and I know it gets on everyone’s nerves. And the truth is, right now I could really give a fuck about…anything. Right now, I just want to get out of here. Go for a drive. Go for a trip. Move. The thing about being called “good” and “loyal” and “honest” and “strong” all the time is that sometimes I feel fucking invisible, driven by duty and honestly dishonest. The happy advocate. Finish school; it would be a shame to waste their money. Say what you should, not what you mean. When you laugh the world laughs with you, when you cry you cry alone. Etc.
Because what do I want? When is the last time I really thought about it? When is the last time I felt like I could say it without apologizing? When was the last time I felt like I could be expressive without someone wondering if it was my “disorder”? When was the last time I defined my happiness separate of what was best for someone else?
What. Do. I. Want.

* In all fairness to my mother, I do not fit the technical definition of a bastard. I know who my father is, he knows of me. My mother married him, and while she occasionally refers to it as her “rebellious marriage”, 6 years is a long “rebellious marriage” I think. But bastard rolls off the tongue easier than “fatherless child” or “fatherless girls” as when my high school sweetheart’s mother said, “You know how fatherless girls are.” And she was right, you know, I did deflower her son. But, her son had a father and a mother and he deflowered me too, after all.

why i moved back here

1. I have a number of issues with MySpace. Imagine I'll keep my profile up for awhile. Seems like a lot of energy to deal with it. If nothing else, I'll keep my fake Frenchie profile from that time we freaked out about trackers so I can continue to stalk people ("we" know who "we" are, no?). Don't even know if I still have the password for that account though.

2. The downside, the MySpace blog gets so damn many hits. There's definitly a convenience factor with the notification system. Makes me feel so ridiculously popular. But principles, principles. I do wish I could archive all the blogs I racked up there. But that too seems like a lot of energy.

3. I think what I'm saying is it's really just an audience issue. Get it, get it?

well, I'm an ISTJ

OK, since four people have brought up the Myers Briggs Personality Test in the last week I decided to take it. Im an ISTJ or Introverted/Sensing/Thinking/Judging. Most of the explanation seemed to fit. Particularly, the expectations of loyalty and honesty and the ability to commit and adherence to/need for facts and rationale. Supposedly this means once I say "I do" I'll really mean it and I'll be a good parent.

So. Everyone, hunt down a free test. Post your results. Etc. Does this stuff really tell people more about themselves or do we just do it so we can just walk around going, "well, I'm an ABCD" and then have just another way to justify our patterns? I dunno. Better than reading some casebook though

how i really feel about being back in school

I think the following story will help those of you who truly know me appreciate how I really feel about being back in school:

Last night in Elder Law my professor asked if any of us knew the meaning of the catchphrase "naturally occuring retirement communities."

I raised my hand and asked "Is that, like, if you build it they will come?"

three cubed

Shelley turned "three cubed" today. We went to watch one of her favorite things, the swifts:

I am not in the picture both literally and metaphorically. One, because I took the picture and two, because the party goes on, and I am already home.

I feel like an asshole, skipping the real party. But, by my recent calculation I have 249 pages to somehow read for tomorrow's classes. How the hell is that possible? I am especially irked that 110 of those pages are for a one credit class that was supposed to be "fun".

So I'll put this one on the record:

High point of the day, without a doubt:

Dancing in the Jeep with Shelley to the Jackson 5 at the train stop waving to the passengers on the way to the Swifts.

Happy Birthday to a very wonderful friend. Wish I was still there.

I will move back to Tacoma and run the funeral home if:

Just talked to my mom who leaves for almost a month in Greece on the second of September. And my grandpa (Papa) leaves for some obscene amount of time in Turkey next week too.



Papa just got back from his annual three week trip up to Alaska and back on the boat. We spent Thanksgiving talking about his fresh return from Lebanon and Egypt.



This does not include the ski trips to Sun Valley and Canada.



And they will spend this Thanksgiving at a Golf Resort in Scottsdale.



Why am I not willing to embalm, cremate and counsel the bereaved for this?

The pictures not taken

Some pictures from yesterday along the coast:


Shelley and I once talked about whether memories are more like the pictures you take or the memories you wished you'd taken. I think most of mine are more like the ones I wish I'd taken, or the moments I knew at the time I didn't need to take a picture of because I'd just remember them regardless. The pictures I take, they tend to be the markers for the memories. The memories can't be posed or captured.

Shelley said each time you take a memory out of the file you change it just a bit. The things we recall the most we recall the least, in a way.

I had to drive into downtown today to pick up some prescriptions. I thought perhaps the only thing that will make me leave Portland will be the point when I just can't take the aching memories anymore. The point when the last of my friends leaves. This city swells with so damn many memories at this point.

Maybe I'll be the one to stay. I've finally learned to stay. Watch things change slowly while they stay the same. I'll get a little better at goodbyes, a little bit better at the aching part. And I'll be here, waiting on my porch, for the ones who return. Changed, but the same.

Who Cares?!!

Who the fuck cares about the Ramsey murder suspect? I am so sick of the news coverage on this one. Top story last two hours of news. Entire hour of Larry King Live. And what's this? Oh my god? Did suspect Karr drink champagne on the Thai-American flight? Who cares?!!!

How do the news channels go from non-stop coverage of the Israeli conflict and the terror threat to this crap? A shaky ceasefire agreement and we all switch to the Ramsey murder shit? Was it just too much for America to take? Who cares about this shit after TEN YEARS?

You know what I want to hear about? Where the hell did all the black and white disposable cameras go? I went to four stores looking for one today and couldn't find one. I miss them. Now THAT's a good investigative piece, no? Also, why no cat-dogs? You people can clone sheep and you can't make cat-dogs? The market for cat-dogs will be HUGE. By the way, what happened to that freakish cult lady who claimed to have cloned the first baby? Did we hit the eight year anniversary of the Ramsey murder or something?

OK, I've got to switch to E and get my Brit and K-Fed fix now. Cheers.

Seasons

I woke this morning in a fit of dread and didn't want to leave my bed because of this day's date. Sunday the 20th of August, only 7 days left of my summer.



I have a terrible tendency to prematurely call the seasons (just ask Shelley). My sense of the seasons runs not so much according to the calendar but according to when I perceive the minutest changes. The first camellia blooms, albeit a week before another snow flurry, and I announce Spring's arrival. The first 70 degree day arrives, albeit sandwiched between 4 weeks of rain and hail, and I call Summer. The first fall clothing catalogue arrives, albeit in July, and I pronounce Fall's arrival. The first street ices over, albeit in October, and Winter has come.



Mostly, perhaps, the seasons change for me in accordance with my still in school schedule. I still have an August to August day planner, after all. And, just as the kids go to buy their pencils and protractors this time of year, I can't fathom summer continuing once I return to the classroom on the 28th.



I worry that this will be the last Summer of Love. I worry that we're beginning a bit of a diaspora. I worry that this may be the last summer we're not quite grown up. Young enough to pin our hopes on Summers of Love. Katrina may move. Shelley hints at moving. And if you all leave, why will I stay? You are my home.



I'm no longer good at leaving. I finally found what I'm looking for, I guess. Still I see a great saudade setting in this Fall. Exactly the way Fall should be. Great boots, falling leaves, brisk air, a bit of sadness in the eyes, a wistfulness. This will get me through to the holidays, when I'll call Winter and you'll shriek "NO, NO, STOP IT!!! WE'VE GOT, LIKE, TWO MORE MONTHS OF FALL..."

Dylan's Eye

So this day went to the dog, not just the dog I guess, the dog; my one, my only, Dylan. Stepped out the door for first things first, his morning walk. Right before we got back to the house I looked down and saw it. Once again, Dylan had done something to his eye:

Called the vet and rushed to NW. This would be the third time Dylan has scratched his eye on something. Last time around, it became ulcerated and they had to make fluid medicinal drops from his eye tissue in lieu of sewing it shut for awhile. Scary and weird. This time, luckily, he didn't actually scratch the cornea, he just got something stuck in his eyelid and irritated the lid. So, no prolonged follow up. Just a day of really heavy breathing, a bit too much doggie clinginess for my taste and some vomit eating tonight (him, not me). My mom thinks we should make him wear those blinders Clydesdale horses wear (she, of course, having owned horses growing up knew the actual word for this, I do not). I vote for an eye patch. He does look pretty tough. If anyone asks, I'll tell them they should see the other guy.

Good Day

Spent the day at the Rose Garden doing this with Shelley and Zoe:

That's me on the right, smelling the roses. We marveled at all the names for the roses: Sexy Rexy, Yesterday, Passionate Kisses and what each smells like. Starry Night, for instance, smelled faintly of vanilla. And, while Rosie O'Donell doesn't really smell at all, Barbra Striesand smells quite heady and pungent. I showed Shelley and Zoe the award winning roses for their birth years. They were born the year of Pristine, 1979 (slightly violet and milky). I was born the year of Love, 1980 (Red with slightly lighter edges, lightly fragrant). Zoe thought it would be funny if I was Pristine Christine.

Then we ate lunch at the 21st Ave Bar and Grill to the sound of some apartment dweller's soundtrack of Ween then Weezer then who knows. Nice patio.

We walked up NW Johnson past the first place I ever lived in Portland. It still looks perfect. We went on a sample mission. First Kiehls: purchased two tubes of Lip Balm #1 between us and scored at least 4 samples. Then Lush: two purchases and I think about 6 samples. Further South on 23rd we were lured into a novelty shop by a lamp with a penis switch lacking any lurid quality; could have been child's furnishing. No samples, and by the end of shop three, we were shopped out.

Good day.

This Week in the Summer of Love IV

Outside I heard the neighbors fighting tonight. They have two kids. He said he was leaving. She cried and said don't leave. There was nothing unique about it. Comforting. But I think they knew I could hear, and that just made it worse. And I hate that they have kids. I want to believe I'll be a better parent, a bigger person, but will I?



Shelley and I have been talking about this being open to v. open with people thing. Keeps running through my head. Along with the befuddling phrase I never promised to be a good person, I never promised to be a good person.



It occurred to me that, aside from my mother, my longest relationship has been with my car; six years and going strong! If I were Pablo Neruda I would write an Ode to my car. Remember when we went to the beach and your car got dug so far into the sand that guy had to tow you out but my car did just fine? Yeah.



I have a long standing fear of soul mates actually existing. See, this is how I met the only guy I've loved. Walking with a friend down a ski slope in the middle of the night in a snowstorm. Two figures approached. I turned to my friend and said I don't know who those guys are, but whoever they are, anyone else crazy enough to walk through this must be our fucking soul mates. And I stayed with one of those figures approaching for the next three and a half years or so. So if he was my soul mate, is that it? Am I done? Maybe it's just safer to believe that.



I've got until the 28th to sum up my summer and I feel like I'm searching for something real, something to pull me through the damage another term of law school will do. The whole saudade serenade. The last leg of Summer of Love IV (I say we made it a IVth, if nothing else because we're all still in Portland and we still want it). Saudade for truth. Naked honesty. Saudade for Summers of Love.

Crack Whores Don't Wear Cosabella

It's eightygazillion degrees outside and I feel like I've been running around like a chicken with its head cut off all day but also like a crack whore mainly owing to the fact that my eyes have been unnaturally dilated since about eleven a.m. this morning leaving but a slice of blue-green and also to the fact that this is the first ever blog written in my underwear (but crack whores don't wear Cosabella, do they)?

I have an irrational abhorrence of eye doctors. Dentists you know not to like: they do things like try to talk to you while they've got their fist shoved up your mouth. Eye doctors work more subtly against you. They ask questions like whether you use any ocular medications and then you have to clarify whether ocular means eye and feel inwardly stupid. And, of course, they dilate your eyes even though the chance that you've developed Glaucoma at age 26 must be smaller than the chance of dying in a terrorist attack. So of course I assume they're slightly sadistic.

Driving anywhere with highly dilated pupils is not fun. And I mean not fun like trying to get down a ski slope after taking a hit on the chair lift (works great for some people, not so much for me).

Trying to complete your daily errands with dilated pupils is also not fun. Really. Try going to the convenience store to pick up a six-pack with dilated pupils without feeling like a crack whore. Seriously.

Then walk home (because you just dropped off your car at the mechanics) with said six-pack and dilated pupils while wearing a black dress in eightygazillion degree heat while trying not to feel like a crack whore.

You'll end up stripping off the dress the minute you get home and writing a blog about it. Really. Or taking a shower

Woke suddenly in the middle of the night

I woke suddenly in the middle of the night to what sounded like a fist rapping against one of my front windows. My hand reached for the phone by the bed. A new development these past few months; I cannot sleep unless I know the phone rests by the head of my bed. I open the phone to read just past two'o'clock in the morning and sit upright. Once again, I hear what sounds like a fist rapping against one of my front windows.



This is the nightmare, the nightmare that has plagued me since childhood. I lay in bed and someone breaks in. I can hear them. And I can't scream. And then I realize it's a dream. And I try to speak to wake the dream. But I can't wake. I'm trapped in the dream.



But this isn't a dream. I listen for the sound again. I listen for footsteps. I hear nothing and finally I go to the window and look out. I see nothing, and I go back to bed.



Opened the door this morning and half expected a note; "Cunt" or "Whore" or "Bitch". But nothing.



Walked the dog and my neighbor June asks about my birdbath. Someone stole her birdbath last night. The one she likes to look out at through her kitchen window. And I tell her about the sounds I heard last night. And that must have been it. They tried to take the top off my birdbath, and the water splashed, they dropped the top back on, and the top rattled as it settled round and round back onto the base.



Relief.

Helmets are stupid

It's not that I hate your kids per se (although while I generally like kids, I'm really not that interested in anyone's kids unless I have met them) it's more that I hate your kids for allowing you to make them wear fucking helmets.

I'm not talking about helmets for bike riding. Fine. Dandy. I'm talking about my neighbors' two kids who have to wear helmets to push their goddamn scooters back and forth across the sidewalk lining three houses. I mean Jesus? What's next? Ya gonna make your kids put on a goddamn helmet to climb the Jungle Gym?

Remember the good ol' days? I'm talking Lawn Darts people! Sure they killed people, but no one you or I knew, right? I'm talking Slip and Slide: run a tarp down the hill on your front yard, spray some water down its surface, and shove the runts down the slippery slope for hours of great fun! Remember what the playground used to be like? Some kid always busted his head open falling from the Jungle Gym. Far as I know, they just stitched the noggin back together and all was well. But I wasn't, like, personally acquainted with that kid. So who knows?

Now my Grandfather wears a ridiculous helmet when he skis. My Grandfather has skied since the 1950's, and suddenly he feels the need to slap a plastic orb on his head? What the fuck? You wanna know what the fuck? You wanna who the fuck? Sonny Bono the fuck! Sonny Bono hits a tree and dies while skiing and now everyone on the slopes wears a helmet. Why does anyone care? When every other Joe Blow hit a tree and died skiing did everyone go out and buy helmets? No. Sonny Bono's not worth it. The most significant thing Sonny Bono ever did was fuck Cher while she was still hot. I'd rather die skiing.

I can only think of one way to combat this and it just won't work. Every time I see a bicyclist or kid without a helmet I will give them a hearty thumbs up and say "Good for you! Bono couldn't sing anyway."

Damnit. I think I'm stuck with this one.

Five Easy Pieces

I went searching today for a song I didn't know the notes to. A strange thing, I just have this feeling and I don't have the song for it. I've been playing lately, and I can emote, but it all feels like Five Easy Pieces, this great 1970 movie about a former piano prodigy turned prodigal son played by Jack Nicholson. One scene I especially appreciate:

He returns home for the death of his father and he wants to screw his brother's wife so he plays her Chopin's Prelude in E minor. He finishes, she's near tears, launches into what pure emotion he poured into the song. And he looks at her and wryly explains he's been able to play it since he was something like eight, it's one of the easiest songs around, and he felt nothing. Naturally that just makes her want to save him even more.

So, I had to find something new. My old piano instructor, Gloria, ordered all my books for me before I quit, most of which I wasn't ready for, and she knew this, I mean, she knew I wasn't ready for them then but I would be someday. Its funny, she's taken on this new found prodigy from NE Portland Willamette Weekly has been covering. She recently compared him to a floodplain in a follow up article. Kind of made me wonder what I was? A rice-paddy? Was there any vegetation at all? Was I just lost in the sea?

Anyway, I think I may have found it in an untouched Scarlatti volume. Gloria's foresight still amazes me. Each time I finally find I'm ready for one of the composers she picked I feel I've just opened a letter from a long departed friend. Pretty amazing that she knew me that well, knew the person I'd become.

To and from the clinic

Went to the clinic this morning to get my LEEP results and Depo shot (I'm pretty unclear on whether I get Depo for the birth control or the complete eradication of my period).



In the waiting room, I read Newsweek's July 31st exclusive with the President during the G8 summit just as the whole Isreali/Lebon mess began: http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/13988981/site/newsweek/: and actually, it was pretty damn good. I couldn't read any of the "real" Israeli/Lebanon coverage because I find the social utilitarianism Israel seems engaged in just pisses me off too fucking much. I didn't want to be the crying girl in the woman's health clinic.



I got my results, and bottom line, nothing but follow up shit at this point. I can insert whatever I please into my vagina again (OK, I know this is too much info, but really, even when you don't want it, or don't know if you want it, you don't want people to tell you you can't have it, right?).



Driving home I started thinking of Norman Mailer. Namely, what has he been up to lately? Frankly, I simultaneously revere and can't stand the cocksucker. What's my beef? OK, for one thing, has no one else noticed that the format of The Armies of the Night totally rips off War and Peace? Was it intentional? I'm not so sure. I pointed this out to my 60's lit professor and he just looked bewildered. C'mon. Could this be more obvious? Another thing; the Beat psychopath theory just seemed like bullshit to me. I should separate all this from his war coverage. But I won't.



By the way, aside from just a really good night, Shelley showed me the blog of Dan's "uncle" and I laughed harder than I have in God knows how long. Check it out: http://profile.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=user.viewprofile&friendid=98122629, and then check out his wife Gladys's page and blog. According to Shelley, the kids may get profiles too. Seriously funny.

Strange dreams and the Master Mechanic

Strange dreams, nightmares. I pull my molars out one by one, from front to back. Clean to the root, strings of blood and yellow puss. I dream the interpretation given by all the books: oh, this is about fearing loss of attraction. I fight the dream, I try to shout and wake myself and when I wake I tell myself I won't go back to nightmares.

But there I am, a child bride. Who am I marrying? Why am I marrying? I'm going through the rituals. I brush long hair I've never had. Make-up. I'm about to put on a heavy sateen dress, a beautiful baptismal childlike dress. And he calls; my ex, my nightmare betrothed.

Why aren't you here? I say.

I'm moving in with so-and-so tomorrow, he says.

You can't, we're getting married, we have to live together after today, I say.

Fuck you, he says, I don't care. Exactly as it was.

But, you can't live with so-and-so, we have to get married today, we have to live together.

I don't give a fuck. Fuck you, he says.



I sat on my couch in the morning sun making googly eyes at my dog and theorizing about his deep love for Thom Yorke and The Postal Service. I sat outside in the morning sun and saw my dog looking at me through the window and thought how funny it would be if he jumped out.



I drove to the mechanics to get a quote on the Jeep. Half an hour into the quote he tells me his friend died this week of Hep-C. He was a real bastard. It's funny, they went to Wilson High School together, and they were both voted least likely to live past age 17. And his friend, he was 56. A fucking waste. No one cared but his mother. He lived fast. They raced cars together when they were younger. And he had such physical prowess, you know? He'd drive up to the track and hop out of the car with his shirt off, he should've gone to Athens, made something of himself. He had so much potential, and the mechanic, he says he waited his whole life for his friend to make good on it. His family owned a furniture company. The building on the waterfront. Yeah, I know it. His family gave him a job. And he'd go visit his friend and he'd just blow it off, go have lunch with him for the rest of the day. His family had over 100 employees. And they reached the point when they had to decide whether to keep the company going, and they shut it down because, you know, he just wasn't interested.



I stayed for at least an hour. Said take care and good luck with the details on the new race track.



Got home and someone had tied my dog to my front porch. My neighbor left a post-it note, found Dylan in her front yard. The bastard, he did it. He jumped out the fucking window. Jesus.



Thought about the mechanic. How in another decade I would pull him to my breast and kiss him telling him the things I can't say with words. How every time he cursed his friend I felt like crying I know how much he loved him how he waited his whole life for this guy who had it all to wake up and take life by the balls how he busted his ass to overcome that least likely to live past age 17 to have this cluttered little shop all lined with pictures from 1972 memories of back when he raced and the whole time he watched his friend, this guy with all the charisma in the world, the world on his plate, and no hunger just fuck it up and he loved him he fucking loved him so much he hated him and he died, he died without making good on any of it and the hope and the waiting and the memories it was such a waste and he'll never know what to do with that, you just don't get over that, I know, I know.

a debacle of leaves and stones in its own way

Tolstoy wrote (depending on the translation) "happy families are all alike; every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way." My family's unhappiness is so typical that though it may make a good novel I cannot imagine it would interest anyone in real life.



The heat drained the trees to an extent they unseasonably shed their leaves this week. I feel betrayed by deciduous trees. They lend a false sense of security in the summer then leave you bare and exposed in the winter. The North has more evergreens, quiet evergreens that bend in the winter wind but also tend to snap in the cold. I like the way you see the seasons change here. Nonetheless, the trees betray me.



Last Sunday I thought I got food poisoning from a package of Buitoni ravioli but a week of nausea confirmed I had some flu. The sickness seemed to coincide with my willful desire to flip off my professor's mandatory attendance policy. I truly felt so nauseous I couldn't sleep half the week, just pass out on the couch to the sound of the news and hope I'd learn all about the Israeli crises through some strange process of osmosis (I think I did). All the same, goddamn Catholic guilt.



I'm terribly disappointed to report that debacle has an Old French rather than Germanic root. I'd desperately hoped for a Germanic root because, debacle, say it aloud, just sounds so wickedly guttural. On the upside, did you know it also means "the breaking up of ice in a river"? Reminds me of a fabulous passage from Mr. Sammler's Planet about dilapidate (from the Latin lapis or lapid) and how you really shouldn't use it except in reference to the falling apart of stones. Jesus this shit gets me hot.

Notice of Abandoned Property

Opened a NOTICE OF ABANDONED PROPERTY today from the old abode, complete with printed pictures with each piece of abandoned property circled. The full inventory, I shit you not:

(1) an ashtray

(2) a plug in air freshener

(3) a bag

(4) a toilet plunger and bowl cleaner

(5) a pink sponge and porcelain cleaning product

(6) a green sponge

(7) a pink sponge and spray cleaning product

(8) two hair ties

(9) a black head band

(10) mr. clean cleaner

(11) soft scrub cleaner and one green, one pink sponge

(12) a wine glass

(13) a plastic bag

(14) rice

(15) a mechanical pencil

(16) a plastic baggie

(17) a paper bag

(18) a roll of masking tape

(19) Murphy oil soap and Simple Green cleaner

(20) cardboard shoe box

(21) paper bag

(22) empty garbage can next to the washer and dryer

(23) empty cat food bag

(24) Bounce dryer sheets

(25) cardboard tube

(26) shoe box

(27) garbage and recycling

(28) Fertilizer, potting soil and a gasoline can

(29) window heating unit that came with the house

(30) carton of coolant

(31) Garden pruners

Fucking call me

My mother and I exchanged eight emails today. Emails because she refuses to talk to me on the phone. She refuses to talk to me on the phone, she tells my aunt, because she doesn't trust she won't say something hurtful she'll regret. So she emails me. A day of emails all over fixing my goddamn car. And now my poor aunt plays peacemaker from Oakland, CA; hardly an enviable position.



Emails say so much and so little. Words become loaded with too many meanings because they lack the help of any intonation.



Used to be, for instance, you talked to men on the phone. You stayed up late, under the covers, talking nonsense on the phone. Supposedly most men don't talk on the phone. They sure seemed to before the whole email thing though. I miss that.



Now I have a record of everything. Everything's so damn permanent, pertinent, contrived even. The thing about emailing people is so much thought goes into it all. You can't mutter or twist your words with sarcasm or silliness. Words scream once sent and you can't explain or take them back.



Not a breath, not a shuffle not a sigh. Not a quiver or a doubt or a question.



Not even the personality of handwriting, the smudge of ink from a drop of rain or a spot of grease.



Immediate gratification. A week for a single conversation at the same time.



Fucking call me.

Saudade

I found the other word I was looking for (in the frenzy of wonderful things Next Stop Wonderland talked about or made me think about). I love this...I'm just going to drop quote the entire Wikipedia entry:

Saudade in European Portuguese and Galician and in Brazilian Portuguese is a word for a feeling of longing for something that one is fond of, which is gone, but might return in a distant future. It often carries a fatalist tone and a repressed knowledge that the object of longing might really return. E.g., the sentence "Eu sinto muitas saudades tuas" directly translates into "I miss you so much". "Eu sinto muito a tua falta" also has the same meaning in English ("falta" and "saudades" both are translated for missing), but it is different in Portuguese. It also relates to feelings of melancholy and fond memories of days gone by, lost, love and a rush of sadness coupled with a paradoxical joy. Saudade is generally considered one of the hardest words to translate. It originated from the Latin word solitatem (loneliness, solitude), but with a different meaning. Loneliness in Portuguese is solidão from Latin solitudo. Few other languages in the world have a word with such meaning, making saudade a distinct mark of Portuguese culture. Saudade is different from nostalgia. In nostalgia, one has a mixed happy and sad feeling, a memory of happiness but a sadness for its impossible return and sole existence in the past. Saudade is like nostalgia but with the hope that what is being longed for might return, even if that return is unlikely or so distant in the future to be almost of no consequence to the present. . .Nostalgia is located in the past and is somewhat conformist while saudade is very present, anguishing, anxious and extends into the future