at least there's a word for it now

When did it all get so complicated? A couple of people have asked me what I saudade. It's not one thing but rather a montage of the memories that ache, the way a certain shadow at night can bring everything back or cruelly lead me to believe these things could return. I think everyone feels this way. For me, my head spins around the simpler times.

A teenage kiss in Transamerica; so simple see you, want you, no doubt or insecurity or reservation just kiss the way things used to be. Memories of jumping off a hotel balcony into the snow just because, just because that was the moment. How easy falling in love for the first time is, having no concept of an end, no concept of insecurity, no concept of the rules or the game. Watching Snow Falling On Cedars and seeing home, home, real rain, the forest bed and rocky beaches. Swimming wherever and whenever and however I want to. And the 4th of July. And real fire works. Reservation fire works. Illegal fireworks. Streets like war zones and burning foliage. Snowboarding in the summer. Laying in the street at night and looking at the Mountain stars. A group of friends who all live on a beach somewhere and a high school sweetheart who takes his parents' boat from his side of the Sound to my side of the Sound everyday, docks his boat at our friend's dock, and walks up the cliff to my house. Places where a roll in the hay actually happens in the hay occasionally.

Less the memories, more the simplicity, the fearlessness. Do we even want to play the game or do we all just do it because we're sure no one else wants or will tolerate deviation?

Midnight ramblings, midnight saudade.

Spent last night at a bar and this morning at coffee talking about the whole "what is art, who gets to decide what art is" thing with a couple of friends. I think this may be why I left art school and veered from a degree in Lit to the whole law thing. At some point I just felt like I had no right to an opinion, like I had no energy for an opinion, and I really didn't believe anyone who had one either. Honestly, at some point the whole discussion just curbed any enjoyment I had for art or literature or music or the whole beautiful mess.

Like this picture:

I walked out of a shop downtown a couple of years ago and saw the crazy reflection of a skyscraper's windows on that building and took the shot. Poor technique, no talent, lousy perspective and light. Yet I look at it and I remember the exact surge of joy I felt at that moment; my giant heartache for this city, the impending autumn charging the air. And I don't really care if that's art anymore. I'm just happy I don't have to feel bad for liking it. And I'm getting back to a point where I can somewhat enjoy converstations about these things again.

Good Morning

Woke up to the ever present sound of contractors working next door. A new sound came in through the bedroom this morning, the sound of a radio. By the time I returned with my coffee I heard, horror of horrors, said radio emitting the rather loud voice of Rush; not Rush the band, Rush the man. The man, the myth, the pill-popping, self-inflated legend. Damn. I slammed my door and considered the following options:

(1) Spend the day passive-aggressively pounding at the piano (worked fabulously as a child trying to get at my former stepfather).

(2) Bring my own radio out onto front porch and blast Air America.

(3) Run out onto the sidewalk and have a fake Tourette's Attack.

(4) Or, run out onto the sidewalk and revert to five year old behavior, shoving my fingers into my ears and screaming "LALALALALALALALA!!!!"

Inside I could still hear every word of Rush. I proceeded to the nearest open window facing the neighbor's house and went to slide it shut. And the top of the window fell off the track backwards onto the ground outside.

Pretty funny.

Survival

I used to love this quote from Sherman Alexie: "Survival = anger X imagination."

Now I don't know what I think. Anger as a coping and defense mechanism works pretty swell short term. Might depend on what you imagine. I don't know.

Best Weekend Ever

Hey everyone, just wanted to inform you that this will be the best weekend ever. Seriously: EVER. Why? You say How? You say. Coloscopy: over. Visit from Mother: over. And the grand finale; I have finally repaired the Jeep. Yes, five years since point of impact, I have finally repaired the Jeep.

And here we are, just past one'o'clock on a glorious Friday, the first Friday of the summer. And we are going to have one hell of a weekend.

And so I invite you, the tired, disgruntled, underpaid and wretched to the best weekend ever. If you lack the energy, come to my house and I will hand you a beer, turn on the hose and let you run through a faux-sprinkler drunk for hours. Hell, if you find a hog I will even dig a pit and we can slow roast the sucker in my back yard. A special invitation to anyone with Super Soakers. I would very much love to spend the weekend sitting on the porch drunk and shooting anyone who stops to stare at my currently for rent home. In fact I will cook dinner for anyone who will swagger up to aforementioned house hunters and slur "Hey honey, how you doing? Hooowwww, you. Do. In?"

Best weekend ever.

Famdamnly Bitching

And now I bring you Wisdom From My Mother: Collected Stories From the First Eight Hours of My Mother's Visit.



(1) Evidently, when your mother sits in on one of your law school classes, it is perfectly appropriate for her to answer the professor's questions. Also expect her to nod and audibly "uh-huh" his rhetorical points. Expect her to act as though you are visiting a Baptist Church. Do not, however, tease her about comments from the peanut gallery. If you do, expect her to tell you "that's just the way I am."

(2) When you sit down to dinner, prepare for her ten minute book report. She will have digested every word of the latest book on tape without questioning a word and will proceed to give you a lengthy synopsis without any inquiry. This month's book? A theory on how only environmentally conscious societies flourish. So far, only Greenland, Norway, a small colony in New Guinea and an island the size of a postage stamp have made the list. I ask her if the author has noted that all of the colonies on the list also share the feature of having naturally defensible borders or difficult to cultivate environments. But it's not a conversation, it's a book report.

(3) She says she has been talking to people about my colposcopy tomorrow and did I know that my aunt had a colonoscopy when she was 25? Yes, I say, I had one of those when I was 16, remember? Not the same procedure, I think, not the same really at all. She says she and my aunt talked about the terrible history of mental illness in our family. Did I know that not only her aunt killed herself, and her great aunt was institutionalized, but her other great aunt was beaten to death by her brother? You are telling me this? I think. You are telling me this?

(4) She tells me that my father left when I was three and I am now 26 and she thinks I should accept it and get over it.

(5) When I get offended, she tells me she can't talk to me; that talking to me is like going to therapy.

Cat, House, Heart, Hope (a list)

1. Today my cat Ella joined the dog and I for our entire walk. My grandfather's Siamese, He-She (aptly named because my grandfather did not know the cat's sex when he acquired it), used to follow us on walks through Steilacoom when I visited on holidays. Aside from He-She, I've seen one other cat on a dog walk; a scruffy little fellow in Sun Valley, Idaho with a massive and matted Saint Bernard. Ella often follows me on dog walks for a few blocks but usually runs back once she loses track of her surroundings. I quite liked walking the dog with the cat scampering behind us. I hope she joins us more often.
2. I seem to have found two homes and I spent the day rather conflicted as to which I want. I usually know exactly what I want and sprint at about 20 miles per hour until I get it. Hearing that I'm not getting a gut feeling, my mother thinks perhaps I don't want either place. I've actually got a gut feeling, I just can't believe my gut. If I didn't know better, I'd say I'm in love with the place I want because the choice makes no sense to me. I really, really want to believe you can fight pure, chemical, irrational gut feelings. But does that ever work out? I'll figure out my new address by the weekend. Chances are I'll never figure out how much head to put over my heart.
3. I've been thinking about hope. I told Shelley recently that I maintain hope by never pinning my hopes on specifics, or shall we say Nouns. Rather, I proposed that if you hope for the thing in general, you won't get too jaded. Example: instead of wishing on the next "star light, star bright, first star I see tonight" that I get that house on Cherry Tree Lane, I will wish that I someday get a house that I love and can call home. As such, if I don't get the house on Cherry Tree Lane, my hope still exists: the house on Cherry Tree Lane must not have been the house I will love and call home. If I get another house and it sucks, I also still have hope. I'll still get a house I love and can call home. The current house that sucks, like the house on Cherry Tree Lane, just wasn't the house. I think this is what I'm always referring to as cynical idealism. It may also be what is commonly referred to as complete bullshit.

My Oh My What a Wonderful Day!

And now I bring you your weekly tourette's attack courtesy of the folks at "My Oh My What a Wonderful Day."* Now, the content of this message may be offensive to young children and those opposed to colorful language or political incorrectness. I suggest they scream the following at the top of their lungs:

FUCK!SHIT!COCKSUCKER!MOTHERFUCKER!GODDAMN!WHY?WHY?OHWHY?NANCYKERRIGANWHY?WHY?WHY?FUCKNUTS!BALLS!STUPID!GOSHDARN!FUCKMEGENTLYWITHACHAINSAW!RATBASTARD!HIJODEPUTA!JESUSMARYANDJOSEPH!FUCKITALLTOHELL!FUCKMEIFIMWRONG,BUTHAVEN'TWEMET?WHYCANTIGETJUSTONEFUCK?GUESSIT'SGOTSOMETHINTODOWITHLUCK!FUCKIN'A!WHATTHEFUCK?!BLOODYHELL!OHWELL!FUCKYOU!FUCKITALL!FUCKYOUANDTHEHORSEYOURODEINON!BLESSMEFATHERFORIHAVESINNED!SHIT.

Aw shucks. Dont cha feel better now? I do. Wasn't that healing? Community building? Let's do this more often.



* "My Oh My What a Wonderful Day" sincerely apologizes for any stereotypes regarding Tourette's Syndrome advanced by this tasteless and ignorant blog.

California

Nights like this I miss California like hell. No one is from Berkeley, no one belongs: a city, a state, it felt, of exiles. Late at night when I couldn't sleep I'd drive to the Mediterranean Café. This is before they were bought out, back when they still had the worst bathroom in town, back when they stayed open late into the night. You couldn't help talking to someone at the Med. A homeless kid, a homeless man, a left over radical, some starry-eyed kid who'd come from God knows where looking for a part of California that died back in the early 70's. Always a story. The cops were trying to clean up the street, push everyone out of the park. They'd pushed someone around, tried to declare them 5150 and scraped them across the ground. Everyone was looking for something at the Med. Looking to sell, looking for a smoke, a dime, just to talk.

Later still, with nowhere to go, I'd drive further into Berkeley to the French Hotel. I knew the boy who worked the night shift and he'd let me in when I couldn't sleep. We'd lay in a hotel room, never touching, watching free cable until I decided to go home.

Or we'd go to the Marina and walk all the way out onto the Pier. There was a pie shop next to the movie theatre. And we'd play out that scene from True Romance, when they go get pie after seeing a movie: "Would you like to get a piece of pie, see after I see a movie I like to get a piece of pie. So, what about you? What do you do? Where are you from? What's your favorite color? Turn-ons? Turn-offs? Got a fella?"

In California, I could feel alone, and go anywhere, and still feel alone, just less lonely. In a city that size, you can walk down the street crying, screaming, no matter, and no one sees you. Nothing is strange. Here, I just feel alone.

That Woman

Lately I worry, see I just feel incredibly hard and jaded and I fear I've become that woman, you know? That woman; that too many crazy nights,one too many cigarettes, gravely voice, "boy I've got a story for you and honey there ain't nothing you can tell me that'll shock me" kind of woman. I don't know that being that woman is such a bad thing. Some of my favorite women are that woman: they are broads in the true sense of the word. A broad has seen it all, she takes no prisoners, takes no shit: a broad can wear boots without looking trendy. I don't fear being a broad. A true broad has a heart of gold. I fear losing my heart. Sometimes my life seems like the longest, most pathetic, country song. That's great when I'm in on the joke. Great when it's a Johnny Cash sort of country song, sort of tongue in cheek. It's just those days when I can feel the skin stretching on the cheekbones from grimacing. Then again, I've been needing my boots a lot lately. Maybe it's just a phase.