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.