Author (#19)September 2007 Archives

My new cat is such a stud:

Today was very domestic. The house is sparkling. The cat is asleep. The space heater is radiating. The tea kettle is cooing. And now I need to get outfitted and face the elements on my bike, because I am going to see Midlake with Greg, Genevieve, et. al.

I think I may finally see a naturopath for my odd buzzing headaches, which are coming on almost every day now. The headaches aren't like your typical migraine, with the aura and the sensitivity to light and sound and the overall life-shattering misery. It feels more like a bear gently squeezing my head with its claw, thumbs on my temples. Fucking with me. They are ignorable to an extent, but so annoying. Please, float off to someone else's head! Just for a few days. Klonopin helps to an extent, but is a highly addictive benzodiazepine. I don't have an addictive "personality" per se, so it probably wouldn't ever be a problem, but I have a phobia of pills, and whenever I resort to taking one, I feel defeated, like the meds "won." I also think all pills, with the exception of a good multi-vitamin and Chinese herbs, are poison. Becky had to baby-talk me into taking a sliver of Klonopin for the first time, and I am grateful.

My therapist is so utterly amazing, a gentle Lou Reed dopplegänger who drives a motorcycle to work, and I really want to continue seeing him, regardless of whether or not I am on medication. He is a psychotherapist, an M.D., and a mindfulness meditation instructor, and we have a bi-weekly ritual where we sit on the floor together, with pillows perched on top of his DSM-IV manuals, and he guides me, seamlessly, through what meditation is supposed to feel like, forming an entire lingual system centered around breath. But it wouldn't hurt to have a rendezvous with homeopathy, too, which is even more poetic:

Heaviness in the head, especially in the occiput. Each day drawing headache, as if the head would burst. Stitching, buzzing headache. Beating headache in the vertex, coldness; a cold spot in the head.

From the Materia Medica.

Thank you, Google Books. Stitching. That is exactly how I would phrase it.

I need to be serious about eliminating gluten for at least six weeks, too, like my acupuncturist told me to. I've been cheating too often. This week I'm going to go to Anzen, the little Asian market down the street, and stock up on all of my favorites, since Asian food is the kindest when it comes to a gluten-free diet (miso, tofu, tempeh, rice noodles, soybeans...I can live off of those).

It would probably help if I didn't drink coffee all day and night.

Ok, end of boring, health-related post. Time to bike to the Doug Fir in the cold.

~A.

You should go here and listen to "Roscoe." I learned of this band this morning and have been listening to this song obsessively, on repeat, while doing Saturday chores, sweeping and oiling the hardwood floors, bleaching the clawfoot tub, washing linens (yeah, I like to pretend I live in the early 1900s, ok?). And I get to see them at the Doug Fir tonight for FREE MONEY!

Anyway, something about this song is so touching. I read that the album (The Trails of Van Occupanther) is rumored to be based on the Oregon Trail computer game, which makes it even better. It reminds me of Fleetwood Mac, Gulliver's Travels, pioneerism, the dead giant in Ender's Game (my favorite sci-fi novel), whose corpse gradually morphs into a beautiful knoll, the ribs forming grassy glissades...I really love the Dad-rock feel. I especially love:

1891 -
They looked around the forest.
They made their house from cedars.
They made their house from stones.

Oh, they're a little like you, and
They're a little like me,
When they're falling me.

Tears me up. Calls back all of the work I did as a researcher at the Rare Books Room a few years ago, where I focused on Oregon history from 1850 - 1905 and got to read all kinds of fascinating pamphlets and picture books on early pioneers/settlers and the collective utopian belief that Oregon was the closest thing to Eden one could find in the United States. Which is pretty much da troof today.

Wasted on Ikea.

Trying to slow myself down, shifting actions to slow waves of the hand. A Butoh flitting.

To elucidate...Instead of leaving work and rushing home ("rushing" gets me home in about half an hour by bike - my apartment is roughly 5 miles from Pinball), I decided to stop by my favorite grocery, Sheridan, on the way home and buy fresh eggs, three proud members of the cabbage family (broccoli, broccoli rabe or rapini, and my personal favorite, if only because I'm a sucker for miniatures, the more effete broccolini), a pound of sauerkraut, and the bare necessities that I manage to live on when I'm not cooking something fancy: soba noodles, broth, curry, coconut milk, tofu, rice pasta (I don't know why I try...gluten is still winning this battle), a head of cabbage (I obviously don't discriminate when it comes to the Brassicaceae family), and a pint of what has to be the best soy ice cream ever made (Soy Delicious Chocolate Peanut Butter, fruit-sweetened).

Going to the grocery store after work certainly isn't overhauling any major social paradigms, but for a thoroughbred Virgo who tends to map out every hour of her day not only in a written day planner, but also color-coded in iCal, there isn't much room for contour lines. And when I do stray into the margins, it is a fairly note-worthy, even phenomenological, affair. Someone insert a comment about Situationism here: [_____________________]. Someone teach me about The Open.

**

The weather says it's 57 degrees out, but my apartment is freezing, and I'm bundled up like it's already winter, in this over-sized, mottled wool coat that I found on the free porch last night after that glass of champagne (err, "sparkling wine") at Moloko. All of its buttons are missing. It's probably from Wet Seal or Forever 21, but whatever. I see it as a favorable portent, because I was listening to Patti Smith's "Free Money" on my headphones yesterday as I was walking to SCRAP, and indeed, she sent me the free money. I'm also wearing this really ugly, baggy Reggaeton hat that I forgot I had, but you know, I live alone and can dress like a bum on a Monday night if I want. This isn't Sex and the City. A little later on, I might even drink directly from the soy-milk container, so how do you like that?

I'm trying to keep the cat positioned on the bloodless canals of my feet, which never seem to warm up. I'm wearing some of those socks that are more like gloves for your feet. See Toe Socks. I also like the idea of "secret socks."

Speaking of, living alone is amazing and worth every penny of the $550 a month that I spend (all my friends in the big cities collectively cackle).

Best thing I've seen all day:

I took a Klonopin to quell my muscle contraction headache, and now I'm droopy.

G'night.

Oh yes, the full-moon fever is here, and it's early. This is like the opposite of getting your period early. You see (not to get on a new-age bender here, but I swear it's REAL), I am very "tuned in" (turn on and tune in, brother) to the ebbs and flows of the moon, and when full-moon hits, I feel it in a serious way, in the blood, in the bones, shaking timbrels. Technically, this month's full-moon isn't until September 26, but I'm already getting the jitters. It kind of makes me feel like I'm high on cocaine. It's akin to euphoria, maybe even satori, but with a bit of mania swirling in the alloy. Ultimately, it is pure merriment, and I appreciate this time of the month.

Of course, I could just be high on caffeine right now. I could also be manic depressive, but I don't like broaching that question.

Anyway, I did a bee-line to the Urban Outfitters clearance rack this evening and bought a hot blue, clingy mini-dress, two pairs of stockings (one gold & sparkly, one opaque purple), a billowy Stevie Nicks number, and the BEST winter-time blazer. It's herringbone and looks like something your disheveled high-school art teacher probably wore. Floppy and oversized, with a lot of excess material in the back, enough to make a hood, lady of mystery that I am. I'll just have to post a picture later.

Now we're going to the Low show, and I sure hope it doesn't mess up my moon vibes. What I really need to be doing tonight is bumping and grinding with a bunch of bull-dykes at Holocene, but there's always next time.

~a.

G. has this fancy, slightly daunting design book on the back of his toilet called Minimalismo Minimalism, and I think that's hilarious. Obviously, the title refers to the text, which is bi-lingual (English & Spanish), but it just makes me laugh every time I see it. I often mouth-whisper "Minimalismo" as I'm flipping through it, doing my business, pretending I'm Mexican and mustachioed.

I have decided that this is going to be a very good weekend. I woke up in a caustic mood this morning, so I'm currently in the red, psychically. It's amazing how a night of relentless insomnia can crush and contort your soul. And of course, someone must have heard my little rain-dance last night because the dam broke today, and I was glued to my desk for 8 hours straight, organizing projects for the peeps at BITCH Magazine (who are actively working to stamp out the generational and ideological divides between the second wave, the third wave...all the various surging billows of feminism - it's about time!), Reading Frenzy, the IPRC, a couple of restaurants, and a few other loose ends to sweep under the rug until Monday. Now I'm enjoying the momentary solitude and feeling only mildly bad that I bailed on taking advantage of a free ticket to see Built to Spill (I never got into them, anyway).

Tomorrow I want to get up, grab an early breakfast at The Paradox (the vegan French toast made with applesauce wins) before the hipsters invade, do this "Urban Golf" shoot for GOOD Magazine, and then spend the rest of the day planting leafy greens and squashes for the winter.

Chow.

Today's apple: Ginger Gold

A new variety from Virginia. I love "Great as a snack eaten out of hand". Hey, why not?

Another perfect, overcast day in Portland. Nipply mornings, warm afternoons. That doesn't mean I haven't already raided my cache of various body warmers (arm, leg), fingerless gloves, and hoodies (my current favorite was purchased in the Youth section of an Old Navy in Memphis six years ago). I also need some kind of weather-resistant burglar mask for winter bike nomadism. Along with those booties I mentioned.

Man, things were still at work today. Hushed. Where is everybody? Last week was a "landmark" week in money-speak. I could barely handle the torpedo of projects, phone calls, e-mails, and the occasional walk-ins. My guess is, most people who read this already know what I do for money, but...just in case, I work at a boutique print shop that triples (quadruples?) as a stationery/paper goods shop, record label (some would argue), and soon, a publication on typography and graphic culture. Owned and operated by the four-eyed overachievers you hated in high school. My boss (who, as Bethany pointed out, could be mistaken as a younger Ira Glass) is actually "pulling an overnighter" tonight.

A small faction of the olfactorily inclined have told me I smell like ink, which makes me feel both enchanted and melancholic, since it reminds me of the fact that I may never pursue that coveted degree in library science. Damnit. I wanted to smell like dust jackets and rare books, I wanted the pleated skirts and the secret garter belts and the corsets, the pumps and the pantyhose. I wanted eyeglasses with a fake prescription. I still want all of those things, an on-paper Masters in Library Science, preferably with a concentration in Archives and Book Preservation. And not just for the sex appeal, although that is a definite fringe benefit.

Wow, I'm feeling drunk and dislocated. And I've only had two-ish, (albeit strong, Oregon-grade) IPAs, thanks to our beer-thirty going-away pizza party for Vladimir (our production manager). I do love a nice IPA. However, me and drunk don't mix. Some crucial brain nodule broke inside me last year, and now I only feel the physical effects of drunkenness, without any of the mental niceties, like...oblivion, bliss, superhero strength. Now I just get sleepy, manic, or dizzy, depending on the time of day.

Anyway, randomonium. Yesterday we went to the Farmers Market at People's and bought a paper sack's worth of shitaki mushrooms, a huge head of broccoli, an heirloom tomato, an onion, and a handful of small potatoes (for only $7!) and made a huge stir-fry out of it, with tempeh and Goddess dressing, which I now drown everything in, thanks to that one night in the hotel with Derrick, where we sat watching Animal Planet and eating Goddess dressing'd tempeh on a bed of spinach and crumbled feta, and I was probably having a dissociative fit (that was around the time of the Big Chill - ask me about it), but the Goddess dressing at least assuaged.

Good night.

oh, yes.

yes.

I'm at a cafe in Sellwood, the ganglia of Portland's hearty nuclear family. Only the cockroach outlives this culture. So many idle dogs with frothy mouths, the unborn, the freshly born, runners, flexing, pulsing, strollers, coffee, dads in fleece. I'm nauseated from coffee and no food.

(...)

Ok, I never finished that entry...I shouldn't hate on Sellwooders. They're nice people. It's two days later, in a different cafe, a less gestative atmosphere, with more dimly lit library chic. Rabbit ear cacti and an old piano. I'm meeting my ex here in an hour to show him how to use his new MacBook. The barista here is one of my clients (at the print shop, perverts). He's like a cat, the kind that, once you're all sitting down and comfortable, might let his guard down and come over and circle your lap and say hi. He's really nice. A shy, turtle-necked David Byrne kind of character. If David Byrne were a mime named Max Ernst.

Yesterday, I spent a thin envelope of hundreds on a new (old), mint condition Nishiki Prestige, along with matching toe-clips and leather straps. So far, it is worth every penny. Riding it is like sailing on a sea of margarine, naked. With wings crafted from the feathers of a really soft, fast bird. Maybe a peregrine.

I've never spent this much money on a bike before. The bill came to $519. My last bike was a Nishiki Century, which I bought for a smokin' $50. I drove the back roads out to Boring, Oregon to purchase it from a guy who lived in a cookie-cutter mansion with a yard full of kids and fixer-uppers. I don't know why he sold it for so cheap, but it was a good bike, and it served me well. I'm going to fix it up (I think it just needs a new wheel) and have it as a back-up, or maybe sell it in dire straits. Anyway, this new, beautiful silver bullet is a dream boat, and I feel like I have to treat it like a new-born baby. I know a lot of people who treat their laptops this way. I am actively, unabashedly sexualizing the bike. I kept catching glimpses of it at work, ogling the luster of the lugs, the bronze, the steel, the lube, The Prestige. Yeah, it rocks. I have yet to take pictures of it, but here is a close replica. Mine isn't a fixie, and doesn't have fenders or a rack yet, but it will receive a nice pampering soon. It's sitting outside in almost clear view, and I'm already worried that someone is going to run up with a baseball hat and shatter it into a thousand pieces.

Now I just need some cute rain booties.

My favorite piece of writing on the rhetoric of the weather. The occasional, oncoming whipping wet weather and drone grey skies has made me want to do nothing but be at home (when I'm not cruising for a bruising on my new wheels), writing, brewing thick, spicy teas, enlisting my favorite fragrances (tea rose, jasmine, green tea, laundry, wood soap), tripling my coffee intake, pillowing, sucking in the absolute overcast. I love fall. It is visceral, from the gut. It's all about extraction and restraint, doubled with this amazing, simultaneous surfacing of color and ether. Maybe even in a gelatinous, Matthew Barney kind of way. It puts me to work, puts me to sleep. Tugs. I love the feeling of thawing in bed, under blankets of varying thicknesses and plume. I even smelled the flint of wood-smoke tonight on my bike ride home. Autumn in Portland will always and forever receive an A++, which usually isn't possible beyond grade school.

I was joking with G. this morning about how we should go as "Hair" for Halloween this year. Between the two of us, we could probably smother an entire person in varying gradients of course, reddish-blonde hair. Mine is becoming absolutely out of control. The pins and bobbies are always popping out. I even found a small, but undeniable dread the other day. It's actually more of a "mat," but mats turn into dreads eventually.

Wow, I'm too drifty to write anything profound. What kind of writer am I? God must have run out of midnight oil.

Good night,
~a.

Today is my 25th birthday. Yesterday I got cupcakes and a raise. This morning I woke up to the cat nooked behind my knees, had coffee and an AMAZING sausage and maple waffle gutbomb here. I am not going to work at all today. I almost said yes to helping G. rip up hardwood floors, but that honestly sounds like hell, and there will be manual labor leftover for me tomorrow. Today is about air. I am going to dress up in a kooky birthday outfit, re-pot all of the poor succulents that aren't getting enough light in the lair of my apartment, dust off the shelves, listen to Fleetwood Mac's "Sara" on repeat, maybe take a walk to SCRAP and buy some of the beautiful Nepalese paper they have piled up in the front, or ride the Max to Forest Park. I have $2 in my wallet, and a pile of birthday checks that need to be cashed, so this is going to be a full-on gypsy birthday.

Peace.

Had a pretty fantastic time this past weekend on the Olympic Peninsula. We backpacked about 30 miles in two days, camping along the way in the glacier-hewn Enchanted Valley (this guy did better justice with a camera, although it wasn't as snow-capped when we were there). I've been to few places so sopping green, misty and meadowed. Small gods swirling along every shelf, vine, clobber of feet. The snug envelope of the place helped me keep going, even after my legs and feet felt shattered (this was my first ever backpacking trip, although I now feel like a pretty serious convert). We made it to the valley around 6:30PM, camped on a gravel bar under the stars near the Quinault River, full on potato soup, salami, Irish cheese, candied ginger, and Oregon chai, and woke up to a black bear silently wandering 50 - 75 yards away, totally uninterested in us. We followed his paw prints from where he crossed the river. Also saw several Roosevelt elk, chipmunks, wood squirrels, and lots of freakish mushrooms, including the rare phantom orchid (see below). This year's Labor Day weekend receives an A+.



Floppy fungi.



Rare phantom orchids.



Orange shelf mushrooms.






We came along a field of llamas carrying packs for weary mountain travelers. They had long, soft necks.






best blues.



We were there.



Don't let this photo fool you. We really aren't related.