a dialogue

"Your blog post changed my mind about having kids," M announced.

I gaped in surprise, eyebrows raised, "You can't be serious! -all these years of entrenchment and a measly blog-post changes your mind?!"

Truth be told, I hadn't the slightest intention of changing any one's mind. I read it to him yesterday evening during that ho-hum lull between talk of work and talk of what's for dinner. I read him all my posts, sometimes because I am proud to share them, but more often because it helps the editor in me find mistakes when I read aloud. I wrote honestly of a conversation I had had with a friend. I had formed no conclusions in concluding. I felt instead that I had simply introduced yet another perspective into this on-going 30-something debate I had been having with myself of late. But his clear and seemingly spontaneous reversal caused me to question the foundation of reason on which I have stood these many years. We discussed in all seriousness our reservations: the loss of independence and privacy, the threat of global warming and cultural collapse, the financial strains and complications that go hand in hand with trying to raise a family in the modern world. All seemed somehow less important in comparison with the real and paralyzing fear of someday being totally and completely alone.

In the car tonight, on our way to Hopworks for organic brews and pizza, we delicately danced around the topic. I said, "One of my big fears is having an annoying 3rd wheel tagging along with us all the time. I really like just being with you -and only you." He reached across the console to grasp my hand, and shot me a warm, sidelong glance. "I like being a team, you and I," I continued, "What if there was some other person sitting in the backseat right now -it seems like it could be really annoying and disruptive."

M laughed, "Yeah, and imagine if it was a complete stranger, because you really don't know what sort of person you'll get."

We joked that it would be far easier if you could just conduct interviews. Say, you get a tailored roster, based on your preferences, of 5-10 potential 3rd wheel candidates and you pick the one with whom you realistically think you could stand to live for the next 18 odd years. I can be very particular about the sorts of people I want to hang around, especially for long periods of time. I am quickly exhausted by dull conversation and instantly repelled by clingy and complicated people. I find your average American boring. I sum people up in a snap and am seldom persuaded to disregard those first raw impressions (and I admit that I am wrong some of the time, but not often enough to change my MO). I am uncomfortable, in one way or another, with almost everyone, and there have been rare few in my life with whom I am completely and perfectly natural. And I love each and every one of them. Deeply. So, what if I suck up and decide to have a human of my very own and I don't get the sort that I adore?! -what if I end up with the very sort of person I absolutely loathe?! What if I take one look at my spawn and decide, "yup, another American idiot for the consumer machine." What then?!

We settled in at Hopworks and ordered some beers. Hopworks is shaking up to be a real hipster joint, fitting for the hipster town Portland seems destined to be. As for the clientele, piercings abounded, as well as short funky dos and skinny jeans. Bicycle frames hung in neat rows over the bar and bicycle wheels served as mounts for the lighting. Bicycling is apparently the thing to do here. I own a bike like every good Portlander, but it seldom sees the light of day. In my garish orange sweatshirt and late-1990s bell bottom cords, I felt a bit old and out of place. The bicycle lighting was far too family-style for my mood, and I felt exposed and uncool as I blinked back tears. The conversation plodded along, our hands clasped across the table.

"It's not like there is really anything else that I desire. I lack for material desires, and all the romantic dreams of my youth are gone." M said, as he swallowed the dredges of his IPA, his gaze meeting mine, direct, uninterrupted, solid.

I questioned his radical shift. For a fleeting and anguished moment, I thought that he might be making fun of me. The tears shining behind his eyes told me that he wasn't kidding around. I told him that I want him to make up my mind for me, because I can't do it by myself. His complacency was disconcerting, his ambiguity still apparent enough to make me wonder if this conversation was all a dream.

"Perhaps we are just feeling this way because we are growing older," he said. We are seeing things in a new and different light. We are looking out upon a future that appears somewhat bleaker than it did when we were 20, when we first met at an Amoco station in suburban Bloomington, Minnesota . Then, the whole world was a giant, pure, expansive vista opening before us, mysterious and strange, begging for interpretation and understanding, and after that, action. Our options at that time were as myriad as the decisions we would have to make as the years progressed, decisions which would slowly limit our options one by one.

Now, years have passed and we have had to make many of those decisions together. One of which is has been to live, settle down and remain in Portland, Oregon. We reflected on how we have dreamed over the years to someday live in Mexico -to just pack up and ship off and live in a meager way, learning Spanish and living close to the land. I said, "It is sweet, but that dream has always been for the future - and the future just keeps slipping even further into the future. Maybe it is the sort of dream that stays in the future for a while? -because everyone has those." M agreed, and smiled a wry knowing smile. "And whatever we decide, kids or no, it can still be something we someday do," he said. I nodded my consent.

We paid our tab and headed home, emotionally exhausted from the terrible task of dragging thoughts out of our heads and slapping them down on the table, one by one. We are always nakedly honest with one another, but this is one such topic that has always remained a bit on the fringes. It was strangely intimate to discuss it so openly.

I joked, "Well, if we do have a kid, we will tell it the story of how mommy wrote an off-the-cuff blog post one night and she read it to daddy and he kinda freaked out and had a change of heart and then he convinced mommy and well...that's why you're here!"

Needless to say, dear reader, matters are as up in the air as ever they were. No lasting and final decisions were made. What I didn't include here are the raw, disgusting details. Like how we tried to figure out how we'd make ends meet financially -truly not the stuff of engaging dialogue. And then there's health insurance. We have absolutely shitty health insurance. That would obviously have to change before any decisions were made. Oh, and mommy has to quit smoking first, for one thing. That's certain. I mean really quit. No more of this sometimes-smoking thing. And then there is always global warming looming ever larger on the horizon of our minds. I am not sure that one will go away.

In the end I said, "I think I used to be 90% opposed, 10% pro." I had always declared that I didn't want to make decisions for my future self, and then my future self crept out of the future and shook my hand. Now she is me. "And then, for a while it was more like 75% opposed and 25% pro. So, a slight change between 31 years old and 33 years old. And now that I can taste ever so slightly what it might be like to actually be old, I am sitting square on the middle of the fence: 50/50."

M agrees. 50/50. Toss a coin. On which side does it land? I say heads. Tell me it's tails???

a reasonable price

Last night K and I went for a walk around the neighborhood after a long lapse. I have been busy with my SIL's visit, and she with her new job. She had just returned from a weekend visit to an old friend in Cottage Grove, and she remarked how startling and sad it was to see her friend aging quicker then she expected. Her friend, J, lives alone, never married, never had any children and now, as she approaches 60, she claims to have precious few regrets about her chosen course. She revels in her independence and freedom. But K has noticed how clingy J becomes whenever K pays her a visit, how excited J gets over even insignificant interactions with others, how little meaningful contact she has with the world, and the utter absence of intimacy in her life.

Neither K nor I have children, and this fact bonds us to one another and occasionally it stresses us out. As we both creep into middle-age, the question becomes ever more urgent and the weighing of pluses and minuses has consumed more than a few wine-fueled conversations over the years. She swears she'll never do it, and I don't doubt her -her time is running out and the stars are not aligning. My case is still up in the air. I am younger then she is, and my husband isn't entirely opposed to the idea, although we are of one mind in avoiding a decision at this juncture. But now, reflecting despondently upon the loneliness of her friend J, K exclaimed "I don't want to end up like that!" And neither do I -but if we choose not to share our present lives with children, how will we avoid it?

We called to mind our early days in Portland, when we worked together at a low-income apartment building for senior citizens. All those sick, lonely, desperate men and women who would seek the company of the measly front-desk girl, simply from a lack of alternatives. We thought of the few folks who were found dead, hours or days after. One man was found, face down on the floor, eyes wide open and his hands outstretched. There was no one to call, no one to make funeral preparations, no one to lovingly go through his belongings and save them for the generations to follow. Many tenants were estranged from their children, which seemed to me such a terrible waste.

I said, "It will probably suck to be old and alone. But what price are we expected to pay in order to avoid it?" I thought of all the reasons I have remained childless. I do not like the idea of being at the beck and call of a child. I hate the thought of never doing what I want to do, when I want to do it. I can't bear the thought of losing all sense of privacy and independence. I don't want to drive kids all over town, to soccer practice and sleepovers. I don't relish the idea of being called an asshole by my teenager. And this is just a start.

"Is it worth it," I said, "to sacrifice all of our present desires and freedom simply out of a theoretical fear that we might be alone when we are old? Isn't being alone in our later years a reasonable price to pay for all the fun we're having now?" Silence fell, and I mulled for a moment over the quantity and the quality of all the "fun" I am supposedly having. I vowed then and there to have a hell of a lot more of it, since I am purchasing it at such a high and painful price.

the new trellises

accidental feng shui

We finished the trellises just as the last light faded from the clear spring sky. We were inspired to make the slats more architecturally interesting by placing them off-kilter from one another - and the better to go fully half-ass in the measuring department. By the time we hammered in the last crossing slat, we had our system down, but a few proved frustrating as the slats would move off level as soon as we would begin hammering. A few bitchy words were exchanged, but most in jest and with no lasting damage. We got on marvelously and in record time and I sitting back now with a drink in hand, I think the results are amazing. And no one notices when you go whole-hog anyhow.

Our neighbor wandered over as we labored this afternoon, curious as to what all the pounding was about. She expressed her approval enthusiastically and I shrugged it off in typical fashion, stating that our chosen placement of the main front-and-center trellis "is hardly feng shui." She informed me that actually placing something grand and dominant directly in front of one's front door is indeed compatible with the tenets of feng shui: it keeps the chi from escaping and running amok. She added, "the toilet's the same way -you don't want to have your toilet in full view of the living areas of the home -all that good chi just gets flushed down the toilet. I’m thinking of moving my toilet." I was happy to hear that we were accidentally in accord with core principles of the universe with respect to our landscape design, but our toilet is another matter and shall have to wait for another meditation.

With the feng shui trellises now completed, we need only find a tasty table grape cultivar and put it into the ground before the season heads into full swing. We finished off the winding slate path well after nightfall, and now looking around we are already dreaming of other architectural features that will make the garden both more practical and beautiful.

Oh -and as for the drawing I posted this morning? -I have already changed my mind. A new garden plan drawing will follow...along with photos of the new installation….

garden plans

The sun was shining this morning when I woke up and settled in on the front porch for my usual coffee and email routine. I spent the day yesterday drawing up grand plans for the summer garden, plotting what will go where and which spots might be suitable for more fruit trees, an arbor hanging with vines, crawling cucumbers and sprawling squash. It seems each year brings new ideas as the garden expands. And so, this morning I drew diagrams and calculated supply needs, measured post lengths and concentrated on the construction details.

M is now on a supply trip to Home Depot where he will pick up all the materials we will need to construct a few grape trellises in our front yard. The plan is to build something permanent to support the swiftly growing Pinot Noir vine we received by post from Davis, California a few years back. It spent its first year cramped in a pot, and only last summer were its roots finally permitted to sink deep into the rich soil of the garden. Our friend W sent it to us as a gift. I would hate to murder it by accident or neglect. So, we will build a support for it using 4x4s and smaller cross-pieces. I hope to incorporate it into a larger, taller trellis to house a rotating array of annual summer climbers, either vegetables or flowers depending on my mood each year. We would also like to plant two table grape vines directly in front of the house that will crawl up each side of yet another support system. This should provide greater privacy from the traffic on the street and gift our table with fresh autumn sweetness.

Yet even as I plan and draw and scheme, I am aware that my ideas change and next year we might well rip up this year's work and start again with something new. I wonder if I might not wish to move the blueberries someday. I imagine a fig tree instead of a trellis, rhododedrons instead of a fig. There are so many possibilities, it is difficult to settle upon just one.

Last night as we loitered over cool glasses of Reisling in the fading light of the garden, I crawled up into a crook in the apple tree on a whim -I had never thought to climb our apple tree before. We imagined how fun it would be to build a little platform nestled between the three arching branches, like a fort we might have built decades ago in an effort to carve out a little private space far from the claustrophobic ministrations of parents. M exclaimed, "how strange it is to think that this apple tree is ours!" We could cut it down if we like, or build a fort in its canopy. We could harvest all the apples and throw them in the rubbish bin, or we could use them to bake a fresh hot pie. M gestured at the long strands of arugula, waving wildly, its flowers scattering seeds every which way -"that too is ours." And the spruce tree with its lopped off limbs, even that forest goliath belongs to us. It does not make a whit of sense to own living, growing things, but nevertheless -so it is.

The day is quickly disappearing. I wonder if we'll have time to do all the tasks we've set for ourselves. I am glad that the sun lingers above the horizon a little longer each day as the summer approaches. Soon it will be over, and another winter will cover our hearts. But for now, my spirit rejoices in anticipation of long, hot summer days, the scent of blooming roses, sweet grapes, and the dripping tart juice of tomatoes ripened on the vine.

tunnel

last day

L leaves us tomorrow. We will pack her onto a train bound for Seattle and she will return to her day-to-day in Minneapolis. It will be sad to see her go, but I confess I will treasure a stretch of calm and quiet in the weeks to come. I love those long empty weekend days with nothing planned and nothing but a garden begging for attention. I am a social creature, but only in small doses. I am happiest when left to myself in the silence of the garden, dirt under my fingernails, and sweat shining on my brow. And the weather promises to improve in these coming days, so I rejoice in anticipation of reclaiming my proper place among the growing things.

L is sleeping in this morning, and M has headed to New Seasons to pick up picnic provisions, a baguette, some tuna salad, fruit and nuts. I am grasping at this rare opportunity to write while no one is around, requiring conversation, or breakfast. The sun is shining this morning (for a change!) as I sit on the front porch and dream of the day ahead.

We are going for a hike in the Colombia Gorge as soon as we can get our shit together. The plan is to hit the Eagle Creek trail for a twelve mile round-trip hike up 1200 feet to the Tunnel Falls, an insane crashing curtain of water that falls in front of a blasted-out tunnel behind it.

We took the same hike with M's father, T, last summer, but had to turn back at the tunnel. T stood trembling just before it, petrified and clinging to the cable mounted in the rock walls beside the precipitous cliff side, his vertigo and fear of exposure paralyzing him. M and I scrambled through the tunnel, and T took photographs of us from across the grotto as we stood triumphant on the other side. We marveled at the massive weight of the cliff hanging over our heads, held up by who-knows-what and certainly destined someday to fall. We stood astonished as we considered the massive rock caverns and cliffs that must have proved so formidable to those Forest Service workmen who blasted a course six miles through sheer basalt all that long summer of 1916.

I can't say in retrospect that I regret turning back at that point. Twelve miles was about all my aching feet and knees could bear, and as we rounded out the last few miles back to the car, we trotted ever quicker, like horses who sense that the barn is near.

We hope to try this trail again today, but I question whether we won't encounter spring snows along the trail at its higher points and be forced to turn back before we experience the majesty of the falls. M insists the snows will be gone, but this recent cold, rainy snap does not build my confidence. I suppose we shall see.

L is moving about inside now, preparing to greet the day. M should be returning any moment, and from where I sit on my front-porch perch, I can see clouds forming on the horizon. Hopefully the rains will spare us as we cherish this last day together. Hopefully the snows will have melted and our legs don't give out and the tunnel has not already caved in.

sign of the times

I was disappointed to see Hillary Clinton roundly defeat Barack Obama in the Pennsylvania primary, but it was expected. While she still lags behind in delegates, she has a decided rational for continuing her fight. Despite repeated calls, she refuses to step aside. She questions whether or not her gender factors in the ease with which people call for her dismissal, and I don't doubt that she may be onto something there. The woman in me hates the fact that I agree with her detractors.

I cannot help but wish she would step aside, if only for one reason: to allow the country the chance to capitalize on a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. I've been voting since 1992 and I can't recall ever witnessing young people so energized and so eager to participate in the electoral process. Perhaps it was so in the 1960s when John F. Kennedy and Martin Luther King Jr. stood as standard-bearers for change and renewal. I can only imagine the political climate at that time, but I suspect that now is another such time.

If Sen. Obama does not prevail, I am afraid that millions of young people will check-out -and if young people check-out we will lose one more generation to apathy, to immobility and to excess. And we can't afford to lose any momentum in this struggle against the vast weight of our crimes - against the planet and its people. The water resources will not hold out, our energy crisis will only worsen, the middle class will learn what it is like to be the working poor, and the working poor will find themselves homeless. "The time is now."

I do not believe or represent that Sen. Obama in himself has the resources to solve these problems -and I don't think that he does either. But the energy he has inspired among the young, the forgotten, and the disenfranchised inheritors of our great mess gives me hope that a coalition for change can be cobbled together and a "way can be made out of no way."

I wish Hillary Clinton could see it this way...

new kids

I wish I were kidding, but for reasons unknown to me, M has decided to play "Hangin' Tough" for L. She knows all the lyrics and sings them when she isn't giggling. We are lounging in the living room. The scent of the pinon incense wafts across the space. "Are ya tough enough?", Laurel asks as we move on from "Ballerina Girl" to "Regulate" by Warren G. With IPA and Pinot close at hand, we glide through another evening of laughter and conversation.

It has been good to have L with us. She is a rare easy-going soul: accepting, understanding, kind and sensitive to the varied nuances hidden within the feelings and thoughts of others. I feel lucky to have gained a new and true sister.

We just suffered through the strains of a very childish and dramatic Michael Jackson singing "Ben." M speculated that we only have this mp3 because it is a nostalgia-song for K. K, if you're out there: thanks a lot.

crystal springs rhododedron gardens

willamette valley

Today, we had a picnic with L at the top of our family's magical 10 acres outside of Yamhill, Oregon. It was the first time she has seen the property, so M showed her around and told the story of how we acquired it. The weather was our friend for most of the day as we tooled around the valley and visited several wineries where we have club memberships (free tasting, royal treatment). It started snowing for a moment as we trekked about on the property, checking out the future building site and discussing T's plans for the land. But the snow and rain quickly cleared, revealing the undulating, heavy sky for which the Willamette Valley is known. The sun shone intermittently and we sipped Pinot Noir in fading, angled and glancing light.

We returned to Portland and lit a bonfire in the driveway. It was cold, but the bits of body exposed to the fire were roasting hot, and we were heady and happy with wine so we didn't notice the chill. M played guitar and I sang for a bit, until we grew tired and quiet. I closed my eyes in the darkness and watched firelight glow and flicker behind my eyelids. I was reminded of nights long ago - of lying bundled and warm on a pallet in a tent deep in the woods of Wisconsin while a fire blazed in the wood stove and sleeping children sighed on the pallet beside me. I raised my face to the heaven, and felt the chill air bite my cheeks and I felt glad to be alive and to have lived these many years in a small and delightful way.

pike place

twenty-four hours in seattle

Yesterday morning we anxiously watched the Northwest Airlines live flight information, and as soon as L's airplane left the ground, M and I piled into the car and took for Seattle. We arrived just in time to fetch her from SeaTac and the three of us headed downtown. As our first order of business, we hit the Pike Place Market and scored some waterfront seating for a fish-and-chips lunch. We strolled around the market, made a few minor purchases and then headed out from under the shelter of the market, into the wintry mix of rain and hail and snow that blasted the city.

Poor L. She arrived drained of color from the long Minnesota winter and sporting flip-flops in anticipation of a refreshing taste of spring in the Pacific Northwest. The Pacific Northwest let her down. But I could have promised surprises, having lived here long enough to know that spring is entirely unpredictable, and especially the nearer one gets to the coastline.

But we made the most of it, like the thick-skinned Minnesotans we are, and we tromped up and down and back and forth across the rainy city, through Belltown, to the SAM Sculpture Gardens, to Pioneer Square and back again. At the Sculpture Gardens, M tried to pee behind a giant monolith of black painted steel surrounded by signs requesting: “Please Do Not Touch the Art” –suddenly a voice came out of no-where and, in a thick Asian accent, scolded him for his crimes. We wandered down the waterfront and it started to snow. We trudged up the steep hill to the Space Needle, where we declined to pay $15 to visit the observation deck (on such a blustery, overcast day it hardly seemed worth it), and instead horsed around with the merchandise and took photographs of one another sporting sparkly alien-eyed sunglasses.

We popped in for a Guinness at a vibrant Irish pub on 1^st Street, shedding our dense layers of winter wear and settling in to the cozy booths under the dimmed lanterns to enjoy our brew. We wandered past a gentlemen’s club called “The Lusty Lady” with big neon signs advertising that evening’s shows: The Forbidden Schwingdom and the Chronicles of Nudia. Hungry and worn, our muscles sore from a long day of walking, we stumbled upon a Sicilian café and ordered up a bottle of Italian Merlot and shared garlicky pizzas. We returned at long last to our hotel, where we shared another bottle of wine and settled in for some easy conversation.

I woke this morning at 5AM –it must be my German farmer heritage that makes lying in impossible when the sun is in the sky – and now we are lazing about the hotel room, planning for another meandering day in Seattle.

seattle

pet peeve of the month #2

I know, I know...I already posted a pet peeve for April. But once I got to thinking about it, I realized I am severely peeved far more frequently then a mere 12 times annually. Perhaps I need to more fully define the term "peeved." A simple Google search returns the Princeton dictionary definition of "annoyed: aroused to impatience or anger." So, clearly I am not just talking about minor irritants here. I am talking about those various behavioral traits of other people that function as the sociological equivalent of slivers - slivers that work their way under your skin and make you screw up your face, bring your blood pressure to the boiling point and generally bring on a rabid fit of ire.

This is how I felt today at the gym as I stepped onto the treadmill and caught a big juicy whiff of the dude running 2 treadmills down. He was clad in a loose tank top and shorts, he was clean cut and generally put together -there was really nothing about his appearance to indicate a slovenly or uncared-for disposition. But DAMN, the dude positively reeked of a curious combination of body odor, ball-sweat and the ever-so-slight scent of salt-and-vinegar potato chips.

There are a handful of guys like this that make semi-regular appearances at the local community center where I workout. I can tell that they are there even before I enter the workout room, because their stench follows them and lingers behind, long after they have passed through the lobby. Several times, I have considered turning back and trading crunches and hand-weights on the living room floor for my usual 3-mile run. But usually I suck up, pray for a little distance, and brave my way into the room. I spend the first 5 minutes gakking and choking, but after a while I get used to it , provided I keep my breathing shallow (proof positive that anyone can get used to anything). But I secretly celebrate when these fellows pack up and leave and I can finally breath freely. I usually take a few gasping swallows of fresh air out of sheer joy after they have gone, like a prisoner just released from some dank and terrible gulag.

What I don't understand about these folks is why on earth no one tells them: "Dude, you stink." How hard can it be? I mean, they must have moms or sisters or dads or coworkers or friends or SOMEONE who can save the rest of us from their malodorous and vile bodily excretions! Someone must be in a position to clue them in?! Don't they notice that people are avoiding them and giving them the stink-eye (no pun intended)? Can't they smell themselves? Don't they realize that the fitness center is a public place and there are certain conventions and rules of behavior that govern such places?

I launched into an irritated rant to M upon returning home, still fuming from the horror to which my olfactory senses had been subjected for the past hour. M just shrugged and said: "Guys figure that when they're working out smelling bad is acceptable -I mean, they're working out! Unless of course you're single and you are specifically going to the gym to pick up chicks, then you would probably want to moderate. But if you're married or you really don't care, then smelling like shit is fine!" (which might explain why M himself ranks among these idiots from time to time -and I have to note with a wry smile how he conflates "being married" with "really not caring" - fantastic!). He laughed at my disbelief and indignation, claiming nonchalantly that "this is the point of view of all guys," and I guess I can't really argue with him -he certainly knows better then I do. And I have to admit, I have never encountered the female equivalent of Mr. Stink-bomb, so there might be something to his slap-dash theory.

Whatever the rationale, vile and public displays of wanton disregard for the olfactory peace of other people ranks high on my never-ending list of pet peeves. Until next month (or week, as the case may be)...I remain, peevishly yours,

-Lainey Wright

fear the self-fulfilling prophecy

I hope it isn't so, but I fear that all this political back-and-forth about "electability" and who is "prepared to withstand the Republican attack machine" in the general election may have an adverse influence and bring about the very thing the Democratic candidates fear: an invigorated and unified Republican party and an American electorate skeptical about the Democratic candidate's ability to lead.

It is my belief that the Democratic party has the general election handily wrapped up. They are facing a weak opponent with no real coalition at his back. Plenty of Evangelicals, the core of George Bush's base, will be holding their noses at the polls in November, while the rest stay home and pray. The country is in shambles on the domestic front. As home prices fall and the stock market flags, Americans have watched the equity they counted on disappear and their retirement prospects grow ever bleaker. Many Americans cannot get a job to save their lives. Those that find even lucrative work fail despite their income to cover the rising costs of food, home heating and electricity. We are fighting a war without end in Iraq and the country has gone too long with a foreign policy that says, in essence, "shoot first, ask questions later." Americans have been hankering for a change for a long while now, and it frankly seems fool-hardy to lend so much power to the Republican party as to suggest the possibility that they might prevail.

But this has been precisely the modus operandi of Hillary Clinton's campaign. She has decided that since she cannot distinguish herself from Barack Obama on any issue of substance (saying nothing of her inability to compete in sheer charisma and oratory skill), she is going to question his capability to lead and to win. She is a fool to imagine that, should Obama indeed secure the nomination, the Republicans won't take her oft-repeated warnings in hand and replay them ad nauseam in an effort to engender as much doubt as possible in the minds of the American people. She will be her own party's downfall if she does not take better care with her words.

There is such a thing as a self-fulfilling prophecy -I know it sounds trite, but it's true. To act as though the Republicans have any chance of winning in November is to give them that very opportunity. This is how politics works in this country. Americans live their lives in a giant media echo-chamber (otherwise known as MSNBCBSABCFOXNews). We are effortlessly lulled into complacency and mindless consumption when fear is in the air (immediately after September 11, President Bush asked nothing of Americans excepting their "continued participation and confidence in the American economy"). And we are urged to violence and anger when war is on the menu (in 2003 nearly 7 in 10 Americans believed that Saddam Hussein was personally involved in the September 11th attacks). I hesitate to say it (see my post on elitism vs. honesty), but Americans sometimes strike me as little more than sociological lab rats insofar as any idea that is given broad circulation and repeated play is generally accepted as true.

And so it is that I find myself anxiously wringing my hands in fear that the American people are going to buy this idea whole-hog: that Barack Obama is not capable of winning; that the Republicans actually stand a chance of carrying on their destructive and dehumanizing policies; that America will yet again turn on a dime and decide, against their own better judgment, that the Republicans have the "strength to lead."

the kite runner

I hate to admit it, but I cried big soggy tears during the film The Kite Runner last night. But I couldn't help but feel I was being carefully guided towards that very response, as the film wended its way without nuance towards each contrived climax. I recall having the same sense when I read the book several years back. Khaled Hosseini's new novel was on everyone's must-read list for a while, so I picked it up on one of my many visits to our local library. While I appreciated the story in a general way, I felt that it was severely marred by all those contrivances and tricks that mark the books of many first-time novelists: too many neat tie-ups, too much coincidence, a loathsome and unfleshed main character, and an ending that blushed with false emotion. In short, it was the very stuff of which Hollywood schlock is made.

The story centers around Amir, a wealthy child of privilege in the Afghanistan of the 1970s. Amir's sole playmate, Hassan, is a Hazara child (Afghanistan's indiginous race) and the son of his father's household servant. Amir and Hassan are inseparable, until Amir witnesses a horrific act of violence committed against Hassan but does nothing to assist his downtrodden and persecuted friend. Swallowed up by the shame of his cowardice, he turns his back on Hassan and Hassan and his father are eventually dismissed from service in his family's home. Years pass, the Russians invade and Amir and his father escape through Pakistan to America where they establish new lives for themselves, Amir completes college, finds a bride, and embarks upon a successful literary career. One day, out of the blue, Amir receives an urgent phone call from an old friend of his father who is living in Pakistan. He urges him to return to the country of his youth in order "to be good again." Amir leaves at once for Pakistan, from which he embarks upon a hazardous mission into Kabal to rescue the son of the now deceased Hassan (who, as it turns out, is his brother).

Obviously, with such a conclusion, the story was rich with redemptive potential -redemption that rarely comes to most in the real and waking life. Amir is given the chance to redeem all his past wrongs (the tale even mirrors specific events so precisely and you get the feeling that Amir is working some sort of magical charm to erase all his youthful misdeeds). Through his goodness to Hassan's son, Amir achieves complete redress for the hateful manner in which he treated Hassan. One is left assuming that he now gets to live happily ever after without regret.

But we do not live happily ever after. We have regrets. They linger and they eat us up inside from time to time. Sometimes, in the dark of night, we think on the wrongs of our past - we watch the scenes in which we stumbled, in which we acted with cowardice, or with greed. And the scenes pass before our mind's eye in slow motion, and as we watch, we cringe at the reflection of our bad behavior, we reconsider, moments and years too late, how we might have acted. But we don't get a second chance -we live with what we did with the first chance, and if we regret, we regret forever.

In all likelihood, Amir of The Kite Runner was indeed left with regret, despite his heroic redemption. He did not cry a bucket of tears and then walk away refreshed and unharmed, as we did as mere viewers of a film. But I wish the film had showed this. I wish we had some glimmer of his lingering remorse, a sense that he would always suffer in some small way from the remembrance of his cruelty. Instead, we got the neat tie-up, the redemption, the Hollywood ending.

who are we in this complicated world?

...Ignorance is God's prison.
Knowing is God's palace.

We sleep in God's unconsciousness.
We wake in God's open hand.

We weep God's rain.
We laugh God's lightning.

Fighting and peacefulness
both take place within God.

Who are we then
in this complicated world?

-Rumi

elitism or honesty?

"It's not surprising then they get bitter, they cling to guns or religion or antipathy to people who aren't like them or anti-immigrant sentiment or anti-trade sentiment as a way to explain their frustrations." -Barack Obama, at a San Fransisco fundraiser (speaking about small town residents in Pennsylvania).

With this simple statement, Barack Obama set off a firestorm this week as his opposing candidates accused him of "being out of touch" and of expressing his true and previously hidden "elitist" feelings towards the lower classes in America. Both John McCain and Hillary Clinton sounded of one voice on the issue, as though they were taking cues from the same play book. Hillary Clinton in particular, in an effort to distinguish herself from a candidate with whom in truth she shares many policy ideas, seemed intent in the aftermath to portray herself as some sort of gun-toting, small-town girl. I for one didn't buy it.

At the risk of seeming like an elitist myself, I must say that share Sen. Obama's suspicion -and I would highly doubt that Sen. Clinton herself wouldn't agree in a candid moment. But the fact of the matter is that straightforward, principled and enlightened thought doesn't play well to the masses on prime-time TV. People want to be coddled and spoon-fed and led to believe that all their prejudices and biases are rooted in good faith. They want to be told that their religious beliefs are sacrosanct, regardless of how destructive they might be. They want to believe that their president is just like them, bigoted and small-minded. Many Americans are distracted by these various issues and have forgotten to concern themselves with those things that really matter - affordable health care, economic policies that benefit all stratas of society, foreign policy that values the lives of everyone, Iraqis included.

(I will say, however, that this statement was clear a mistake on Sen. Obama's part. He is running a campaign, not a classroom in some liberal arts university.)

brain dead

I don't know what has got into me, but I am completely brain dead this week. Perhaps it was sunshine, garden and white wine overload of this weekend past. I'm not sure, but whatever it is, it seems to have accompanied the return of blustery, rainy weather...and the return to work.

I am also still plodding away at my friend's draft, so I cannot help but feel guilty when I am putzing around on the blog instead of digging in with the red pen. I would like to be able to send it back to her before she has sent it to publication:).

I know all the blog rules say not to bitch about not writing, so I will stop before I annoy myself and others.

summer tease

I know it isn't here to stay. I have lived in the Pacific Northwest long enough to know that July is the official start of the season, when the rains finally dry up and disappear and the tomatoes begin to burst, plump and red on their tangled vines. But today, unexpectedly in April, I enjoyed a small taste of summer. My dull and darkened senses are temporarily sated and I just might make it through another few drizzly months.

The day began at 7, warm and clear, the sun piercing through the spruce boughs and glancing off my bare shoulders as sat on the front porch and loitered over my morning coffee . M finally dragged himself into the new day, and we set to work straight away, schlepping compost and cedar chips, potting out marigolds and nasturtiums, sowing cilantro, parsley, dill, and moving over-wintered lavender into their rightful place in the sun. Mowers roared across a hundred lawns. Music thumped and squealed from the cars on the avenue. The whole city woke at once from its winter slumber and celebration was in the air.

Now I sit in the middle of the garden as the day quickly wanes, the season's first sunburn smeared across my nose and cheeks and my shoulders aching from the day's labors. Our friend V and K are on their way over to share dinner with us on the backyard deck. M has scrubbed off the grill and the Pinot Gris is in the refrigerator. The lights have been strung in anticipation of evening's approach, and firewood lies stacked in the driveway. Let the first true garden party of summer begin!

a cynical moment

M says: "I think that most people will to be good."

I say: "I think that most people will to be thought good, and to think themselves good. Actually being good is a rare and happy accident, but it is not the true goal."

the origins of evil

Last night K came over, ostensibly to plan a menu for annual "health week." It is a tradition in her family to spend a week getting ready for swimsuit season, and given this winters slothful decadence, such a ritual is definitely in order. We cracked a bottle (or two) of red wine and settled in to talking. Needless to say, the health food menu fell by the wayside as we gave ourselves over to one last winter bender. The conversation tripped and spiraled along, bending and twisting and migrating up and onto higher planes until we landed on one that held us fast: the origins of evil.

We spoke of the film Hotel Rwanda, and specifically, of the scene in which the two women sit speaking together at the bar -one is Hutu and one is Tutsi. They were friends and they wondered what separated them. M said that, according to the film, there is no real distinction between the tribes, and that the only thing dividing them is the color of their skin -a fluke of nature. We puzzled aloud, wondering how on earth it all began. How did some humans begin to consider themselves worthier, lovelier, closer to heaven? How is it that they fell to such hatred and violence against those they considered to be beneath them?

We remembered Ishmael and the teachings of Daniel Quinn -how with the advent of totalitarian agriculture humankind began to populate and grow, to settle on the land, to divide up the labor, to conquer new territory. With this seemingly innocuous development came strife -human against human, human against animal - the need to protect what one had acquired made beasts of us all. No sooner had humans gained dominion over their environment than they ceased immediately to live in communion with it. They set their minds to the brutal task of subduing those things human, animal, and vegetable that came within their grasp. Before this, all nature was for the taking -the uncultivated wilds were a resource to which all might turn in times of trouble. With crops to protect, stores to shore up, and a growing population to feed, humankind developed the capacity and the will to determine "who shall live and who shall die." And in the case of Rwanda, the Hutus decided that the Tutsis should die -and die they did, at least half a million by some accounts.

But yet we wondered: how and when did the psychological shift occur? We understood how it worked practically, in utilitarian terms. But how did humans acquire this penchant for judgment, for abuse, for power-over instead of power-alongside? How did they learn hate, and murder, and greed? Then K remembered a film we'd all seen in which a pack of monkeys overtook the territory of another clan, slaughtered them all with gory abandon and ate their murdered opponents brains in a rash, bloody and senseless act of destruction. There was no purpose for it. The monkeys were not starving, they did not require an expansion of their territory for any practical purpose, they were not suffering under an imminent threat from mysterious predators. They seemed to do it strictly for pleasure, and, more likely, simply because they could.

We shivered and glanced at one another, disbelief glinted darkly in our eyes. "We are all just scary animals -we're just evil," K said. We shrugged in unison and a foreboding silence fell. Indeed -it didn't seem like there was any explanation to be had, no secret to unlock, no mysterious curse that we might, through reason, return to and reverse. We are all just scary.

I for one cannot accept that evil is at our core, although I admit there is much evidence to support it.

a decent happiness

Sometimes I wonder about all the youthful free-spirited dreams I once held dear and whether or not I have traded them away wisely. There was a time in childhood that what I wanted more then anything in the world was to fly away to Africa and work in a mission. I could see myself in dreams, brightly clad, turbaned and mussy hair, grubby hands and a giant smile. Later, I dreamed of roaring across country in a van, maybe living off the land somewhere, fit and brown and barefoot, smelling of patchouli and sweat. Later, the visions were of graduate school, tenure at some small teaching college in the heartland, somewhere progressive and free where I could impart my dearest convictions to eager young souls. Yet, here I sit in my meager little life, and looking back I find that I have little to show for these 33 years of human effort. Was it worth it to have traded away all these fantasies for a decent happiness?

Most often I come down on the side of the affirmative and I swear up and down that I would not trade my peaceful but rather average life for that of even the most wild adventurer. But reading these past days of my friend's strange exploits in untamed lands I cannot help but feel myself rather too settled, my life somewhat colorless, my mediocre ambitions rather prosaic and dull. And I cannot help but feel that is far too late to begin anew.

But even as I write this, perched as I am on my dear front porch, I cannot help but smile up at the apple tree spouting its fragrant pink blossoms, and I nod to the cheery tree, wildly trying to catch up to its grander neighbor. I look around at the tiny miracles of my every day - the forget-me-knots and the valerian striving madly for the bits of sun that pierce the near constant spring cloud cover, the tomato and basil starts molding, thirsty and tangled in the back room, the lustrous mustard-yellow paint bedecking our modest living room, the cat curled like a conch on the sofa - and I can't help but acknowledge the great luck that has been mine. And how much more so am I amazed when I consider the great joy in having so many good-hearted friends, a loving family, a devoted and intelligent husband.

And so I accede that my trade was well worth it. I may not be a grand adventurer, or a pioneer of good works, or a professional with accolades and degrees and money to burn, but I have love -so much love -and who am I to wish for more?

As the good book says:

"Though I speak with the tongues of men and of angels, and have not charity, I am become as sounding brass, or a tinkling cymbal. And though I have the gift of prophecy, and understand all mysteries, and all knowledge; and though I have all faith, so that I could remove mountains, and have not charity, I am nothing. And though I bestow all my goods to feed the poor, and though I give my body to be burned, and have not charity, it profits me nothing.”

letter from the editor

Tonight I have been immersed in my friend J's manuscript -a memoir about the year she spent in Siberia, of all places. I returned from work today to find a parcel wrapped in brown paper sitting by my front door. I cried with glee and gladly ripped off its wrapper, poured myself a Guinness and dug in straight away, red ink flying (she graciously sent me a fresh red pen, the better to mark it with). So far I am thrilled with her descriptive passages, the strangeness of her encounters, the sometimes horror of her experiences. My attention is captivated.

I suspect I will need to put this blog on hold temporarily in order to fully engage her narrative without distraction. And so, I apologize to all 2 of my trusted readers for my absence (if there are more, you are not known to me), and I swear on god's green earth that I will return as soon as I have inked my last red.

Oh -who knows...I will probably be back tomorrow.

cheers!

microfiche vs. wikipedia

I've been realizing how often I think "oh -I should look that up!" Like tonight, for example, M and I are sitting in the kitchen, eating some delicious truffle-oil, mushroom, arugula pasta improv, and I mention off-hand that in the UK arugula goes by the name "salad rocket." Of course, as usual I say "we should look that up"...and we did. And we discovered that Arugula is the American English version of the latin Eruca sativa, rucula or rugola in Italian, roquette in French, and (sensibly) rocket in British English. My guess is that the English rocket is more closely related to the French, whereas the Italian and American versions share the same origin.

But I write this not to discourse on the etymology of my dinner this evening, but rather to suggest how strange it is to have grown up into such a world where all this detailed information is suddenly at our fingertips. How marvelous to be able to think something up out of the blue about which you know absolutely nothing and instantly find out all about it!

It has not always been this way. I recall as a child, riding on the sticky vinyl backseat of the Chavelle, joking and chatting with my parents about this or that, and sooner or later someone would say that same thing: "oh -we should look that up when we get home!" In fact, it became something of a long-standing family joke, because we would almost always say "we should look that up!" and then promptly forget by the time we got home. But this is because looking things up in the 1970s and 1980s invariably meant one of two options. We could attempt to locate the topic in the 1968 edition of the Encyclopedia Britannica that my parents had in their living room (which I recall featured some singularly gory old-time medical photos). Failing that, there was always the library.

Now, I don't know about you, but I scarcely think that the library is the place for looking up minutia about which one is curious. That would mean keeping some sort of on-going list of curiosities and then having the where-with-all to dig through the card catalogue, and then search through the stacks for books or magazine articles on your given topic. Remember microfiche? Yuck. Perhaps I am just out of shape, but if arugula wasn't in the ol' Encyclopedia Britannica, I think I would have just given up then and there.

And then I get to wondering: How much more curious are we citizens of the 21st century, if only for the fact that information is so readily available to us. How much more often do we think now-a-days "let's look that up!" simply owing to the ease with which we can do so? Of course, I know that there are pitfalls (for example, is wikipedia a reliable source? -it should certainly be so with respect to arugula, but perhaps not with respect to those muddier, grayer topics). Of course one can't take the internet's word for it, but I stand amazed regardless at the readiness and availability of every last little thing. Sometimes I just think up things I want to know about and google them, just for the fun of it, just to learn something brand new. Perhaps it is all just a waste of precious time. Maybe we don't need to know every little thing we think up. But as someone who spent too much time at the library, checkmated by an infuriating card catalogue, or bungled up in a maze of microfiche, I for one appreciate having the option.

first garden party of the year

We spent the day on Sunday slogging in the garden. M was in a cheery mood. His faded Irish complexion does best in hazy weather -it is only when I beg labor of him in 90 degree heat that his spirits flag. Each month presents a new challenge in our garden, especially since we are committed to having things as cheap and easy as possible, We like to joke that our mantra in all things is: "why go whole hog when you can go half-ass and none will be the wiser." So we go half-ass, and truly no one seems to notice.

I have spent these last five years laboring with love in the garden, and so I am used to the everyday miracle that we have created here (with props to the lustrous sun and diligent rain that do their own daily duties around the place), and so it always strikes me strange when others comment that my garden is magnificent, because to me it is an every-day thing. Although I must confess that whenever we complete a massive garden task, like building new beds, or installing a new patio, we always spend a few moments at the close of the day marveling at our handiwork.

And so it was yesterday, after laying all the concrete tiles and schlepping too many wheelbarrows full of pea gravel to count, we set our chairs out on the new sunny evening patio and reveled in our accomplishments. The sun was our friend for a change as evening fell (the day had proved one of those unpredictable Portland spring days where it rains and hails and is hot and sunny all in rapid succession), and we cracked beers and settled in to replay the days events and to enjoy our handiwork.

Our back garden is such a perfect and private little paradise. As we sat and sipped we dreamed of fruit trees in pots, and a fountain somewhere (to drown out the traffic on the thoroughfare nearby). We put down our drinks and set to transplanting, as we moved a sad rhododendron to a happier place in the sun. We dreamed of a greenhouse, set behind the garage, framed up and suited with reclaimed windows, complete with a potting bench and shelves and a pretty old door. We plotted new tasks for the days ahead. And we toasted to the first official garden party of 2008.

photographic frenzy

I spent the day in a photographic frenzy, scanning and uploading all kinds of crazy old photos and emailing them to the four corners of the globe. I posted about 100 on facebook, tagged everyone I knew, and laughed as the notifications started coming in alerting me to comments. I felt like I was nearer to these long-lost loved ones somehow -and to the various pasts we shared -just by virtue of staring together at the same old photographs. It seems to me that so many memories slide right by and are forgotten, simply on account of having no one with whom to share them. Today, they all came rushing back one after another, as friends posted thoughts: "where was that?" and "what were we thinking?" and, my favorite, "I have no recollection of that at all, but it looks fun!" I laughed so hard all day long that the muscles of my face ache this evening as I struggle to tear myself away from my re-discovered family of friends.

I woke up to nostalgia, I suppose, when at 7:30 I left a sleeping M and crept out of bed, poured the first of many coffees and settled in with a pack of tobacco to draft a long missive to an old childhood friend with whom I have only recently reconnected. And then no sooner had I hit send, but another old friend rang our phone. I had a chat, drank another coffee; M had to dash off to do whatever M does best, and so I found myself alone with a long empty Saturday stretching out before me. The weather was in my favor -it was one of those gray, dragging, dripping, heavy, sodden days for which Portland is known (I confess: we who live here know that this is only a myth, and that these dark days are indeed rare, but we try to keep that secret as best we can). And so, seeing that the universe had contrived to permit as much sloth and abandon as I had to offer, I skipped the shower and the run, forgot about breakfast and the grocery trip I had planned, and I dug straight away into the waiting pile of old photographs.

I found photos of prom nights, and long nights with my sister, photos of debauchery and photos of foreign lands.

I discovered that my mother was beautiful when she was my age, and I glanced in the mirror to see if I am measuring up.

I found sweet faces on strangers, and secrets in my own childish eyes.

I noticed how alarmingly big my aunt's hair was in the late 70's. I must have noticed this before, although in childhood she was just my aunt and, for all I knew, all the pretty mommy's had big hair.

I saw kindness in the eyes of those that I misjudged at the time, and I wished I could write them a letter to tell them I was wrong and that I am sorry I didn't see it before the shutter closed.

I saw many selves that I loved and a few that I loathed.

I remembered that I love my husband. I love all of the places we have been together and the things we have seen together and the wealth of memories we have shared these 12 years. I love that half smirk, half smile he wears sometimes that says he loves me too.

I smiled when I came across a photo of my little sister with her thumb in her mouth. I saw her so often that way.

I felt strong and brown and glamorous, seeing my 20-something self perched atop a pier in Duluth, MN- defiant, youthful, shining and full of hope for a future that she couldn't yet see. I would like to tell her that it is going to be as wonderful as she dreams. And if she hides fears there, somewhere beneath that careless grin, I want to tell her that it is passing and it will one day disappear. I want to tell her that she will wake one day to a shabby and small and beautiful life, and she will root around in the debris of the past and she will not regret. She will feel herself blessed.

april 4th, 1968

I choked up on the way to work this morning, listening to NPR replay Robert F. Kennedy announcing the assassination of Martin Luther King, Jr. to a crowd in Indianapolis. A wail rose from those gathered as he said those terrible words and I felt the tears come to my eyes, listening these 40 years on. Later this afternoon, I laughed when I heard John McCain stumble over half-assed apologies for failing to vote in the senate for a national holiday to honor this revolutionary character in American History. And I crossed my fingers when I heard Barack Obama's lofty oratory, echoing many of the same themes as those cherished by the late Dr. King.

But I always find it a little disheartening each year to find that all that remains in memory of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. are all these events -the Montgomery bus boycott, and the March on Washington, the lunch-counters and bombed churches. Not to suggest in any respect that these moments in history are not significant, because they are -incredibly so. They revolutionized our country. But revolution is born first of ideas, and we need to keep those ideas alive in order to continue growing and changing in radical ways. We should not look upon him as just another important figure in history among many important figures. We should not just let the movement he led be relegated to a time gone by, and make of him a phantom of the past, worthy of little more than bronze monuments and fancy speeches.

What I always wish to hear spoken of on the anniversary of Dr. King's death -and on every day, is the profound philosophy that compelled Dr. King to take these historic strides: the philosophy of non-violent resistance. It was a philosophy that underpinned his every decision as a leader, and it led him in his later years to not only take on racial segregation in the South, but all injustice everywhere -economic injustice and, to much public consternation, the injustice of war. Five years into a war with no end in sight, I cannot help think it might do us good to recall the non-violent tradition of Martin Luther King, Jr.

I heard one fellow on NPR whose name I cannot recall -he was an old friend of Dr. King, and I felt he said best what I am intending here. The interviewer asked him if he was happy with the way Dr. King was remembered. He said that yes, for the most part, he was pleased with the legacy. But, he said, there is a tendency for folks to think of King as little but a great social worker. He was quick to state that while his social mission was indeed significant, it was his philosophy of nonviolent resistance, his deep commitment to living a life centered in love, this radical idea of justice for all that should rather find greater focus this time of year when we come around to remembering.

In his essay, "An Experiment in Love," Dr. King writes:

"Nonviolence in the truest sense is not a strategy that one uses simply because it is expedient at the moment; nonviolence is ultimately a way of life that men live by because of the sheer morality of its claims. But even granting this, the willingness to use nonviolence as a technique is a step forward. For he who goes this far is more likely to adopt nonviolence later as a way of life."

As Dr. King saw it, all the protests and the boycotts and the marches were but an outward manifestation of a deeper commitment to living ones life in dedication to a moral principle.

But this is all not to say that we ought simply bury our noses in the sand or contemplate our navels or lose ourselves in academic philosophizing. The philosophy of Martin Luther King, Jr. demanded action. One of my favorite King quotes comes from his last speech to the Southern Christian Leadership Conference,"Where Do We Go From Here?" (look it up -it is one of his most amazing), in which he rails:

"Let us be dissatisfied until America will no longer have a high blood pressure of creeds and an anemia of deeds. Let us be dissatisfied until the tragic walls that separate the outer city of wealth and comfort and the inner city of poverty and despair shall be crushed by the battering rams of the forces of justice."

The thing I love most about Martin Luther King's philosophy of nonviolence was how all-encompassing it was. It seemed that there was no end to the potential application of such a radical philosophy. And Dr. King seemed utterly unafraid of taking it exactly as far as it would lead him -even unto his own death (his friend said that Martin had told him with resignation that he would not likely live to see 40).

M said he heard a scholar on NPR yesterday who suggested that an embrasure of feminism and gay rights was the natural trajectory of King's philosophy. I think I'd like to believe that.

flip-flops & flower buds

I couldn't help myself. I sprung the trap and slipped away from work without regret. It was too gorgeous a day for me to focus anyhow, so it was a useless waste of company funds to keep me there. I rushed home and first thing bustled a bottle of Sokol Blosser's Evolution into the freezer, the quicker to chill and drink it. Now I am off to sit in the sun and enjoy the blossoming flowers. The flips-flops have been retrieved from the dust under the bed. The cherries are about the blow and the magnolia is going crazy. The daffodils are sweetly smiling

insomnia

I spent the entire day yesterday propping my sleepy eyelids up with toothpicks, dozing off in traffic and yawning in rapid-fire succession, and yet when I finally hit the the pillow at 11pm I laid there wide awake until 2 in the morning. I could not seem to slow down the business of my mind. And those thrilling topics of consideration during my sleepless night were as follows:

• Potential future pet peeve of the month entries
• Simone de Beauvior
• Money (gaining it and losing it)
• Immortality
• How to get out of going to work in the morning
• How much I need the money and therefore must go to work in the morning
• Taxes
• My childhood photographs
• How I should be sleeping instead lying awake thinking

I finally took a cyclobenzaprine which did the trick nicely. Of course, now I am sitting here groggy-headed and cotton-eyed wishing I didn't have to go to work. The sun is brightly shining and for the first time in a long time the weather reports a warm day ahead for restless and eager Portlanders. If I knew that we had seen the last of frost for the year, I would stay at home and putter about the garden, but my confidence of that is low as this has proved among the chilliest springs I have yet lived here in the Northwest. And so I resign myself to the fate of slogging off to work. It is sad to waste such a fabulous day indoors.

pet peeve of the month

I am being mortally attacked by sinus bullshit this evening. All the flowering trees and plants decorating the city of Portland are so beautiful, but my allergies suffer with every burst of blossom. It royally sucks. My eyes are itching, I can hardly keep them open from being overwhelmingly sleepy, I am sniffing constantly, and my head is pounding. So, considering all these limitations, I am opting for lighter fare tonight and offer up my inaugural installment of "pet peeve of the month." I am guessing in this blogging life there will be plenty of wasted and uninspired evenings ahead, and if there is anything the uninspired are never short of it is things to be annoyed by and pissed off about. So, without further ado:


APRIL 2008 PET PEEVE:
People who water their driveways
This practice drives me absolutely nuts. Not even the tiniest bone in my body understands why some humans are compelled to clean a place specifically designed for parking a car. I want to say to them:

"Folks! -it's a car! -it's tires are dirty! If you clean the driveway, you will just drive your car's dirty wheels onto and muss it up. Don't you people know there are water wars (Bolivia) and water refugees (Iran)? Don't you realize that the Great Lakes aren't going to be "great" for much longer as their water levels decrease annually? Haven't you heard the news about Atlanta and Beijing possibly being abandoned at some future date owing to an utter lack of resources? Don't you realize that water councils and BES's and storm water managers around the country are working tirelessly to conserve this precious resource and here you are with a giant hose spraying off your fuckin' DRIVEWAY??? Your driveway looks fine! Does it really need to be clean? Think about it. I mean, honestly I think watering grass is pretty damn stupid and wasteful (ever tried eating grass?), but this driveway watering thing is at the level of pure idiocy. Please, please stop."

And these jokers never hose it off quickly, like just give a swift once-over. No! -they are always spraying and spraying, and going over the same area multiple times, trying to get each and every little bit of leaf-matter and debris and dirt off of the driveway and into the gutters of the streets. All that water, just washed away into the sewers of our city where it co-mingles with raw sewage and dumps straight into the Willamette River and then rushes in a mad, poopie torrent out to sea where it will never have a fighting chance of ever being useful to anyone ("Warning: Please don't touch the water in the Willamette between the Burnside and the Morrison Bridge until after noon on Friday"). Poor water (and don't even get me started about the salmon, the poor salmon!).

There. I feel better now. My allergies still suck, but my churlishness is abating.

the mountains of taos