Roses are like People

Not for how they lithely grow

or fade, die, and fall apart as varied as the passing of each day,

nor for their sustenance

and the way they drink in and blossom, 

yawning in the mid afternoon.

It is not their defenses,

for no rose thorns compare to the stone walls

of a person broken completely.

Nor is it for their colors--

they grow side by side in concert,

dancing in the same breeze

bowing and swaying, 

roots grasping and mingling.

It is not their uniqueness,

for roses know better

than to focus on themselves.

Roses, like people, are cut down

sliced and pruned to fit the vase,

plucked and bound to be perfect-

sacrificed at the cost of another's love.

Har Har

W.

Band of Horses

Here we go again...

Started at Apple again today. That's about all I have to say about that. 

My parents are gone for about a week and a half. It's wonderful. I just needed my own space for a bit. Now I just have to keep the plants and the cat alive. The cat which doesn't like people.

Stupid cat. His name is Macintosh. You think I'd be able to find peace with him. 

Things are weird. Weird weird weird. Like milk that is not good but not quite bad. But it still tastes off. 

Life tastes funny right now.

Because I like Coak's thinking...

1. Venison - yes, tasty
2. Nettle tea
3. Huevos rancheros
4. Steak tartare
5. Crocodile: Tried this in Kenya. Muy tasty
6. Black pudding: I've actually made this a few times.
7. Cheese fondue: First time I had it was in Chamonix France. Amazing stuff.
8. Carp: Yarp
9. Borscht: Engorched.
10. Baba ghanoush: I also love me some Lebanese. I think it's eggplant. Or something like that.
11. Calamari: Great Stuff.
12. Pho: Sata encouraged me to eat this one. It was pho good.
13. PB&J sandwich: Never, actually. Go to hell, Jelly. I've had at least 10,000 PB sandwiches
14. Aloo gobi: Don't even know what it is
15. Hot dog from a street cart: I've got the hepatitis to prove it! (j/k...or am I.)
16. Epoisses: Sounds inappropriate. And if I have, I wouldn't tell.
17. Black truffle: Ground over pasta. Wonderful flavor.
18. Fruit wine made from something other than grapes: Plum wine. I would say that I'm a fan.
19. Steamed pork buns: These are incredible. And the color inside is so vibrant. Yum yum yum.
20. Pistachio ice cream: My brother likes it. I think it's crap.
21. Heirloom tomatoes: Made a pasta dish with them just last night. Not a big whole tomato fan though.
22. Fresh wild berries: Nope. Not a big fruit fan. Weird textures and pops and tarts and things.
23. Foie gras: No, but I really need to get on the boat with this one.
24. Rice and beans: Cucas.
25. Brawn, or head cheese: Sounds brutal. Nope.
26. Raw Scotch Bonnet pepper: Maybe on my death bed.
27. Dulce de leche: Mmmm yesss.
28. Oysters: I just had oysters with my dad tonight. Loves me some oysters.
29. Baklava: Amanda's Response: "Pretty good. Not a big fan of food that flakes though." You are effing crazy, Amanda. Flaky food is the best ever.
30. Bagna cauda:No idea
31. Wasabi peas: I love these. Crunch and spice. Woot.
32. Clam chowder in a sourdough bowl: Yeah, I've had this at a Giant's game and also from that bread place that starts with a "b" and ends with French jumbly.
33. Salted lassi: "What's that? Jimmy fell down a well? Time to cook you then." Never had it.
34. Sauerkraut: Yay. Good.
35. Root beer float: I'm 50/50 on it. On a vacation, great. As an option, no thanks.
36. Cognac with a fat cigar: I never felt older at the tender age of 21.
37. Clotted cream tea: No. Gross. No.
38. Vodka jelly/Jell-O shot: So many. Still don't like them.
39. Gumbo: I done gone had me some tasty gumbo.
40. Oxtail: Nope.
41. Curried goat: I would if it were more readily available.
42. Whole insects: Does a crayfish count? Because that's probably as close as I'll get.
43. Phaal: Fail.
44. Goat’s milk: It's really good!
45. Single malt whisky: Yeah, I went on a whisky trip Jr. Year.
46. Fugu: Never had it in Japan. Should though.
47. Chicken tikka masala: Could live on it.
48. Eel: My favorite sushi has eel.
49. Krispy Kreme original glazed doughnut: Classic. Haven't had one in a long time though.
50. Sea urchin: Indeed. Tasty.
51. Prickly pear: Fruit again...probably never.
52. Umeboshi: Nah.
53. Abalone: Love it.
54. Paneer: Kind of vague, but yes, I love it.
55. McDonald’s Big Mac Meal: I have never ever had a big mac meal. Or a big mac for that matter.
56. Spaetzle: I made my mom make this for me in the 4th grade and have had it many times since.
57. Dirty gin martini: Yes. Disgusting. Gin. Eff you.
58. Beer above 8% ABV: 19%. Straight from the barrel. Long Live Bailey's Tap Room 1 Year Anniversary on Aug 2, 2008
59. Poutine: Nope. Maybe never. I do want to live until 30.
60. Carob chips: Nope
61. S’mores: Incredible. I'd like...well, you get it.
62. Sweetbreads: Yup yup
63. Kaolin: Nope
64. Currywurst: Nope, but it sounds good.
65. Durian: Nope
66. Frogs’ legs: Yes! Tasty.
67. Beignets, churros, elephant ears or funnel cake:I've had them all. And they all make me so happy and so sick.
68. Haggis: Woot Woot yes.
69. Fried plantain
70. Chitterlings, or andouillette
71. Gazpacho: It's good. Meh.
72. Caviar and blini:
73. Louche absinthe
74. Gjetost, or brunost
75. Roadkill: stfu.
76. Baijiu
77. Hostess Fruit Pie: Won't ever. It's that whole fruit thing.
78. Snail: Yes. and I liked it.
79. Lapsang souchong: At Typhoon in Portland!
80. Bellini: Nope
81. Tom: Love it
82. Eggs Benedict: I tried these in redlands once and was very happy..
83. Pocky: I remember trading with Charles Fang to try some of his pocky in elementary school..
84. Tasting menu at a three-Michelin-star restaurant
85. Kobe beef: Kobe Beef Burger with Duck Fried Pomme Frittes.
86. Hare: I am a huge hare fan. Had it on my last birthday and was incredibly impressed.
87. Goulash
88. Flowers: Yea, I don't know if they were the edible kind though.
89. Horse: Yes. Raw.
90. Criollo: I'm not sure. This is also a type of horse. I don't think I had this type of horse though
91. Spam: Indeed. American Classic.
92. Soft shell crab: In the top 5 seafood list.
93. Rose harissa
94. Catfish: Tasty!
95. Mole poblano: You live in Southern California and...
96. Bagel and lox: One of my fave breakfasts. Really amanda? You haven't had this?
97. Lobster Thermidor
98. Polenta: Yup yup!
99. Jamaican Blue Mountain Coffee
100. Snake

Ahh Danville

Maaaade it. Weird to be home. I forget what ridiculous and fun people Danville friends are. Gotta get out and apply for stuff and things. 

Went on a date last week in Portland and she taught me a great word that I would say sums up the last couple days. Saudade. It's a new favorite. 

Away we go...

Tonight is my going away party with the Apple crew. The vast majority of my other friends here gone, this is really the final goodbye. I'm excited. Freaked. Rushed. I've got a lot to do in a short amount of time, but it's not as though there were another way. I leave moving like this to the last minute every time. 

The past couple days, walking through Portland and driving around have taught me how much I appreciate Portland and its people. There's a very Laissez-Faire attitude about culture, life, and experience. It's unsettling to outsiders. I'm going to miss it greatly. Also, to go from an area with (1) city vs. the Yay Area with (10,000) different cities is going to be a scalability issue for my head to deal with. Life in Portland. It's simple. It's easy to understand why most people here never leave. I hope to grow old and die here. 

Part of me leaves the packing to the last moment to avoid the emotional downfall that accompanies it. I leave myself so little time that I can't look at things in any other way than "do I need it or not." It's a lot easier to say no when time and space are short. 

I've also decided to have no expectations for the Bay Area. It's going to be as when I left for Portland - who knows? Who knows where I'll live, what I'll do...I will have a better support structure than when I moved to Portland, and having faced this type of adventure before, I feel infinitely more prepared for the potential downfalls. One of the things my mother has always said to me, "I never worry about you finding something to do in your life." I'm starting to live that mantra a bit. I can make this work. Portland was a test in that right. I passed, albeit with moments frustrating and god-awful, but it worked out. After an eye-opening experience of how things could be, I realized it was time to leave. Getting evicted was reassurance of that need. 

What I imagined in my head a few weeks ago is all but dust covered memories that may have been permanently shelved, but the incentive was exactly what I needed. To take a little page from the PeaceCorp, "Life is calling" and I've got to answer. Whether or not my opinion on the matter, it feels right. 

And if I can't trust my instincts, to put it simply, I'm fucked. I'm great at logical planning for other people, but for me, it has to be instinctive and knee-jerk for me to trust it. I work in the order "heart first, then mind." And only recently have I learned to love aspects of my twenties. My life is exciting. Stupidly unrooted. Vacillating and unstructured. But exciting. 

So here I go.

Bye, Couch

Today, my couch left. Spliced with green and yellow fabric--a corduroy pattern that my grandparents chose in the mid 80's, the couch was close to 250lbs, built during a time when you used the heaviest wood and steel because things were made to last, and last it did. The couch was impressively difficult to move and so it carried with it an unwieldily aura that always left me intimidated to take it along the course of my life.

As I a child, I slept on that couch when we visited the west coast. As an adult, that couch followed me on my first move out of college into my bungalow in Redlands. I remember watching the world cup and late nights where I simply passed out on it, the TV humming in the background as the Eternal Sunshine of my dreams. That couch was the oldest thing I had in my possession.

Now I look at my apartment and realize how weird it is to see merely an imprint. It was just a piece of furniture, but by God it's a pained release. That couch was, in many ways, my anchor. Without it, I'm unsettled.

My Move

My life, in one month, has drastically changed. 

I've rediscovered my sense of self and my faith in me has risen many times over. Some of this comes from being kicked out of Portland and yet feeling like it was a gift. Some of it arises out of my social reconstruction over the past couple months. I have solid friends in Portland. People I love and care about very much. For the first many months here, friendships were sparse and disingenuous--partly because I constructed them in my mind that way. It took me a while to truly appreciate Portland and its people, but I do now. 

A few months ago, a good friend told me that their biggest worry about the way I've aged is that my cynical side was destroying the part of me that used to believe in love in a very unbridled, exciting way. I had, until lately, made love more scientific, more sanitized. 

But my cynical side has now been, for an undetermined amount of time, crushed and destroyed. And that makes me as curious and adventurous as I remember myself being 5-6 years ago. An absolute and disengaging part of me has been revisited, as if I showed up at a grave and instead it was empty and attached was a note from the deceased saying they were partying in Paris. It is refreshing. I have no expectations as I'm trying to prepare for everything, but I have no lack of hope. Thanks Barack!

As I head back to the Bay Area, I am returning to my youth, family I've missed, and unfinished endeavors. I am purposefully only taking what I can fit in my car--it's time to have a new start. I need to remind myself that I am not these things I own, but simply a capable person. 

Eviction is Awesome.

So I got evicted. All the one bedroom apartments in my complex are
being remodeled. In a way, it's a blessing. Most of the people I know
in Oregon are gone by the end of this month. So I'll be leaving too.
Last day is the 14th for work and I should be down in San diego a few
days later.

Oh life how quickly you change.

Sent from my iPhone

Traveling Incog

Every time that I ride the train, I do so incognito. I never pay. I
try every ticket machine to see if it will take my credit card, and
when it doesn't I board. I have no ticket. 20 rides later and I have
yet to see someone check. Regardless, I try to pay every time. And
when it doesn't work, I write it off. I assume that for this ride, I'm
spent. I did my best.

So everytime I go downtown there's an inclination to figure out if I
am going to make it. And yet here I am, watching the horizontal world
pass like a kaleidoscope as the man three seats up makes passes at a guy
reading the sports page.

I am, in this pose, a ticketless entrepreneur. I survive from stop
to stop expecting that my invisibility is my guise.

Wiloiooooo drunk.
--------------------------

Note: I should have never enabled the ability to update my blog via my phone. This is a horrible idea. 

On the train

I'm watching a couple right now. Across the way they stand, clearly
together. But in an interesting switch, he keeps his distance. As she
talks he doesn't have his hand around her or near her. Instead, he is
simply watching her eyes. With that freedom she accentuates her speech
with hand gestures galore. She fixes his shirt, pats his hair, and
makes her own decisions. In the midst of their conversation he has
forced her to take hold of him.

Over the past few minutes she has moved closer. They have switched
poles on the train. And he, not to control her, has kept his distance.

With every movement she has taken the chance to act in her own regard.
And for this they have both been rewarded.

Old Poem

Found this one gathering dust the other day. Funny the stuff I wrote drunk in Brockton.

I've left myself with no home,
no box to store myself in
no space to place these thoughts,
caving the tunnel behind me so that each
attempt to go back or follow the wet walls
when darkness falls I find the rubble
that keeps every brockton or danville at bay
till I finally can say that this is my life,
my early crises gone till I see that
maybe I can live on my own,
prove that I've grown out of a degree
and into me.

Yes.

I am excited for the 4th of July.

That is all.

The Lost Coast

I've been a lot of places in my life. It's one of the luckier aspects of being the son of someone in the airline industry. Since that first, child-induced urge to travel, I've experienced some off-the-wall places--some quite extracted from society.

But nothing comes even close to this last weekend on the Lost Coast.

10 hours away from Portland is a small town named Shelter Cove in Northern California. A 9 mile hike from shelter cove along the Pacific Ocean on tough rocks and loose sand will transport you to what is, quite literally, a land lost from civilization.

Surfers have known this spot for many years. It was a surfer, my friend Michelle's uncle, who with the help of a friend turned a barn into the most unique location I have ever been to.

The hike to the camp is brutal. The sand and rocks are consistently uneven. After a few miles, the ankles swell from the loose rocks and sloping sand. The feet sink with every step, so each foot forward is 3 times the effort it would be on land. On top of this, you're wearing a heavy pack which only sinks you further into the blackness of the beach.

Eleven of us set out on this adventure--all friends from college set in the ways of reconnection and youthful recalibration. There was little talk of work, much of life, and laughter. Easy laughter that drains from you when there's no reason not to laugh. We walked the beach and shifted pairings, encouraging each other along. As we struck land, we walked through golden meadows to arrive at the camp.

For nine miles, we saw nothing but rock, sand, seaweed, and the occasional hiker. Never trash, never buildings or structures, never a mechanical instrument. Suddenly, after this twisting route along the coast to come upon what may have very well been a castle felt like a hallucination. A mirage from the heat and hike. But as we walked the landing strip that had facilitated our supplies being flown in days earlier, the excitement of the camp's find was one of the most appreciated of my life. Here we were, able to share in Michelle's family's legacy--an escape known to few that could not be more separated from normal life.

A barn housed us. Mats and blankets and sleeping bags were our rest. A spa, a metal bin with wood slats at the bottom, was heated by fire underneath--a human stew of sorts. The kitchen building showed every sign of having been handmade due to the difficulties of being able to get anything pre-built into the camp. Originally built as a surfer's haven, it had every touch of the ocean life-style. Books ranging from philosophy to composting, surfboards fixed between beams in the ceiling, pictures on the walls of waves ridden and snapshots with youths standing tall next to their boards stuck in the sand as if posing with a lover.

We spent three days on that coast. Cooking our meals, drinking ourselves silly, hiking the coast, singing camp songs, playing football or frisbee...even just napping on the beach or at the house. The coast was ours and we were so very lost. Happily lost in it all.

When we left, we attempted to leave no trace of us having been there. But the truth is, once you're there, part of you stays. Part of me will always dream of that coast the way I dream of my grandparents' houses that I will never enter again. It is a space that reconstituted my thoughts of freedom and escape. I await eagerly to go back some day if the option arises, but I treated the goodbye with finality. I can never plan to be as free as I was on that coast because I never planned it hiking in. The freedom became. I awakened to the idea that we were alone and up to our own devices. Each of us was a lord of the flies, and we built our own fantastic society.

Enjoy

Clarification

So I write. Blog writing is certainly something I enjoy. I also write poetry. And then I make movies of those poems. I also write essays and emails and my name on government forms and on envelopes and on body parts when my fans walk up to me with a Sharpie and ask for my signature. So of all those things I write (one of which I made up), sometimes there's personal stuff in there. Or introspective...stuff. And things. Now some of it has meaning. Some of it really was about an actual person! I've always been surprised at how much paler my imagination is compared to real life, so I write about real things. Maybe it's an old relationship. Or a dream. Or a thought. Or maybe I was really drunk. Or maybe my servant monkey took control of the computer. 

The main thing with most of my writing (and most of the time it's just poetry) is that I just write it. I have to. I can't really control what I write and sometime ago, I moved beyond any shame or embarrassment affiliated with making those words public. In fact, I settled quite some time ago with the idea that whoever is me is going to be public. I think blogs in society have helped a lot of people come to this realization. Not a lot of people shared their "journal" before. It was kind of unheard of. Well, hello 2008. Things are a bit different. 

So, I write poetry. And it's out there. Maybe it's about you. Maybe it's not. Maybe if was about you yeaaaaaaaaaars ago. But hey, not to draw any comparison, but just because Oliver got older it doesn't mean Charles Dickens went back and rewrote the thing. So take the context of my poetry with at least 10 grains of salt. Maybe 20. Because in the end, it doesn't always make sense to me sometimes. 

Whew, well that's out of the way. My other blog is available now. 

Loss

____ is one of my regular students at work. He's one of my favorites, not just because he's about 40-50 years younger than my average clientele, but he reminds me of myself in many ways. He's a sponge for all things tech and I can cover 4-5 sessions worth of material in an hour. I can just see it clicking and his parents tell me they've never seen him so excited about any sort of class. I've only squished his mind a few times with too much information, but he always comes back with a list of questions and really pushes himself to understand. During the last session he asked how old he has to be to work for Apple. I told him he still had five years and he sank in his seat a little. I didn't want to have a job until I was...well, I still don't want to have a job really. But here he is at the age of 13 and he wants to do what I do. For lack of a better word, that's neat-o.

Well, I got an email from him earlier this week saying that he couldn't make the session because his grandfather died. I didn't really know how to respond to it, so I kept things business-as-usual and rescheduled the session and followed with "sorry for your loss." I wanted to say so much more though. I was his age when my grandfather died and it throttled my reality and my life out of whack so intensely that it wasn't until I was in college that I was able to open up about how profound it was to lose my first close family member. But it's not my place to say anything about it. I have to bite my tongue. 

Next week I'm going to hit him with the hardest lesson material I can find and give his mind a logical puzzle instead of the abstract conundrum of death.

Quite the weekend

I went home this past weekend. My mother turned 60. I interviewed for a job. Friendships shifted. Some refreshed. Some ended. Overall, it was a good time. The cheerleader on the flight back that I sat next to summed it up well when she asked for her drink. "Can I get an AMF?" Of course, no, she couldn't, but I knew how she felt. With the plane flying away, AMF indeed.

I left the Bay Area beat tired, happy, contented, and unbelievably frustrated. Tired of the days events. There were no days off on my days off. I don't sleep in anymore. Never make it past 830. Happy with the time spent with family and friends. Contented with the finality I experienced. Frustrated with being treated as the same breakable and obsessed heart I once was. I understand, the status quo of my emotional attachments falling apart was once the reliable and excessive turn of defense and pain. It's not any longer. I'm too ambivalent. I'm only worried about my friendships I care to sustain.

Portland is _____, but the comfortable people I've known here are soon to depart for over a year to go abroad. Change is coming again. I've been here for one year to get comfortable and I think I'm ready for the situation to change.

And I'm out of energy. I'm just spent. No real sentences here.

But you. Nice to talk to you again. It's been a while.

I love xkcd.

www.xkcd.com

Hey you.

The couple.

They're outside, smoking. They're in their own world, whispering daggers in the nook of the door. I walk by and step into the tap room to order a beer. 10 minutes go by and they walk back in. He looks like he wants to comfort her, a sad despondent look hovering behind his stiff-lipped seriousness.

They sit back down to beers I hadn't noticed. She sees the glass and reaches out as if to drink it, but only picks it up to set it back down a few steps further away from his. He doesn't notice. He's busy hand-rolling a cigarette. His movements are surgical--not a single quake of his hand. She is ambivalent, staring inwards and tapping her right foot to some unknown beat.

Without making eye contact, he passes the cigarette to her and begins to roll his own. She looks like she might vomit into her glass. I can't lie, I think it would be more comfortable for me if she did, if she did something human. I walked in on this. I've sat here staring and I've somehow made myself an accomplice of looking where I shouldn't, being curious where the place isn't mine, and unwillingly I've fallen upon this scene of encrypted feelings and I don't know where the story ends. I can't tell if she's pregnant. If she's dying. If a family member just died. Their relationship just died or if one of them adulterated whatever veil of perfection may have stood therein. It's moments like these I shame myself for taking pictures of people, and luckily I have no camera with me. But I have no business being a part of this sorrow, because regarding the business and pain of others, it is no business of mine.

Before he had the chance to finish rolling the last of the American Spirit into its paper, she stands and walks out the door. He hastily packs up the tobacco into his pocket and leaves the cigarette on the table. And just like that, out they went, back into the night, back to their lives. Forty five minutes later and the cigarette is still on the table. As I lay my money on the bar and step out onto Broadway, I glance left and then right.

They're gone. I'll never know.

Encore. Music, "That Home" by The Cinematic Orchestra

Quite a bit going on...

I've found a group of people that I want to live with. I know them all from work, but if we were to get the house we're looking at, I'd be closer to work, closer to downtown, and closer to Lewis and Clark. 

"Lewis and Clark? The university? Why does that matter, Dave?"

Great question. As it turns out, Celestino, the associate dean at Redlands who went off to become VP/Dean of Students at Carroll College is moving to Portland to be the Dean of Students at Lewis and Clark. Hopefully there will be a chance that I can have somewhat of a mentor in the Portland area again. Very exciting. 

So about this house. It's great. A pool and spa that are both out of use, but I'm sure we could save the pool. It's got a daylight basement, TWO decks off the back side, and well, that's about it. But John, Leah, Tony, and I took a trip to go see it last night and creep around the backyard. Oh what fun it would be to live there with people and no longer by myself. 

I spent about 3 hours this morning cooking food. I want to buy a new camera. That new camera costs bling. The sinkhole of my budget right now has been eating out. Bah. So I've started spending one night or morning a week cooking my food for the rest of the week. Simple enough - rosemary chicken and rice pilaf, cheese tortellini, more miso soup, and black rice pudding. In total, with about 25 bucks of groceries I'm fed for a week instead of the $132,000 it costs to eat out. 

Next to trim down on....Alcohol.

Untitled.

He handed me my Jack and Coke and looked out at the dance floor as she shivered and swayed with as much controlled femininity as I've ever seen--a confidence in her womanhood that makes kings take off their crown and that artists struggle to capture--a snake who charms the charmer.

"I wish I were younger." He said, taking a sip of his White Russian. I chuckled and he turned to face me.

"My dad cheated on my mom. My mom looked past it as a personal flaw. Tried to ignore it. I grew up with it and tried to protect her from finding out, but she knew. We both knew. We lived with that everyday and just ignored it."

He gestured with his drink towards the dance floor as the ice piled against the side of his glass, just barely pulling itself back from the edge in time, swaying in the white tide. "I'd be the same. I can feel it in me. I have such a passion for women. I just want to be with them. To know what it's like. Look at her--she's so powerful. I'm just curious. If I had one kid, I would become my dad. I would live that curiosity, that demon, whatever you want to call it. But not now. But not with two. Never with two. Now I just wish I were younger. I'd give anything to be 25 again"

Before I could say anything, he passed his drink to me. "I'll be right back, I've gotta piss. Happy Birthday, man."

What am I doing with my life?!

RIGHT? I'm working. Full-time, whoopee. Not to say I don't really enjoy my job at Apple--the people are fantastic, the challenges are varied, some of my clients are very worthwhile...but I always like working in the macro, and teaching individuals is about as micro as you can get.

So besides the fact that I'm selling my old camera to upgrade to another (really this has nothing to do with the rest of this post, but I had to mention that I am getting a new camera because I am so excited about it) I've decided to look into part-time work/volunteering in the area.

As it turns out, the volunteer market isn't much easier than the job market in Portland. Sure, there are lots of groups I could join to stand on a corner and ask people to sign a petition, but that's shoot-me-in-the-face work. I'm offering all my skills, part-time, for minimum wage or free if the cause seems worthwhile as long as I feel the organization is putting me in a place to utilize all (or at least most) of my skills.

Well, one of my normal customers who is extremely well connected in the Portland Area is also a volunteer for a group called MTI (Medical Teams International.) They provide all levels of relief, from local to international. She's already stepped in and sent an email for me to meet with the director.

There's a part of me that stirs when I don't feel like I'm working to make the world a better place. I'm just excited to get out there and do something worthwhile.

Life in Writing

My apartment is a mess. A respectable mess. So I decided to clean it. Because I love cleaning so much, I started with the documents folder on my computer. I don't even remember how I justified it (I think I happened to be sitting at the computer this morning wondering if I could clean anything without moving.) After 5 minutes of looking through my documents folder, I got up, walked out of the room, and went to the gym.

My documents folder has over 1500 files in it. Some are poems. Some are short essays. Some are schoolwork. Some are pieces of writing or sentences or phrases that have no discernible ending. Some are titled, "what the hell is this?" or "a;sdlkfj" or "work on this." Some are from a life so long ago that I hardly recognized my own voice. It was so...young. So happy. So star-eyed. So breakable. In many ways, so much more passionate.

The memories that I started coming across made it clear that I should have just cleaned out my sink, put some dishes away, and started a load of laundry. But instead, I had to just get out and go run.

And I hate running.

Saturdays off? Niiiiiiiice.

I've worked weekends since October.

Please take a moment and let that set in.

Alright, so there have been some exceptions. Correction, exception. Easter. But by god, not having a Friday was killing me.

Not anymore though! Oh ho ho no. My new schedule gives me Saturday off. 50% of my weekend is back! Since I didn't have either day off, this is infinitely better than before. I'm so excited to have a (real) Friday night and not just me sitting at happy hour, buzzed and writing at a table by myself, texting people to come downtown on a Monday night. (For those of you who got those text messages, I apologize. I had Tuesdays off. But no, "It's monday, dude" is still not a good excuse.)

And so what happens on this Friday before my splendiferous weekend? Everything right. I had fantastic classes today...covered a lot of crap that I never get to talk about because it's such obscure stuff that even Mr. Wizard turns in his grave and mumbles "geek" when I explain it. Then, I leave work to be standing in radiant sunshine, 90-degree weather, and the evening approaching with reckless abandon.

Brilliant, Portland. I love your teaser trailer of Summer.

So what will I do with my night now? I have no idea. Go downtown. Without a camera I think. I almost knocked a girl off her long board yesterday because she stuck her hands up in front of her face to block the picture and luckily fell towards the sidewalk just in time and avoided the busy traffic had she fallen the other way. She really did not want her picture taken. She berated me for not having asked for permission and how blah blah, yak yak...all I could think in the moment was how her crooked, pointing, accusing finger would make a great picture. But my mother snapped into my head and said "what did I teach you?" so I apologized and went on my way.

I walked up the street and there was an awesome VW Bug under the trees. I mean, fantaaaaastic shape and so I grabbed a picture with the trees hovering over the car. Next thing I know, Long Board Girl rides up and and tears open the door on the car and throws in her long board and I mutter something stupid like "oh that's your car, this must look weird" but I trailed off by the end of the sentence like 12-year old apologizing to someone they don't want to and immediately I punched myself in the face for saying anything as she sped off.

In retrospect it was brilliantly funny after about an hour and a beer. Take that, hippy, long boarding, VW driving girl who I creeped out with my photography! Chalk one up for the awkward team!

And, before you blow me up like Timmy, Mr. Wizard, know that Bill Nye (although entertaining for how uncomfortable and seemingly emasculated he is because of his show) will never replace you.

...oh, and because I can...










/muahahah

dek

Downtown Again

People are funny. First, they're everywhere. Second, barring time fluctuations, false realities, and nit-picks, it's taken about as much time to grow one as it's taken to make a me, if not more. All some billion of us have jobs or families or houses or shacks or corners. Inevitably, you at some point have run into another person. They are everywhere. And so I take pictures of them. I catalogue the species.

I'm not a very patient photographer. That doesn't mean I won't take time to get lighting and framing, but I rarely have time to ask my subject for permission. Not that I want it. If I ask "can I take a picture?" I get this crap where they know the picture is coming and inevitably, someone does something stupid like put their hands up or check their teeth or make a face that resembles nothing like how they look the other 99.9999996% of their day.

So I take out my big zoom lens and get in close on some faces. They're not ready. They're talking. They're kissing. they're fighting. Pedaling. Rowing. Hell, the look like normal people. Most the the people who see me ready to shoot prepare for my camera as though they weren't prepared for the world.

What is it we become aware of with that camera pointed right at us? Our bodies or posture? As though it's the chance for someone else to see you as you do in the mirror? That suddenly we're taking up 1/60th of a second's worth of our 15 minutes of fame?

I see people walk with indifference past crowds that scour them up and down with their eyes. Not a flinch or tremor. But then they see my lens: that baneful, soul-stealing mechanism and then they react. To a hunk of metal and plastic.

Maybe its the permanence. This idea that when we're put into some format--either written, drawn or taken--we imagine it as becoming a part of our legacy. If pictures could only be captured for an hour or two, would we react the same way? Would we hide from the lens? Or would we engage it like 13 year old girls who live from photo to photo?

If it's legacy driven, I feel more inclined to just shoot away. Is there a reason we shouldn't be remembered for how we were in that honest, everyday moment and not for the few seconds posing for the stranger behind a lens?

Maybe being caught in a genuine moment is simply too damning.

Welcome to Tuesday Breakfast

On my days off, I like to take my morning slowly. Really slowly. As in "wake-up-at-8am-to-start-making-breakfast but-don't-start-eating-until-10:30" slowly. Today, I woke up, read some news online, checked the phone, and tossed some brown rice in the rice maker. 1 hour 40 minutes right there, just to get the rice cooked. 

Then I got started on the miso soup...a little anchovy stock (oh, you didn't know that's what miso soup had in it? Didn't think you liked anchovies? Oh but it does and you do), some miso, some lotus root, some firm tofu, and a touch of green onion. Simmer that pot for a while. Simmahhh.

Now let's get out our fish. "Wait, what? Fish for breakfast? You kid surely." No, I'm no kid and don't call me Shirley. So I grab my two filets, my bottle of soy sauce and get these puppies ready for a crisping on the grill. My grill was on and ready to go at 9am. Bingo bango. 

My fish done crisping on the grill, my rice maker singing a happy tune that it's done (it's a Zojirushi, about as Asian as it gets...and it plays a song at the end of cooking), my miso soup in my hand as I pull the fish off the grill. 

And this....this is a Tuesday Breakfast with Dave.

Downtown P-Town.

I've been living in Portland for coming up on a year. Only recently have I begun to trench myself out of my apartment to venture within the city. I don't know what it was that's kept me--my old relationship, stubbornness, fear, or maybe an overall sense of discomfort in this area--but regardless, I'm expanding my independence.

Having traveled internationally a few times by myself, I know that sense of feeling completely unshackled and unchecked; as though I've been dropped into a brand new world where no one knows me, and anyone I know is infinitely far away.

Going downtown lately has imbibed me with that feeling. Every restaurant I pass looks unique and exotic, strangers say hello to me on the street and I have no clue how to respond (this is America! who the hell says hello on the streets?) I walk for hours and just peruse the area and get caught up so deeply in the experience that I forget I'm alone. The pestering thought in the back of my head informing me of my own suspected mediocrity is silenced and only before me is another street block I haven't seen. A bridge to cross. A dive bar with tired locals whose daily life I've stumbled upon seems permanent and repetitive, but no. Not mine. I'm a tourist simply passing through, getting a drink before I head back to my 1 bedroom hostel, 25 minutes to the west where I spend every night.


I write when I go on these adventures. I haven't written in months, but these nights are invigorating. Poetry is flowing again. Creativity is brewing. My camera lens is freshly cleaned. And a blog...well it might be about time for a blog.