I haven’t blogged in a while. There is a lot of “stuff” going on in my “life” at the moment. But I have been making progress in my power year, albeit slowly. I am going to do a series of updates today. Please remember that I am no great critic. I am pretty much a fan of everything. In the world. Which may make these “reviews” sort of tedious to read. But I guess if they are tedious to you just don’t even read them. It’s All Good.
Okay. So.

Reading the Books

I read this book at the suggestion of my friend June who gave it to me for my birthday along with a tiny precious teacup, some English tea and some Hobnobs. The accouterments might make you think that Downtown Owl is a British book but it’s not. It is set smack in the middle of Owl, North Dakota in the fall and winter of 1984. The narrative jumps around between a handful of characters and begins with a warning that only one of them will be alive at the end of the book. I promptly forgot that warning and was thusly shocked by the final chapters. Shocked! And deeply saddened!! Which is funny because I had trouble getting into the book at first. The structure turned me off a bit and the characters didn’t seem meaty enough. But damn it was a slow burner for me and I found myself so invested by the end, just crying tears for these small town fools who met their end so senselessly. Of course it doesn’t take much to get me weepy about fictional characters and their earnest pursuits as anyone who has watched any television program with me can attest. For instance: Friday Night Lights, Parks and Recreation, Gilmore Girls, Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Battlestar Gallactica, Party Down. I am just listing any show I can think of and then quickly checking to confirm that I have cried while watching. Check, check, check, check… Okay, maybe not Party Down. But my heart does go out to the Adam Scott character each time I watch. So there you go.

Downtown Owl: Isolation and Companionship on the Great Plains.

I bet you have all been wondering about the status of my hiking goal. “She said she would go on 12 hikes! Has she been on even one hike yet? Well if she has she sure hasn’t blogged about it, the bitch.”

Well haters, I have been on a hike. One hike. So far. It was just outside of Chapel Hill, NC with Moose and K5M. I can’t say it was an especially vigorous hike, but I CAN say it was an especially enjoyable one. We walked along a little creek that widens into some sweet swimming holes that I sure would have liked to dip into, had the weather been warmer. On the other hand maybe I wouldn’t have. You see Moose and all of his Chapel Hill buddies had spent the previous evening regaling me with crazy SNAKE STORIES!! Apparently there are many snakes in the area, including and especially SNAKES THAT HANG OUT NEAR OTHERWISE SUBLIME SWIMMING HOLES!!! And guess what you guys? You know how you (I) thought that only water moccasins could swim? WRONG! They all swim! And you know how you (I) thought that when they swam they sort of skimmed along the surface of the water? WRONG! Lots of them can swim UNDERWATER!! SNAKES!! UNDER THE WATER!!! JUST WAITING TO SLITHER-SWIM OVER TO YOU AND BITE YOUR BOTTOM!!! As you may have deduced, I find this information very alarming. But the hike was nice anyway and I didn’t see a single snake. SUCCESS! Aside from snake talk the other remarkable thing about the hike was how far apart the trees were. In Oregon the forests are super dense and lush, and in Colorado the landscapes are full of extremes- rugged tundra, steep, rocky mountainsides (duh), and expansive deserts. In the Duke Forest the trees had yet to bloom and there was an even layer of fallen leaves on the ground. The woods seemed eerie, quiet, genteel; not as wild as the forests of the West. It was weird! When we got back to the trail head and checked out the sign we discovered the forest had recently been thinned. Ad then it all made sense.

On another hiking note, guess who was accepted into the Signal Fire Summer Retreat, a seven day backpacking trip in the Mt Hood wilderness? If you guessed “Willow” you are correct! The retreat is designed for artists, but I applied as a writer/social practitioner (with my Power Year) and I got in! I am 40% thrilled and 60% terrified. What if I get a crick in my neck and then have to carry a heavy pack all over the place for the next 6 days? What if it rains the whole entire time? What if I get bad blisters? What if I’m not tough enough for this? I haven’t been backpacking in at least 10 years and I’m not exactly “fit.” What if I’m the slowest hiker and everyone thinks I’m a whiner? (Note to Self: Don’t whine.)

My dad gave me an REI gift certificate to get me geared up for the trip so I’m going to buy boots this weekend. A pregnant friend has offered to let me borrow all of the fleece and smart wool and other stuff I need since she’ll weigh about 200 lbs by the time summer comes around and won’t necessarily feel like powering up a hill and making camp. Also she won’t fit into her camping clothes. On the other hand she’ll have a cute blonde baby by the end of the summer so I’d say we’re both winners.

So I need to start hiking in earnest to be ready for my trip! Do you want to hike with me, dear reader? Like maybe tomorrow? Or next weekend? I have a whole list of amazing hikes curated by Ahab (who also happens to be the founder of Signal Fire.) Lemme know! We can climb mountains together!

I have finished 3/18 of my Power Year reading list. I was already halfway through my second reading of the 6th Harry Potter book when I turned 31, so I don’t know if it officially counts since I started it way back when I was 30. But I read the final 300 pages or so when I was snuggled up at the coast on my birthday weekend, oblivious to the cooking, Scrabble, and beer consumption surrounding me as I shed tears all over again for dear Dumbledore and the children who must now move through the magical world with neither protection nor guidance. Just thinking about it now makes my chest tighten up! And no, dyslexic readers, you did not misread my age. I am 31, not 13- YA fantasy enthusiasm to the contrary.

But I have indulged in more adult fare in the past two months as well. You may recall that I asked two of my most literary pals to give me reading lists for this Power Year. Joan’s list is full of challenges; knowing my Year is a means of pushing myself- creatively, intellectually, physically- she chose 6 books of varying genres and themes that ask something of the reader. None of them, as far as I can tell, can or should be read cover to cover on a cloudy afternoon. They require time- between chapters, poems, essays- to digest, reflect, discuss. A slightly intimidating list, to be sure, but well considered.

I started, at Joan’s suggestion, with Slouching Toward Bethlehem by Joan Didion (thus this friend’s pseudonym.) She knows my decade-long infatuation with the New Yorker, and my more recent love affair with Mr. E.B. White. In other words I swoon for a well crafted essay and Didion is a master craftswoman. This collection was published in 1968 and kind of epitomizes the naivety, neuroses, restlessness and unease of the time. The essays I liked best were the most personal ones- the author falling in and out of love with New York, the relief she finds in being out of her 20’s, her fevered manifesto in support of self respect.

I was less satisfied with her topical essays, though the topics themselves were fascinating. She went deep, as a journalist, into the exploding drug scene at Haight/Ashbury, the pure search for peace at Joan Biaz’s Institute for the Study of Nonviolence, and into the suffocating suburbs and delusions of the upwardly mobile white middle class. In these essays I felt that Didion’s own cynicism clouded her coverage. She comes across as fatalistic and judgmental; undermining her reporting by inserting her bias. (Her bias re: Baez? Hm.) What I love about the New Yorker is the ego-less curiosity that each contributor brings to his or or her subject (Denby and a few others being exceptions.) The magazine takes pride in methodical investigation and thoughtful analysis, inviting the reader to come to her own conclusions (though of course we are led there.) Didion it seems, attempts to remove the “I” from her journalistic pieces, but is unable to erase herself completely. It is often endearing- the alarm and pity she feels for the runaway hippies and their contemporaries- and would maybe not have been that noticeable if I hadn’t read so many of her essays back to back. By the end of the collection I felt that I had learned as much about the author as the subjects which was more and less than what I expected of the book. FWIW.

Carrots, my best friend since high school, is my other Curator of Books. Her list reflects her inside and out knowledge of me, my tastes, passions, weaknesses and interests. It’s like she packed me a delicious gourmet picnic and I CANNOT WAIT to eat it up. I started with Amy Bloom’s Where the God of Love Hangs Out. It’s a collection of short stories (though some of them sprawl to 3,5, 7 chapters) all dealing with the mundane but precious day to day grappling with aging, love, death, estrangement and reconciliation. I realize that description makes it seem like and Oprah Book Club Selection, but it’s so much subtler than that. The characters seem like people that might live across the alley from you or be friends with your favorite aunt. And though any given character may be coping with the death of a lover or the compulsive participation in an absurd affair; the stories linger on the preparation of supper or an insomniac’s cable TV stupor, making the greater drama seem quiet, private, and inevitable-seeming. THE NOBILITY OF THE EVERYDAY. That’s the phrase that keeps tugging at me here. I know I’ll be lending out my copy of this book for years.

I am creating a flickr set for my toe reaches. This is my attempt after class today. Not very impressive, but then I have gone to all of three classes since the Power Year began. Only 49 to go! Hm. I went back to Core Power today and effing loved it- distance be damned. It was warm but not hot, fast but not frenetic, and there was no hippie bullshit. Here’s the flickr set where I think I’ll post the yoga updates from now on:
Can I touch my toes yet?

Trip to Atlanta and Chapel Hill from Mike Merrill on Vimeo.

We went to the South! Atlanta! Chapel Hill! Helen! Kmikeym made this video which you have probably all seen by now BUT if you haven’t… well. Here it is. So. We went to the South and let me tell you how pleasantly surprised I was with the NBD nature of race relations- especially in Atlanta. Now I was there for all of one week and I am NOT saying that I think racism is dead in the South. Racism is not dead anywhere in the world as far as I can tell but Atlanta was the most integrated city I have ever been to. It helps that 60% of the population of Atlanta proper is black, but it wasn’t just that I saw a lot of black people. It was that wherever we went- nerdy coffee shops, hipster breakfast places, a basketball game, a late night museum/martini dance- there was an equal number of black and white people just doing their damn things. And it wasn’t like they just showed up and ignored each other- they came together to the martini dances and coffee shops and chit chatted about the wait at the brunch places! I realize I may be coming across as some 1950’s cowpoke here but I have lived in four major metropolises in my life, with varying racial demographics: Denver, Portland, New York, and Dublin (Dublin being a moot point here). Without knowing better I would consider each of these cities to be more progressive and “post-racial” than Atlanta, Georgia. Not so! Even in New York, the Great Big Melting Pot or whatever, there are the businesses and neighborhoods where black people hang out, and the pockets of Puerto Ricans, Italians, Koreans… I’m not saying that there’s no overlap but still the invisible boundaries are apparent. And so it was incredibly gratifying to see a vibrant black middle class coexisting so seemingly effortlessly with the white middle class. Since I was visiting Kmikeym’s brother- a young professional who works for CNN.com- I didn’t have the time nor opportunity to learn about class relations in the city. I know that Atlanta is known as much for it’s sprawl and traffic as anything else and I’m sure that as with other American metropolises there are layers and layers of politics, history and ethics related to the suburbs, the surge in urban renewal, and the plight of the poor of all races. I know it’s not all roses. But the city took me by surprise and made me think that the South has been forced by history to open its’ closets and bare it’s skeletons and is possibly, like Germany, better for it. The North and West would be wise to have a meaningful airing of our own.

Also I went to Chapel Hill and saw Moose and his wife and an old friend from Denver who I will call Sassy. The town was great- like a smaller, more rural Portland- but really it was just a precious pleasure to catch up with my deep homies and see how happy they are in their adult lives. Sassy took us over to her Grandma’s house- Grandma Sassy you might as well say because she was a straight shooter who sized each of us up shrewdly but hugged us all tightly when we left. She apparently treated Michelle Obama the same way and had a picture to prove it:

On a different note: you guys! I need to catch up on my damn documentation! I have, since my last entry, made lots of Power Year progress! I:
* read two of the books on my list
* listened to multiple volumes of another Moose mix AND a sweet Slow Jamz compilation from Astral Hellion
* attended a yoga class
* had about a billion hang outs
* applied for the Signal Fire backpacking trip

I need to blog this shit and I will. Just know I’m chipping away slowly and I haven’t given up.

I am learning guitar! “You Are My Sunshine” is not the first song I learned to play but it’s the easiest so recorded that one first. Please don’t feel obliged to leave any complimentary comments- I know I’m no good yet but I said I’d post songs as I learn them and so this is that.

The guitar sounds pretty twangy because this is probably “take #9” and my fingers were getting crampy but this was the only take in which I didn’t make a big mess-up. Ugh! Too many excuses, I know! But it’s pretty embarrassing.

I’m learning how to finger pick which will make this song sound a lot nicer. When I get it down I’ll post another version and you can give me some compliments then because finger picking is hard!

Tones. Sounds. Machines. Beats. Syncopation. Beautiful nonsense.

Thus describes the sublime mix made for me by my friend Snitchey. Every song is amazing and yet no song quite follows the rules of songs i.e. narrative arc, familiar seeming melody, overt emotion. (NOTE: I know these are not real rules.) And yet the mix is powerful, emotional, and kind of addictive. Here is a list of the songs on Snitchey’s mix:

Laurie Anderson Let X=X / It Tango
No Kids At The Grove
Goblin Suspiria
Sleigh Bells Tell Em
Berlioz March of the Pilgrims
Glasser Home
Ratatat Lex
The Roches Hammond Song
Zola Jesus Sea Talk
Otouto W. Hiller

When I was in college studying theater I became really interested in the New York avante garde theater movement of the 1970’s and 80’s- Elizabeth LeCompte and the Wooster Group, Joanne Akailitis and Mabou Mines, Richard Foreman and the Ontologyical-Hysteric Theater. These dudes redefined the relationship between performer and audience; they pushed the viewer from passive to active participant- intentionally creating a sense of unease or disequilibrium. Often in my studies I came across references to musicians who were experiencing a parallel (and often collaborative) movement in music- Philip Glass, Laurie Anderson, etc. I feel dumb for not looking deeper into those guys during my college times (or after for that matter) because it seems like their music is such a natural companion to my interest in experimental theater BUT I was way too busy listening to Built to Spill at the time to be interested in much else.

FLASH FORWARD TEN YEARS and here comes Snitchey, making the natural connection for me!! Thank you Snitchey!! As soon as the Laurie Anderson song began to play my thought was this: “YES.” That song (and the ones that follow) are challenging and intriguing- they don’t let you think about other things while you’re listening. In Let x=x the lyrics are half-spoken and stream of consciousness- dreamlike. The percussion and instrumentation are rigid and sort of swelling at the same time. It’s mostly electronic and though it was recorded in the 1980’s it doesn’t sound dated at all. In fact it sounds like it’s from the future.

Did I mention the Roches? I really like the Roches!

Snitchey responded to my exclamatory email thusly:

Kathy introduced me to them years ago. They are really good.
I like them because they have all these gorgeous songs, like the one I sent you, but then they also have crazy acapella covers of classical songs, like the Hallelujah chorus from the Messiah, and then they also do these very sincere, pretty terrible “christmas albums,” and then they ALSO have lots of truly dorky songs about being sisters, or this one about how everyone at the laundromat hates Suzzy Roche.

And so in closing, Thank You Snitchey for this amazing playlist- I like it so much. I could have written about every song but the awkwardness of my language when describing music is only charming for so long, let’s be honest.

Music is Beautiful!

(That title references a hilarious story that I really hope Ahab will share in the comments below.)

Today I tried Hot Yoga with my friend Ahab. Her name is not really Ahab but she told me how much she used to enjoy the pseudonym aspect of Perfect Heart and suggested I bring it back. Now the main reason I used to use pseudonyms was to protect the reputations of the parade of boys I dated when I was single, but I take the point that a little bit of anonymity can be liberating for the writer (me) and tantalizing for the reader (you) and so I will heretofore implement the use of unnecessary pseudonyms forevermore! Hear hear!

Anyway. Hot yoga. It’s really fucking hot. I had been to heated classes before but that was nothing NOTHING like this. I hung in there for about half the class, sweating my way through chaturangas and clumsily attempting standing splits but eventually I had to call it. TOO HOT TO MOVE!! I sat on my mat with my legs out in front of me so that I could at least get a little hamstring stretch while all around me damp but strangely unperturbed yogis did their damn thing. You might be wondering if it is embarrassing to be sitting on your mat in a pool of your own sweat, especially when the entire class turns their warrior pose in your direction, and you are the only one who is not a warrior, but the thought of even standing up in the heat makes you see spots. Well the answer is yes. It is very embarrassing. But there is also an element of “fuck all y’all for being crazy enough to find this enjoyable!”

And yet they do find it enjoyable. Ahab was practicing right in front of me and you should have seen the look of sheer calm/determination on her face as she utkatasana’d in her red sports bra and gym shorts- just as buff as can be! She goes every day and literally told me she wishes it were hotter. Hotter! Ahab would be happy doing yoga on the sun. I would not. But. I will go back at least a couple more times because it’s SO close to my house and Ahab says that some of the teachers don’t make it quite as hot. Plus today I was hungry and just getting over this damn cold so those factors weren’t making the experience any pleasanter.

By the way. You know how at the beginning of a yoga class the instructor usually says “Remember, child’s pose is always available to you”? Well this instructor did not say that. It seemed like a judgmental omission. Like maybe she would have liked to say “Remember, if you feel like transitioning to child’s pose at any point in your practice today: you are a total wuss and maybe you should go back to that hippie studio where the instructor had flames sewn onto her pants and all you did was stretch and chant.” Ahab says she’s kind of bitchy. So.

I am no closer to touching my toes. Yet.

Writing about music is kind of challenging- it feels the same to me as when I’m wine tasting and trying to put subtle flavors and sensations into words without possessing the correct vocabulary to do so. So I say things like, “cherries!” and “smokey!” which I’m sure are like “duh” descriptors for people in the know. But this project is about challenging myself, so bear with me as I proclaim songs to be “Loud!” “Musical!” and “Fun!” Sasha Frere-Jones I (happily) am not. So here goes:

My ears are feeling so great thanks to my friend Moose who, in two separate shipments from North Carolina, has sent me no less than five mix CDs and one record (pictured above.) The first two CDs and the record are comprised of soul sounds in many incarnations from gospel-y (Grandma’s Hands– Bill Withers) to almost disco-y (Tell Me Something Good– Chaka Khan) with plenty of classics in between (Try a Little Tenderness, You Send Me, Hold On! I’m Comin’, etc.)

My favorite tracks are ones I’d never heard. Don’t Leave Me This Way is a song made famous by Thelma Houston and has a serious disco undertone.

The version Moose included is by Harold Melvin and the Blue Notes and while it does build to a dancey crescendo along the way it’s incredibly aching and urgent. It starts off with some deep humming, then the title line half-sung in a matter-of-fact voice that’s nevertheless edged with pleading. Then it’s a slow, satisfying climb toward the cathartic peak- full of lots of changes in sound, though not in vibe. I love how emotional and pressing this version is- I wish I could go back in time to 1975 to see it performed live. I wish I could have found a better video of this version, but at least you can hear it here:

The other song that hit me hard was Etta James’ Almost Persuaded . It’s clearly a country song- a parable about temptation and redemption- and the lyrics are cheesy and heavy handed- originally written for a man to sing. But with the gender roles reversed and with Etta’s regretful, deep-throated crooning the song takes on a dignity and well, soul, that isn’t as evident in other versions. I couldn’t find a good video to share here and I don’t know how to upload audio files. So… take my word for it. This is an awesome song.

I also have to give it up to my friend Joey who introduced me to the wonderful world of Dropbox! I haven’t gone too deep yet, but apparently Joey can upload albums to a shared folder (in the Cloud?) and then I can download them- easy-breezy! I am very excited about this technology. I am also excited to listen to the three other mixes Moose sent my way. If you, dear readers, have listening suggestions for me please send them along! Thank you.

My goal for “Friendship” in my power year was to hang out with buddies 104 times- that comes out to twice a week. In the twelve days since setting that goal I’ve:
* Celebrated my birthday with 3 separate sets of pals
* Gone to the coast with Mike and two other couples
* Had two happy hours with colleagues
* Enjoyed a comedy show with funny friends
* Attended two art openings
* Had pizza with Aaron + Mike
* Hosted an impromptu burger party
* Spent a day shopping with Rita
* Ate Eritrean food with Jae + Mike
* Etc

So I am clearly going to reach the goal of 104 hang outs. Then why have Friendship as a goal? When I set it I felt like I wasn’t seeing my friends enough, but maybe it’s an issue of not keeping up with everyone? Or of not feeling connected? In spite of the list above I’m not nearly as social as I was before I started teaching. I used to be a night owl- I went to shows all the time and was always meeting new people. Now most my social life is compressed into two hour blocks- usually taking place between work and dinner. I turn down (or flake on) a lot of invitations- either because I’m tired or because I’m nervous about showing up to stuff alone.

I need to adjust the parameters of this goal but I’m not sure exactly how. If you readers have any insights- I am open. How do I measure a goal that I can’t quite put into words?