yes. i know. it’s been since February . . .  but let me explain:
we’ve moved our home from Southwest to Northeast Portland
(from the South Burlingame to Irvington neighborhood).

i’d barely finished Winter term when Spring Semester was
already bursting through the ground (like those new black
and red tulips i left behind and the compost bin i had going.)
that would’ve come in handy for some fresh gardening.

and soon, i will be helping my boss to move our office . . .
Does the fun ever end?

i’ll tell you all the rest soon!

♥

The eyes of the future are looking
back at us and they are praying for us
to see beyond our own time. They
are kneeling with hands clasped that
we might act with restraint, that we
might leave room for the life that is
destined to come. To protect what is
wild is to protect what is gentle.
Perhaps the wilderness we fear is the
pause between our own heartbeats,
the silent space that says we live only
by grace. Wilderness lives by this
same grace. Wild mercy is in our hands.

—Terry Tempest Williams

from Red: Passion and Patience in the Desert (2001)

the devil's sentences

::: ::: ::: ::: ::: ::: ::: :::

“He uses statistics as a drunken man uses lampposts—
for support rather than for illumination.”
— Andrew Lang

“Equations are the devil’s sentences.” — Stephen Colbert

“Like other occult techniques of divination,
the statistical method has a private jargon
deliberately contrived to obscure
its methods from nonpractitioners.“

— Ashley-Perry Statistical Axioms quotes

::: ::: ::: ::: ::: ::: ::: :::

so many wasted erasers

i hate statistics. i hate it so much i’ve re-named it “sadistics.” i hate it so much i’d rather blog about it than DO it for class. i loathe it so hard my husband had a good laugh at me. He came around the corner to find me with damp washcloth and spray bottle in hand, circling a kitchen table splayed out with books and erasers and graphing calculator and he cracked up. He noted that i was purposefully avoiding doing the homework by cleaning the kitchen chairs. that’s right, i’d rather wash wooden legs with Murphy’s oil and scrub food & dinner fart-laden seat upholstery than sit in front of numbers and formulas that after awhile, just start to look like an invasion of picnic ants marching across a description of Greek whoredom.

humor circa 1983 Todd Rungdren song

My eyes begin to gloss over, i let my cheek slump into my hand. Propped up on my elbow, i allow my mouth to go slack and open into a balloon-shaped maw, all in an effort to allow more oxygen to get into the situation. Anything to tease the possible formula i’m supposed to use out of the useless and impertinent question being asked in the longest series of lamest story problems of all time. On any standardized test. Ever. i could be in the same state if i drank 3 fingers of bourbon. And i’d be having way more fun.

i’ve begun creatively insulting the theorists and their theorems. Chebyshev’s theorem? Nope. Chubbynut’s Nonsense (it’s not my fault his first name is “Pafnuty”). No joke.  It would take a Russian mad man with a crater on the moon named after him to make me do this crap. In order to get a BS Psychology. Emphasis on the BS.

i want to stab myself in the boxplot with an ogive. that, of course, being a joke that perhaps only someone subjected to statistics would be able to understand.

Which leads me to the only fun thing i learned so far . . .

Because i HAD to know the word origin for the ogive curve, turns out Wikipedia has this to say:

“In statistics, an ogive is a graph showing the curve of a cumulative distribution function (which, for the normal distribution, resembles one side of an Arabesque or ogival arch.”

An ogival or pointed arch is one of the defining characteristics of Gothic architecture.

Ogives are also used descriptively in ballistics or aerodynamics where an ogive is a pointed, curved surface mainly used to form the approximately streamlined nose of a bullet or other projectile as well as the complex ogives in missiles and aircraft.

Ogives are used in applied physical science, engineering, architecture, woodworking, geology, and yes – even statistics.

That concludes this episode of nerd notes . . . and now, you may have a better insight to my bad attempt at a stats joke, which is like, a monstrous exercise in futility. It does it all on its own. Writes itself, honey.

But what are the postitives? Will i be a better Poker player? i prefer Cranium. i get to act, solve puzzles and play with clay. Better able to understand and plot risk-analysis? i only do dangerous stuff to myself, not to others. (most of the time.) More equipped to look at those numerous, tiresome graphs, dots, squiggles, pointed notation marks and fluffy numbers and make perfect sense of psychological research. i. fucking. doubt it, son.

In fact, if it weren’t for Joe holding my hand through some of these problems and talking me through it (and away from mathematical ledges) i’m certain i wouldn’t be getting any of it at all.

Now let me make something clear . . . i don’t consider myself a dumb bunny. And to his credit, the teacher is excellent, clear, procedural, by the book and full of examples. Why my tiny squirrel brain can’t wrap my head around it all is well, probably mostly due to my obstinance. (SEE above paragraphs)

Then there’s the pretty graph making program called MiniTab (MinorStab) which i have to use in order to complete my Math Labs. I’ve decided i don’t want to trek out to school, find and pay for parking, hang out in a computer lab for an indefinite amount of time, be hungry, cranky and confused and have no means of escape, so i “rented” the program for 6 months for $30. Which is about all i’ll need to get through two semesters of it. And i can drink wine while i load data sets. Yeah. You got my number.

So—i’ll slog my way through it. I feel a low grade B fever coming on.

In the meantime here’s some fun stats from Graph Jam.com

A Good Start — Maria Taylor

You’re one with the burden of intuition.
You’re one with the freedom of a blank stare.
You’re one with the best friend you lost
You wish was still there.

You’re one with the dust on that old piano.
You’re one with the strings on your new guitar.
You’re one with the wind through the open window,
You are.

It was a faint line that brought you here
And a pulse that kept you in time.
It was the comfort of a tradition
Like the few that were not that kind.

And it’s a shame now, baby, you can’t
See yourself, and everything you’re running from.
And it’s the same world, honey, that has brought you down,
As the one that’s gonna pick you up,
And pick you up.

You’re one with the echos of conversation.
You’re one with the strangers you overheard.
You’re one with the lesson that was
The best one you learned.

It was a faint line that brought you here
And a pulse that kept you in time.
It was the comfort of a tradition
Like the few that were not that kind. (But you are.)

It’s a shame now, baby, you can’t
See yourself, and everything you’re running from.
And it’s the same world, honey, that has brought you down
As the one that’s gonna pick you up,
And pick you up.

It was a long, dark, sleepy morning walk.
You fell down, facing up.
It was a good start.
It was a good start.

It was a long, dark, sleepy morning walk.
You fell down, facing up.
It was a good start.
It was a good start.

And it’s a shame now, baby, you can’t
see yourself, and everything you’re running from.
And it’s the same world, honey, that has brought you down
As the one that’s gonna pick you up.

And it’s a shame now, baby, you can’t separate
Yourself from where you’ve stood.
And it’s the same world, honey, made you feel so bad
As the one that makes you feel so good,
Feel so good.

She Had Some Horses

She had some horses.

She had horses who were bodies of sand.
She had horses who were maps drawn of blood.
She had horses who were skins of ocean water.
She had horses who were the blue air of sky.
She had horses who were fur and teeth.
She had horses who were clay and would break.
She had horses who were splintered red cliff.

She had some horses.

She had horses with long, pointed breasts.
She had horses with full, brown thighs.
She had horses who laughed too much.
She had horses who threw rocks at glass houses.
She had horses who licked razor blades.

She had some horses.

She had horses who danced in their mothers’ arms.
She had horses who thought they were the sun and their bodies shone and burned like stars.
She had horses who waltzed nightly on the moon.
She had horses who were much too shy, and kept quiet in stalls of their own making.

She had some horses.

She had horses who liked Creek Stomp Dance songs.
She had horses who cried in their beer.
She had horses who spit at male queens who made them afraid of themselves.
She had horses who said they weren’t afraid.
She had horses who lied.
She had horses who told the truth, who were stripped bare of their tongues.

She had some horses.

She had horses who called themselves, “horse.”
She had horses who called themselves, “spirit.” and kept their voices secret and to themselves.
She had horses who had no names.
She had horses who had books of names.

She had some horses.

She had horses who whispered in the dark, who were afraid to speak.
She had horses who screamed out of fear of the silence, who carried knives to protect themselves from ghosts.
She had horses who waited for destruction.
She had horses who waited for resurrection.

She had some horses.

She had horses who got down on their knees for any savior.
She had horses who thought their high price had saved them.
She had horses who tried to save her, who climbed in her bed at night and prayed as they raped her.

She had some horses.

She had some horses she loved.
She had some horses she hated.

These were the same horses.

~ Joy Harjo

Panty shields up, Captain! We’re rebooting the Ovarian Operating System . . .

I know, the title of this blog alone makes you want to click fast and away. But I have to tell you a tale of consumer eco-angst removed from the simple and often expensive decision to buy local, organic products and food. But first, a little herstory . . .

There’s already been enough shame, secrecy, and taboo surrounding “that time of the month” and all the other fine euphemisms invented to be humourous or circumspect about the mystery of menstruation. There are countries where tampons weren’t and still aren’t sold because you’d have to “touch down there.” There are women who follow this practice willingly, even in forward thinking countries. They build huts and red tents and spas for this exact purpose. To wear pampers or to be pampered. Elsewhere.

But it’s moved beyond that to a place where we’re supposed to celebrate and “have a happy period,” a campaign from a company that stupidly chose their brand name to be “Always.” As in, “I’ll ALWAYS bleed, and I’ll ALWAYS wear these things.” At least Kotex, Tampex, and Playtex (all with –ex as a suffix to mean “out, from or away”) sound almost medical or medicinal. And it’s not ALL feminine hygiene, even wounded soldiers are prone to use a tampon (French for “plug” or “stopper”) to halt bullet wounds from weeping. “Always” doesn’t seem to imply medical or even chronic, instead, it implies a life sentence. Doesn’t your uterus protest? Well it should. War is hell and there’s a war in your drawers and the sick folks at Always were also responsible for aerodynamic pantyliners and pads. That’s right – they got your code red covered in homeland security and you can feel secure each month knowing there’s a little, white F-16 in your pants.

It’s not just a troubling war at home either . . . it’s covers many land masses and miles of ocean.

Spastic Plastic

Your average lady uses 16,800 tampons in her lifetime, that’s 250 to 300 pounds of tampons and applicators. Tag on a few thousand pads and panty liners, and your ecological footprint is looking more like Sasquatch. Of particular offense are the plastic applicators some tampons are encased in. They are casually tossed into wastebaskets where they later escape the curb trash or landfill, trotted off by animals, resurfacing in parking lots and playgrounds and a host of other locations you’d rather not see them appear.

They come back from the watery depths to haunt you, too.

Plastic tampon applicators from sewage outfalls are one of the most common forms of trash on beaches. Yeah, you thought food wrappers and glass bottles and needles were the only gross & hazardous materials washing out to sea and coming back in with the tides. You flush them and that’s just the beginning. For building owners, pads and tampons that are flushed down the toilet are the most common cause of plumbing problems. Further down the flow, they end up the sewage treatment plants and surf into a lake or onto a river, and on into the ocean where they pool with the rest of the plastic detritus at the Great Pacific Garbage Patch. There it all sits and breaks down into ever smaller particles until they are the size and color of plankton or worse, are pelletized high-density polyethylene (HDPE) white “nurdles” that resemble fish eggs or food to sea creatures. Then the birds and fish ingest these hormone disrupters and concentrated toxins like PCB and DDE and the circle of life gets a big kick in the nurdles.

But it’s not just the animals somewhat removed from you, you’re an animal too, and guess what it’s doing to you by directly inserting it? Your conventional feminine hygiene products contain a mixture of rayon and cotton. Rayon is in your blouses, dresses, lingerie, linings, scarves, suits, ties, hats, socks, the filling in Zippo lighters, blankets, window treatments, upholstery, tire cord, yarn and diapers. It’s highly absorbent but no good at retaining shape and as far as biodegradability goes, it’s a real loser. Most importantly, synthetic materials like the Rayon used in tampons show an increased risk of toxic shock syndrome (TSS), particularly for superabsorbent tampons. So if you’re a bleeder, you’re a feeder.

And sweet, white cotton isn’t much better up in there. Cotton is highly pesticide-intensive; 25% of pesticides used globally are devoted to growing cotton. To achieve that lily-white look, pads and tampons are bleached with chlorine, a process which creates dioxins, a known carcinogen and those bad boys shouldn’t be placed anywhere near your reproductive organs. And you swear you never smoked a cigar in your life. Especially in a donkey show.

Think Outside the (Tampon) Box

It’s getting easier to select tampons, pads, and panty liners made from organic, unbleached cotton which is cultivated without the use of pesticides, fungicides, herbicides, sewage sludge, irradiation, petrochemicals, or genetic engineering. All of which we now have think about when looking at the towering isle of soothing, pastel colors, reminding us that yes – we’ll be back out there swimming, riding ponies, surfing at the beach and smiling while playing miniature golf in NO time.

O.B. tampons: small box, no applicator. Compact, simple cellophane wrapper covering them, easy to use, and take up very little room in your purse. It is unfathomable, but some women simple aren’t down with getting that up close and personal with their own lady bits and maybe getting their finger a little spotty. Come on darlings – this is no time to be prim and squeamish. If you haven’t seen it in a mirror to understand how it goes together and pushed the buttons to see how it works, you don’t deserve to have sex and should just hang an “Out Of Order” sign over your girdle loop. Get over it. Get into it. It’s yours. Deal.

OG-style Tampax: wrapped in paper, cardboard applicator that breaks down relatively quickly if they happen to get loose in the environment. Preferable to the Pearl brand, which has an indestructible plastic applicator strong enough for shotgun shell casings and is then further wrapped in coated paper. Awesome. Go ahead. Try running them over with your car. You can’t destroy them. They’ll only get dirty . . . and more angry. That plastic rocket launcher is just one more wasteful obstacle between you and your nana. I don’t even want to go into the perfumed varieties. Now on top of your plastic fetish, you’re going to open a vapor-impermeable pouch and stick this vulcanized, alcohol soaked albino vampire into your hoo-ha where no one and nothing but your senseless cervix can smell it? Well it doesn’t work and now you smell of lightly talcumed meat. Fail. p.s. Talc is closely related to the potent carcinogen asbestos and talc particles have been shown to cause tumors in the ovaries and lungs of cancer victims. So hey – go easy on sprinkling the Johnson’s about your leaky basement. It’s a safety hazard. You’ll slip and fall. No need to announce “clean-up on aisle one.”

Natracare and Seventh Generation: chemical-free, non chlorine-bleached, simple packaging which means even less waste. Eco-conscious enough with all the key ingredient and disclaimers including no animal-testing and skin-tested only on fellow humans. You can sleep well in the knowledge that no bunnies had to hop about with a maxi pad strapped to their fluffy bums and instead, some nice lady in a lab got itchy a few times. This is still within the normal scope of your monthly cycle.

Jade and Pearl Sea Sponge: natural tampons inspired by the traditional use of sponges by menstruating women of ancient times. So if you want to bleed like Cleopatra, this is your bag. The Egyptians invented the tampon too – so you can thank them for that little wonder. Sea sponges are available in Teenie, Regular, and Large and you precision(?) fit to size by trimming the sea sponge and experimenting with insertion. Wow. Try not to think about doing dishes or wiping counters or a nice hot sponge bath because really, I can’t see how this is either sanitary OR relaxing. So Sally, if you’re worried about sullying up the seashore, (welcome to my new menstrual tongue twister) this is all the rage amongst mythological aquatic creatures. Apparently, sea sponges are what mermaids use.

Menstrual Cups – i.e.: Diva cup, Mooncup, Instead Softcup, Lunette, Keepercup, LadyCup, Femmecup, Miacup: Ok. Here’s where I drawn the line. This ain’t a Dixie Cup, or a Sippie Cup, a Tommee Tippee Cup or an Ice Cream Cup. This is none of those fun, sweet, childlike associations. But I trust you probably got over that the first time you sprung a leak and wrecked your favorite Underroos or your expensive lingerie for failing to count the days. Maybe I just haven’t been brave enough to go with a new, miserable experience, but let me get this straight . . . i fold a plastic, rubbery cup into a jelly roll, insert this, it pops open like a tulip, i “stir” it around to make sure the umbrella’s been fully deployed, which may take some coaxing and pushing and twisting, and then I pull it out by its dangling tail at intervals, wash it and reinsert it like tiny, portable Tupper Ware?!?!

Oh, hell no!

i am not about to wash my snatch basket in the sink (and carry special, mild, perfume-free, hypo-allergenic fem soap) in between classes or you know, when i take a restroom break to freshen up while out to dinner. i mean, how does one do this discreetly? Oh, and once a month, i get the distinct displeasure of a 5-minute boil for my little traveling jellyfish at the end of the cycle in some dedicated kitchen equipment that never sees food. Or, hey, i can use rubbing alcohol (and not hydrogen peroxide) to sterilize it. But I have to be extremely careful not to soak it too long and allow it to dry completely and not degrade the integrity of the plastic and rinse the residue so I don’t fuck up my vaginal pH.

O.B. tampons sounding better all the time, huh? Can you imagine wringing out your sea sponge? Wouldn’t you rather “touch it” now?

Go With The Flow

There was a time when i worked at a place so uptight, they wouldn’t allow the female staff to carry in a purse. Whether this was for security or to keep outside worldly distractions such as cell phones to a minimum was unclear, but the idea completely incensed my friend Nicole.

“What?” she snapped. “Where are you supposed to carry your tampons, up your ass?”

i explained to her how bad the work environment sucked and how tension and impossible precision reigned, thus, the topic of anal retention seemed a very fitting description. The job had me so upset, i couldn’t poop for a week. Then i quit.

And many light flow days from then, here i was on a Wednesday nite, standing there in the supermarket isle, paralyzed by too many choices and horrible, far-reaching consequences of those attempts at informed decision. There i was: hungry, cranky, wanting ice cream and a heating pad at the same time, thinking about plumbing, and ocean waters and marine life and cancer of the Yoni.

i turn to the woman next to me who is clicking and sucking at her teeth in audible consternation, just like me, and we both smile nervously, amazed at the mini internal crisis over what we’re going to buy. Neither of us will move first, both seem to be wondering how the other will select, looking for a brave trend to follow. Somehow, there’s a preposterous sense of worry over being  judged, like bringing a film or a music cd or a book to the checkout clerk, the fear of choosing poorly, unwisely, without taste or sensibilities. “Hmmm,” she says. “Yeahhhhh,” I mutter slowly and drawn out. And we both start giggling.

My cup of joy is overflowing

I consider my internal flowchart for assessing absorbency needs:

junior – aww, isn’t that cute, you inked!

light – Miss Kitty has a nose bleed.

regular – oh, yay. my period’s back.

super – omg that’s a lot of blood.

super plus – jesus, maybe you should go to the hospital!

ultra – uhh, i think that blood clot just asked for a cigarette.

i am looking for regular. Just something in between, just a few tampons, a starter pack, a holdover since i don’t see any of my normal go-tos. And all they have is “a mere scratch” or “Carrie – Prom Scene.”

So i think of the dolphins and the salmon and the seabirds and i grab the 10-pack with the small, recyclable cardboard box and no applicator with the green looking package and eco-claims to fame and the woman next to me does the same. Just enough to soldier on.

It’s all i can do, really. If i don’t want to leave with anymore acronyms. Say, add PTSD to my PMS. Christ Almighty in a hybrid – i can’t even BLEED with out feeling guilty about it in my new sustainable world concept! i leave with my chlorine-free, biodegradable, non-applicator, no plastic, rayon-free tampons and my razors (which are free from animal testing) and a pint of, yes, sorry, blood orange sorbet, and it’s a good thing. While i’m happily eating my cool treat, i don’t need to imagine poor, naked bunnies hopping around with razor burn and nicks with only a maxi-pad to keep them warm. And after all this guilt, i just want to sandwich a washcloth and tuck it in my drawers or just sit on a sock and call it good.

Museum of Menstruation and Women’s Health

for all your bleeding needs . . .

Goodbye stranger it’s been nice
Hope you find your paradise
Tried to see your point of view
Hope your dreams will all come true
Goodbye Mary, Goodbye Jane
Will we ever meet again
Feel no sorrow, feel no shame
Come tomorrow, feel no pain

And I will go on shining
Shining like brand new
I’ll never look behind me
My troubles will be few

~ Supertramp

I ran out to get cat food and then to the Market Of Choice just to grab some Ramen Noodles and Yogi Calming Tea to have a quick, cheap snack at home with a friend in need who stopped by.

I was going to go to yoga, and do some homework for the 3 classes I am taking this semester at PSU, but your violation of my privacy and peace of mind upended my entire evening and probably my weekend after I’m through sorting out repairs and replacements.

You were probably scoping the parking lot for people like me who felt safe and believe they live in a nice enough neighborhood where they can leave their home doors open in the afternoon or run in to get a few groceries, like me: with just a cell phone and the necessary bank card to travel light and not have to lug in bags in order to take more heavy bags out. You were probably in this particular grocery store lot because it’s kind of upscale, with hard-working people who drive decent cars in a good community.

You probably think I was just some little rich bitch who could afford to have her well-maintained, red Volkswagen Rabbit broken into and not have it take any serious change out of my bank.

You were wrong, jackass. I’m a newly married, 1 year resident of Portland. I’m a college student and I keep my things nice because I pay for them and honor the work and balance it takes to maintain an orderly lifestyle that is not beyond my means. And it’s not the pride in the car – I paid extra money to buy a Tri-Met pass so I can ride the bus to school so as to NOT drive the car everywhere and it can’t be replaced – it has to be repurchased. The unfortunate thought is,  some derelict dipshit like you would happily ride public transport for free on my dime, so they don’t issue me another one for free. Thanks a lot, you freeloading douchebag.

It took me nearly 9 months to find part-time work for a psychologist. I got the job on my birthday and it was a gift after I had a car crash and minor surgery all last year but came out healthy and happy and back into the work force. After you broke into my car, I was timely enough to cancel my personal credit cards and freeze all activity on my credit report before you tapped into them. But that didn’t stop you – you took the business card belonging to my kind, socially and ecologically sensitive and responsible boss. You took a card, that with my job so new, it wasn’t even in my name yet. It belonged to the woman who worked there previously and I used it mostly to buy flowers for the office. You cleaned out the checking which subsequently withdrew further into the linked savings account. You stole not only from me, but from someone who you could probably stand to see for emotional and psychological help, you morally depraved social miscreant.

Damn shame your absentee mother was an emotional suckhole when present and didn’t love you enough to teach you right from wrong and your father was a treacherous carbon-based life form, soaked in alcohol and permanently affixed to the living room chair when he wasn’t getting a ride home from the police. Everybody hurts, bitch, and your suffering is not special and the world doesn’t owe you a seat-warmer in a snowstorm. Your beginnings aren’t your only road map, you have the ability to toss the shitty hand you are dealt and to overcome – especially in this country. You have the power to decide if you’re going to turn out like Nelson Mandela or Charles Manson. Seems like the wrong people are in prison, but some people still manage to embrace life and not take it. You have too much leisure time. You need to work, contribute, make sense, make love, build and fill your life with meaningful people instead of robbing people in order to make your life easier, you lazy turd.

I know times are hard. I know jobs are scarce. I know people are hungry. I know it costs more than a quarter now to call someone who cares . . . but you stole not only my important IDs and cards, you took paper and snapshot memories of trips to Rome and to the British Virgin Islands. You took a moleskin sketchbook I have carried all over the world to write in and jot notes of things I want to read and learn about. You took a dog-eared paper copy of our wedding vows that I carry with me to remind me, to be grateful and to think back on the beautiful day my life changed and moved forward in love and companionship in this crazy world. You took fortune cookie papers from dinner nite’s out, letters from friends, reminders and receipts, my favorite lipstick and a very functional nylon, waterproof purse my husband bought for me as a gift before seeing the Blue Ridge Parkway on a beautiful Summer day in Virginia. I am glad I have my memories, my health, and my husband – the cards and IDs can be replaced, but you took some very important keepsakes, you heartless bastard. There was $5 in that Japanese paper wallet I received from a dear friend for my birthday many years ago. You should just send my bag back to the Market Of Choice, minus the one card you went shopping with. Do one thing right in your whole worthless life. Lucky for me, my old driver’s license was in my wallet so you don’t have my address. You do, however, have some handsome pictures of my husband. An intelligent, kind, respectable man who works for a living and provides a comfortable, stable life (unlike you and yours) and whom I carry in my heart and carried with me wherever I went until you took the wallet with the pictures. I want those back too, you greedy fuck.

I’d hoped you bought some diapers and groceries for your family or paid some medical bills or fixed your car or bought some presentable clothes so you can find a job. I’d really hoped you didn’t waste it on frivolous bullshit that most people buy whether or not they can afford it. But you went on a little shopping spree at Target, The Auto-Zone, Sears, EB Games, Fred Meyer and Safeway, Radio Shack, plus a few other random nonsense places ranging from $75-$400 a pop. Really? Your vacuous, emotional needs were met at a video game outlet?!?! I hope that purchase was for the child you never spend time with. No – I take that back, I hope you spend time with your child.

No – forget all that . . . I hope you haven’t reproduced at all. Shitty examples of humanity shouldn’t be replicated and populated into more window smashing, thieving-ass fools.

I am stung, but acknowledge that I must be more vigilant, that my senses were telling me not to park there; that you were probably the creep pretending to talk on his cellphone but were actually just swimming between cars like a shark looking for prey. I described you to the police and the car you parked all retarded and cock-eyed. Here I was, worried you would back out and ding me, but you were more the hit-and-run type. There’s security cameras monitoring the parking lot and though I neglected to memorize your plate, if that WAS you, the cameras and backup have it. I did manage to remember that big, dumb cranium of yours and so will they . . . in jail.

It’s all on video too, fuckhead, and a CD his being burned for the police investigator, as is the record of all the store locations by number that you essentially “robbed” in your route. Soon enough, total frauds like you are going to go down the hard way. Despite the senselessness in random acts of vandalism, theft, murder and general fuckery in the world, I still believe in the positive nature of the universe. I have witnessed that there exists a beautiful chaos and a balancing system in which the practice of goodness is paid in kind and the asshatery practitioner loses the head to put it upon. Living like you do, especially if you cross the wrong person, and you will, this all leads to inevitable consequences and death, and death is the ultimate equalizer. I trust you will arrive there well before I do, you miserable prick.

But it’s all good . . . your ignorant, selfish act has reminded me that it’s ok to lose things and that I will still survive. That it’s good to take stock and periodic (or in this case, forced) downsizing once in awhile is a necessary regulating system. I am reminded to unclutter, to simplify and to cut unhealthy, unnecessary attachments that don’t serve me. I don’t need “stuff” to be happy or to live. And that even after my mood, my day, and my organizational flow are turned on their respective heads, my husband and friends can strip all the worry away and take me to dinner to get my mind off it all and prove I can still eat and sleep well knowing I am thought of, respected, and loved. This is more than you may ever have. This is the emptiness you try to fill with “things” that never will. This lack is what drives you take what isn’t rightfully yours. This is where your skewed sense of value ruins your life. This is more than likely, your fucking problem.

No matter how many windows you break, how much you steal, how many people you wrong, how many places you go, how many times you start over, you will never get over the mountain of lies you tell or out of the rotten, bottomless place you dwell. Not until you join the civilized, sweet part of humanity. The part that doesn’t take from each other so weightily that it causes them to suffer. The part that gives, even to a fault. The part that honors the idea that we are the keepers of our brothers and sisters and we lift ourselves by lifting them up as well. The part that strips it down to the basics, and points out the blessings and is grateful for the people that try, even in thin times, to comfort and feed their loved ones when they realize that something has been taken, but all is not lost.

I know you won’t read this. I know you don’t give a shit, not really, else you wouldn’t have taken such a careless shit on my day. You wouldn’t have smashed and dashed like a common criminal. You would’ve kept walking and kept waiting and kept hoping for a change in your life or imagine it – get out of the twisted, polluted, self-absorbed cycle you’re mired in and do something the fuck about it. You, sir (I guess this by your string of purchases) don’t deserve the honorific, courtesy title of a man and are truly lost. And I hope that you are found.

By wolves.

We are stardust, we are golden,
We are billion year old carbon,
And we’ve got to get ourselves
back to the garden.

~ Joni Mitchell

::: ::: ::: ::: ::: ::: ::: :::

I know, i’ve been remiss at posting. But it’s been for good and happy reasons. It was months packed with gardening, visiting gardens, hosting a Pagan Potluck for Easter, reading, cooking, eating, drinking, berry picking, jamming, canning, beach vacationing and when i wasn’t too busy doing all that – i took some quiet time out for the Ancient Forest at Opal Creek.

Hmmm . . . so because i’ve been immersed and seeing and doing, what’s the best way to describe the last couple months of activity?

Visually! Of course . . .

In My Garden

(see the full set on Flickr)

Crystal Springs Rhododendron Garden

(see the full set on Flickr)

Holden Beach, NC

(see the full set on Flickr)

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Opal Creek Ancient Forest

(see the full set on Flickr)

more soon.

again.

i promise ♥

“There are things you do
because they feel right
& they may make no sense
& they may make no money
& it may be the real reason we are here:
to love each other
& to eat each other’s cooking
& say it was good.”

:::   :::   :::   :::   :::   :::   :::   :::

“I’ve been a bad yogi this week,” i mused sadly to Joe. Even talking about yoga to Lia in lieu of actually doing it got my muscles to tingle and miss it.

“Yeah, but sometimes forging new friendships takes the same kind of commitment.” he said to me.

i am consoled to think that at least i’ve been a good friend. or have been having a good time. i can also tell it’s been a full, week of good people, food and silliness when the fridge is full of tasty leftovers, there’s a bouquet of lilies on my living room table, there are a lot of dishes to do, there’s silver spray paint and glass beads in strange places, the laundry turns up stickers, candy wrappers and tiny plastic babies, i am pleasantly tired and i am editing photos of it all.

Sufjan Steven’s “The Henney Buggy Band” lyrics and melody occur to me in snippets.

“Oh life, with your colorful surprises
Eleanor, how you put one on disguises”

“Far in the morning light
We let the movies play
A weekend from the holiday

. . . Forget about yourself and all your plans”

This past Saturday a group of friends all dressed up as Villains attended the Alter Egos Power Struggle. It was pretty much a Heroes & Villains pub crawl all brought to you by:
Alter Egos Society and Drunken Rampage. And Benja said it best with:

“the event included games and prizes along a route through several downtown Portland bars. The games included initiation games (such as “save the kittens” for heroes and “steal candy from the babies” for villains), “You’ve Met Your Match” finding an Arch Nemesis speed dating style), and a dance-off between good and evil. A number of local businesses (bars and comic shops, etc.) and organizations (Stumptown Comics Foundation, etc.) supported the event as part of official Portland Comics Month.”

But for me to tell you about the evening from the streetside and onlooker POV – well, is to tell the story of running through the city, engaging in an en masse, public, costumed rubber band fight, taking over bars of every variety including strip and gay (Portland famous), community pole-dancing, swinging from the ceiling (on a literal swing suspended by chains) climbing elephant statues in the park, catching free prizes in the air like porn, latex whips, silver-studded leather chastity belts, oh – and comic books too. Sure. To give you ALL the details would read a bit Gonzo-esque so . . . “No. We can’t stop here. This is bat country.”

But there are some photos where my friends are harpies, mad scientists, robots, caped, cylcloptic evil overlords with interchangeable blue & red laser monocles with minions to match, judges dressed in cinched robes & a wrestling unitard, and futuristic underwater murderers of dolphins (it’s quite a backstory). A bit of “so long and thanks for tall the fish.” Dolphins are super smart and take over the world. See: Douglas Adams.

clearly, anyone dressed like this, is a villain and up to no good . . .

Here’s the rest of my photos anyway . . .

The next morning, Easter Sunday we threw a Pagan Potluck to celebrate Eostre, the goddess of spring fecundity, love and carnal pleasure. How appropriate. There was so much wonderful food! A big spiral-sliced ham i cooked with an orange-maple glaze and served with a side of “last nite’s costumed bar crawl hangover,” with a friendly diner smile. Quiche, potato salad, fruit salad of blood oranges and tangerines, quinoa, spinach salad with goat cheese, potato salad, deviled eggs, chocolate angel food cake, cherry cobbler, coconut balls and more mimosas and white wine than humanly necessary were consumed. Eventually it devolved into a game of Scattergories and Celebrity. Somehow, my dumb ass did NOT take pictures. i was off duty that nite, i suppose.

Last nite we gathered for a loose dinner party at Jeremy’s apartment themed “food on a stick.” The colorful spread ended up consisting of cheese & chocolate fondue with dippers of olive bread, meat, angel food cake, strawberries, apples, pears, sushi and skewered teriyaki chicken and beef, wine (hey, stemmed glasses are on sticks!) the comedic Pabst Blue Ribbon that Cooper brought up from the depths of the ice cooler, carried in on a large branch and hoisted into the room like catch of the day, and Benja’s contribution of candy with Chick-O-Stix. Surprisingly, no popsicles, perhaps a rather obvious choice. This in no way detracted from the rainbow of bountiful foodie goodness we enjoyed. (Once again, no photographic evidence!) Later, we all lay on collective couches in a food coma watching Val Kilmer in Real Genius. A good old fashioned 80′s “nerd saves the world” movie.

Tonite while drinking cold beer on our warm sunny patio talking to Lia & Cooper who were getting ready to depart for their stay at home happy couple date nite of dinner and cuddling, i was cheered as i received, fielded and answered text messages:

Tiffany: “If i get enough work done today i was thinking of going to the tulip festival tomorrow – interested? It’s going to be a beautiful day.”

Chelsea: “Thought i’d take advantage of the sun with a book and my dog. Ran into friends on the Beach. Dungeoness crab for dinner. Call ya when i’m headed back.”

Claire: “We went to the farmers market and now we are relaxing at a park in the SE. If you were at Stumptown i’d join you. Nap in park instead! We are going out for Pho if you are interested.”

And later from Lia: “We love you guys. Seriously. Like love love. U fixed my music collection! i owe you my life.”

Jeremy asked: “What time tomorrow?” in reference to the brunch we’re having on the deck at my house since the weather promises sunny and 74 degrees. i instructed, “Let’s call it a casual noon. Brunch in single digit #’s is called breakfast & is lame.” Claire is coming over to cook some spicy eggs, i’m gonna to fry up some bacon and make a stack of fluffy pancakes. hmm, i have no champagne for mimosas . . .

i smiled to myself a lot for a lot of little reasons today. Odin was hiding in the freshly washed bed sheets in an effort to stalk me. i realized that if i want to fall madly into bed with Joe tonite, the bed must be made, cat or no. There was a time when we got so distracted and caught up in each other, too busy making love that we could rarely be bothered to comb our hair or pack properly for a trip to the woods. The apple butter in the fridge reminded me of the camping trip where, because we were too busy “packing” we had forgotten a knife to cut and spread food, so we simply tore off hunks of bread and dipped it in pumpkin butter (no more apple butter to be had at the roadside stands that late in the afternoon.) How that nite, Joe and i flipped the script on the traditional camping roles: i built a fire and secured the goods from bears and he, my would-be-husband cooked a fabulous dinner of beans and onions and summer sausage. I thought of our long looks in the fire light, and the sound of a large skunk trundling through the brush into our campsite  making my eyes go from lovestruck at half-mast to wide and panicked. “Animal. Biggish.” i whispered in a fearful assessment. And he laughed.

i washed the tablecloths from the Easter Pagan Potluck we threw last week and tossed in a few old throws. One of them, a bright blue with red stripes i didn’t recognize until turned the tag to read it:

British Airways.
MADE IN ENGLAND.
Airline use only. Please do not remove from aircraft.

And i smiled, thinking of Joe taking me to Rome after we got engaged.

“Hey, did i ask you to steal this blanket from the plane ride?” i prodded.
“Well, one of us stole it. It’s unclear who, “Joe smiled.

it’s in my lap right now as i type this in the office.

i am about to take some fruit down to thaw for brunch: a bag full of frozen mango & berries – something called “Mangolicious” from Trader Joe’s that i put with some Vanana (vanilla & banana flavoured yogurt) and some local Hanna’s honey in a cup. i am thinking fondly of myself & two dear friends in our pajamas eating apple pie for breakfast. In bed. Laughing. i am thinking of not waking up earlier than 11 am tomorrow. i am thinking the red & yellow tulips in bloom in my garden should suffice if i don’t make it out to the Wooden Shoe Tulip festival.

Oh, life with your colorful surprises.