Daddy

Sylvia Plath

You do not do, you do not do
Any more, black shoe
In which I have lived like a foot
For thirty years, poor and white,
Barely daring to breathe or Achoo.

Daddy, I have had to kill you.
You died before I had time--
Marble-heavy, a bag full of God,
Ghastly statue with one gray toe
Big as a Frisco seal

And a head in the freakish Atlantic
Where it pours bean green over blue
In the waters off beautiful Nauset.
I used to pray to recover you.
Ach, du.

In the German tongue, in the Polish town
Scraped flat by the roller
Of wars, wars, wars.
But the name of the town is common.
My Polack friend

Says there are a dozen or two.
So I never could tell where you
Put your foot, your root,
I never could talk to you.
The tongue stuck in my jaw.

It stuck in a barb wire snare.
Ich, ich, ich, ich,
I could hardly speak.
I thought every German was you.
And the language obscene

An engine, an engine
Chuffing me off like a Jew.
A Jew to Dachau, Auschwitz, Belsen.
I began to talk like a Jew.
I think I may well be a Jew.

The snows of the Tyrol, the clear beer of Vienna
Are not very pure or true.
With my gipsy ancestress and my weird luck
And my Taroc pack and my Taroc pack
I may be a bit of a Jew.

I have always been scared of you,
With your Luftwaffe, your gobbledygoo.
And your neat mustache
And your Aryan eye, bright blue.
Panzer-man, panzer-man, O You--

Not God but a swastika
So black no sky could squeak through.
Every woman adores a Fascist,
The boot in the face, the brute
Brute heart of a brute like you.

You stand at the blackboard, daddy,
In the picture I have of you,
A cleft in your chin instead of your foot
But no less a devil for that, no not
Any less the black man who

Bit my pretty red heart in two.
I was ten when they buried you.
At twenty I tried to die
And get back, back, back to you.
I thought even the bones would do.

But they pulled me out of the sack,
And they stuck me together with glue.
And then I knew what to do.
I made a model of you,
A man in black with a Meinkampf look

And a love of the rack and the screw.
And I said I do, I do.
So daddy, I'm finally through.
The black telephone's off at the root,
The voices just can't worm through.

If I've killed one man, I've killed two--
The vampire who said he was you
And drank my blood for a year,
Seven years, if you want to know.
Daddy, you can lie back now.

There's a stake in your fat black heart
And the villagers never liked you.
They are dancing and stamping on you.
They always knew it was you.
Daddy, daddy, you bastard, I'm through.

From "Ariel," 1966

Oh life.

Today I gave a lesson to my grad cohort on subject/verb agreement, using headlines from The Onion, a variety of Bushisms, examples that referred to Simpsons characters and Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure, and obnoxiously loud party noisemakers. It pretty much rocked the house, even though I was so sure that I was going to vomit as I prepared all of the stuff. It's really (really) nervewracking to teach grammar to roomful of highly educated late-20-somethings in a Masters program.

Also lately:
- I started writing a packet of letters (addressed to nobody presently), which I'm planning to turn into an honest and hilarious novel. I don't have much material down yet, but what's there is of the highest quality that I've probably ever written. I think taking a relational break has been really liberating for the left side of my brain. Tequila might also have something to do with it.
- Yesterday I bought a new set of semi-cheap brushes and four square canvases (14x14and 16x16), and I sat for about eight hours and painted the absolute best work that I've ever made, hands down. I'll post pictures when time allows. It is wildly colorful, multi-dimensional, and kind of borderline circus-artish; and it involves fish with unicorn horns (naturally).
I painted it with someone in mind, but now I'm not sure that I want to give it away. Everyone else owns all of my best artwork. Still, I almost feel almost indebted to the person I had in mind when I painted it. Would I have been able to paint the same thing otherwise?...

So ends this solipsistic rant, with apologies. It is inspiring to feel a bit of art flowing back into my body though; it seems like it's been forever. New beginnings have a way of doing this to me.

Guilty.

Sometimes when I'm alone late at night I read the Eugene Craigslist "Missed Connections" page, just to restore my faith that some sweet and quirky people are out there (even if a lot of weirdos and whackjobs are out there too).

This one posting caught my attention because it sounds like it's about me:
Woman in pea coat smelling fruit at Market of Choice last night before closing. Adorable and kind of funny, even though you probably weren't trying to be.

(I go there late at night, in my gray peacoat, and I do sometimes shamelessly sniff the fruit to see if it's ripe, but I seriously doubt... I mean, this is Eugene.)

And this one is really quite epic, and is arguably made even more so by its spelling errors:
Crying brunette in silver mini van:
Almost every morning I see you driving from beltline taking a left onto gateway. Your beuty is the high light of my morning. Today when I saw you I wanted to jump out of my car and tell you everything would be ok. I can't get you out of my head. Don't cry. Slim chance you will see this but lets talk if you do.

*Gasp.*

In the doghouse.

Update:
My dog-permit prescription scheme (see below) failed miserably today, because the doctor unfortunately turned out to be some sort of a peace-loving quack job who could only tell me that I needed to quit Karate and take up Tai Chi in order to "settle my nerves and focus on the positive." What this had to do with my maternal pining for a dog or my history of clinical depression continues to elude me; furthermore, at least I know that performing some bullshit ballet of fake defensive movements won't do any more good for my soul than practicing throat-smashes on a dummy that looks like Bruce Willis. So pretty much, fuck that guy and his schmancy fucking degree. I pushed my opinion about my need for a dog, but it didn't do any good, and I left empty-handed. As I smiled understandingly, I fleetingly considered knocking out Mr. Pseudo-philosopher via an explosive and unexpected attack to the jugular, and then positioning a pen in his hand and getting the signature that I'd come in for through more creative means than originally expected. But then I thought I might get arrested.
You win again, Focault. You win.

To make a long story short, I ended out crying for hours today, and now I feel as though my head and heart weigh about a thousand pounds. It's genuinely devastating to bond with an animal in need and later be told--by some unsubstantial fucking Nazi rental corporation that doesn't even know you or care to consider your needs, and that just recently changed its stupid pet policy--that you have to drop the whole idea and forget about him. I don't have a forgetful sort of heart, especially when it comes to dogchildren and humanchildren.

I going to get a copy of the rental agreement and find out what the penalties are for having a non-permitted animal here at the apartment. If it's not an arm and a leg or an eviction as well as as mighty fee, I think I might just get the dog anyway and pray that he's as quiet as I've been told. I might end out feeling like I'm smuggling a Jewish person in my apartment, but I think it would still be better than leaving the poor thing impounded. I would love him to pieces--little chewy chihuahua pieces, and he would love me back. We'd ride in my car and roll down the windows and howl to Paul Simon songs. We'd pee on the roots of the neighbor's hydrangeas just to watch the blooms change colors. We'd walk to the market and sprawl on the living room carpet and be the best of friends.


Fucking apartment Nazis.




I'm so sad.

This is how I've felt all week.

Unbelievable.

1. I put an adoption hold on a dog from the Heartland Humane Society, after three years of planning and dreaming and (some, I'll admit, only some) saving. He is not at all what I expected: a white, scraggly, half-starved stray with large batlike ears, dainty feet, and a pathetically drooping tail, twelve pounds in all, with the most soulful eyes you've ever seen. He is at least half Chihuahua (I know, I know), and the Humane Society's name for him is Perkins (I freaking know). But he chose me; he looked at me and telepathically whispered "Vamos."
2. Then, (after setting my heart on this rather sorry excuse for a canine,) I found out that my apartment technically doesn't allow pets, even though it's pretty much teeming with cats and some kind of a hound that howls whenever someone turns the telly too loud. These, according to Von Asscrack Property Management, are all "designated companion" creatures.
3. So it comes down to this: tomorrow I'm going tomorrow to get a medical referral for pet ownership. Yes, I'm dead serous. My appointment is at 1:30, and I plan to cite my last eight years' worth of depression medications, counseling sessions, and psychological testing to back up my point that sometimes I need a furry little ball of bizarrity. (I'm not on meds anymore or any of that, but I think dogs are important to my emotional well-being nevertheless.) So, in short,
4. Heaven help me.
5. And may the doctor's note from the University not cost me an arm and a leg.

This just in.

I am a one-woman public education revolution.

My mischievous miscreants are so interested in the course material that they don't even want to be defiant or distracting. I seem to have found the golden key to behavior management... it involves a strange mixture of joking, making strange warning "tcch-ch!" sounds with theatrical faces, thanking kids for their contributions, and cranking out awesome activities that involve technology and interaction.
I was absolutely sure I'd shrivel up and die while working with this age group, but apparently the kids quite like my quirkiness and the wild lessons that I'm coming up with. I could do this. I would still rather teach higher levels or even college, but this is livable. Exhausting though.

The media specialist at the middle school, who is a) the only informed individual on the entire staff, and b) looks uncannily like my brother, has become a valuable ally amongst the sea of crochety post-menopausal frumpmasters (also known as teachers). Today we shot the shit about the rise of the graphic novel, the censorship of reading materials in public school libraries, Swingline staplers, the Stone Roses, Sigur Ros, and Bellingham's underground music scene.

I've slept so little in the last few days that everything feels fragmented. Probably not worth attempting to write.



But before I forget, here are some units I'm thinking of teaching eventually:
- A unit about the evolution of indie music culture throughout the nineties and into the present, using Rob Sheffield's Love is a Mix Tape and Nick Hornby's High Fidelity, alongside lyrical analysis and student songwriting.
- An elective unit focusing on the career and artistic stylings of Michel Gondry (director of Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, The Science of Sleep, and several music videos by Bjork, among other things). Maybe extending to talk about conventions of postmodern French film.
- A class about epic journeys, using the works of Joseph Campbell, alongside texts and films such as Harry Potter, The Dark is Rising, Pan's Labyrinth, Lord of the Rings, Sabriel, Star Wars, and others (hopefully more multicultural). Perhaps extending this to consider conventions of modern epic journeys. Incorporating complex literary theory.
- A unit about magical realism. Gabriel Garcia Marquez, Cristina Garcia, and others; films such as Like Water for Chocolate.
- A unit about ghosts in literature. I briefly considered focusing on this as a graduate English student, but decided to go into teaching instead. Ghosts have unusual functions throughout literature that living characters cannot seem to fulfill, and this has always interested me. (I think I am fascinated by ghosts in literature because they always appear in my dreams as well.)
- A unit about ethnic identity and immigration in poetry and prose, featuring the works of Jhumpa Lahiri, Maxine Hong Kingston, Gish Jen, Khaled Housseini, Derek Walcott, and others.
- A unit about Shakespeare that includes his literary influences, his contemporaries, excellent artwork and films that capture the spirit of the era (Shakespeare in Love is one), and unconventional renditions of Shakespearean plays (including films like The Abridged Shakespeare Company, Shakespeare Behind Bars, and modern renditions of plays). I would teach this alongside the sonnets, because Shakespeare's plays shine the most brightly when you have a solid understanding of the poetic tradition upon which they're built. (Shakespeare considered himself first a poet, and then a playwrite.)
- A free after school unit in self defense, free-hand and perhaps with weaponry (I am learning short-sword fighting in my Eugene class right now).

In other news

1. In the nanoseconds of free time that I've had in the past month, I've been studying and celebrating old school Celtic traditions and holidays with my mom and Gram. Yesterday we ate blackberry tarts and drank wine for Michaelmas (and then had soup and homemade bread and cake for my birthday on Monday). I also celebrated the coming of the equinox, and my mom (the ultimate subversive pagan) had her kindergarten students create Equinox Crowns for themselves out of construction paper and sparkley leaf confetti. "They celebrated and didn't even know it."
2. Purple coneflowers (or Echinacea, to those of you who are botanically-minded) are dead and ready for de-seeding if you haven't gotten to it already. Take the cone part, cut it off the stem, and comb through it with your fingers to release the seeds. Make sure they're dry before you store them. They can be planted again next year or brewed into tea.
3. Everybody else is getting married or engaged right now, and it's really throwing me a loop. Andy and I talk about it a lot, since it's been over three years and I'm almost halfway through with my Masters and well on my way to real life. We're thinking of engagement next year and maybe getting married the following (we'd be 25). I hope he does the thing properly. I've officially fucked up most of the major landmark events of development in my life: I made prom into a complete joke by wearing an electric purple 80s flamenco dress and turning my hair into a whitegirl afro; I forgot to walk at college graduation... but this had better be done the right way.
4. Tomorrow is my birthday. 23. Officially mid-20s; how frightening. My middle schoolers still think I'm from the high school though, which for now I'll take as a compliment.

Northern migration.

Even though I know the wilderness areas around it have been on fire and filled the valley with thick smoke, tonight I have an aching gut homesickness for Missoula. I don't know whether I miss the place or just the way that I felt when I lived there, and I'm not really sure whether the two are even separable. When I think about Missoula it's just a surreal blur of nostalgic snapshots: there I am, wrapped head to toe in polarfleece, hiking up snowy mountain trails with Andy; or there we are, cooking a spaghetti dinner in my rented hovel (a tiny, Granny-Smith-green backyard shed that has horrible insulation and a fabulous furnace, at the address of 135 1/2 South 5th Street West, which never fails to baffle the local postman). Or we're ordering sandwiches (dill pickled to perfection) and buying unsual Hasbro gummy candies at Wardens before heading out to the sunny banks of the Clark Fork, where I read some appropriately riverish novel (David James Duncan) while Andy flyfishes further upstream. Or I'm shuffling frozen across the street in my pajamas with a load of wash in my arms, taking it to the Rainbow laundry place, which is full of decorative houseplants and has a softserve icecream/coffee bar, an indoor cabana in the corner, and a funny owner who always wears a short-brimmed, yellow bicycling hat. Or sometimes I'm shoe-skating over frozen rivers to get to the best fishing spots, or singing with Joni Mitchell as I wash dishes in front of the kitchen window and watch the purple sunset outside. Or I might be sprawled across a picnic table sunbathing, on a rare 75-degree day in March, puffy cumulus clouds floating lazily through the open sky; or maybe I'm waking up to a cup of hot chocolate in the Raven Cafe, where there's a punched tin ceiling overhead, and newspaper headline sexual innuendos are plastered ceremoniously all over the espresso machine. Or I'm walking around the block from Big Dipper, a scoop of handmade chocolate icecream perching precariously on a waffle cone... and I'm strolling past Ear Candy music (a great indie section) and then past the skate shop where "Lewis and Clark took a shit here" is written in the restroom.
Now that's nostalgia.

When I was away, I never got the same sinking homesickness for Oregon that I do for Missoula. Not that I don't love Oregon--I do, and its beauty amazes me every day--but sometimes I think I feel bogged down by 200 years of local family history and millions of miles of farmed fir trees. Oregon is great, but it might not be for me. Somehow Montana sings a different story, and it feels more like my own.
We're thinking of moving back, despite the job market problem.

Pitch it now, kill it later.

It's become so repulsively trendy lately for companies to appear as though they're "going green." Ford Escape Hybrid commercials feature digitized cornfields applauding a massive suburban that gets a measley 34 miles per gallon (and, notably, still requires our depleting/damaging natural resources and producing pollutants in the process of manufacturing both the auto body and its various types of fuel). Meanwhile, BP commercials obsessively push a "biofuels" campaign that is a half-truth at best, lauding corn ethanol as a sustainable, earth friendly fuel resource despite the fact that corn requires heavy water resources and fertilizers (which are full of heavy metals and other gnarly toxins).
These companies aren't really green and, by the very nature of the products they sell, they never will be. After all, automobiles and oil aren't synonymous with environmental health; industrialization is more like it. If this was a true exercise in corporate environmental altruism, these companies would face (and publicize!) the facts instead of pushing products that will only appease people who haven't done their research.

Furthermore, by so strongly attempting to popularize and commericalize this (so-called) "earth friendliness," companies like Ford and Shell are consciously making environmental awareness nothing more than a short-lived marketing trend. Just watch. All marketing approaches eventually die when corporations realize that consumers have been burned out... in another two years, when being green is no longer a popular marketing pitch (its truth or falsity aside), will people still care about making progress to keep the planet healthy?
Doubt it.
Bet they'll go straight back to driving F350s and guzzling gas.

In my opinion cars aren't the central concern anyway (even though I would like to see those electric GMC cars back on the road; like that'll ever happen). Statistically, producing electricity is a much bigger blow to environmental health than automotive emissions. We really should start implementing wind power up and down our coasts and throughout the Midwest (which is flat and windy, the best place for it imaginable). The output of windpower is comparable to that of coal power plants, but there's been very little action taken with it thus far. Don't know what the hell is wrong with people.

Gripe, grunt, grimace.

Hair loss?

According to this month's issue of National Geographic, only 2% of the global human population has natural red hair (and 13% of all redheads come from Scotland, which I find strangely satisfying, as a fairly strawberry-headed Scotswoman myself). Supposedly redheads are expected to be extinct by the year 2100---a horrendous loss. Apparently the sun is the culprit; red hair's designed to take in as much Vitamin D from the sun as possible (since west European weather is decidedly moody), but unfortunately, the paper-white skin that generally accompanies red hair has a tendency to sunburn to a cancerous crisp. I can vouch for that. I've blistered horribly about four times in my 22-year lifespan. Nature's definitely chosen against me.

That aside, maybe Andy and I should have kids after all. His brother and grandma have red hair... and genetically I have a good chance of having twins and/or redheaded kids, because both run in my family...
We could be like the Weasleys. I'd give my myriad of offspring stuffy European names and we'd keep a menagerie of bizarre animals; it'd be great. I'd knit mad Weasleyish sweaters. And if I did indeed pop out two wee chillens at a time, I might have to name them Fred and George---even if they were, you know, female.



I kid, I kid.
George isn't a completely bad female name though. It has a certain edge. Female Georges make fantastic authors, after all.

Monkey trouble.

An astonishing article I read in The Scotsman (my preferred source for international news) today:

Monkeys ape sex harassment
MARGARET NEIGHBOUR

A GANG of monkeys are sexually harassing women in Kenya, according to reports yesterday.

Women in the village of Nachu trying to protect their crops from a band of about 300 monkey raiders said that the animals were afraid of men but not women and would occasionally attack them.

But they also make sexually explicit gestures in a bizarrely intelligent form of communication. "The monkeys grab their breasts and gesture at us while pointing at their private parts. We are afraid that they will sexually harass us," Lucy Njeri said.

The vervet monkeys have been causing serious problems for villagers by eating corn, beans, potatoes and other crops.

The women have tried to trick the monkeys into believing they were men to scare them off, but without success.

"When we come to chase the monkeys away, we are dressed in trousers and hats, so that we look like men," Ms Njeri said.

"But the monkeys can tell the difference and they don't run away from us and point at our breasts. They just ignore us and continue to steal the crops."

The problems have become so severe that the farming community is receiving famine relief and the situation was raised in the Kenyan Parliament by MP Paul Muite.

He called for the Kenyan Wildlife Service to intervene to help bring the monkey problem under control.

But Mr Muite said some other MPs in the chamber had laughed when they heard the monkeys were apparently mocking the village's women.

Link to this article: http://news.scotsman.com/international.cfm?id=1351502007

This renders me speechless.

A dancing white mare.

As many of my fellow country bumpkins know, I spent most of my childhood rampaging around on horseback in the hills behind my parents' house. When I was a kid my family didn't travel or spend money on cars or camps or frilly dresses for school dances... instead, we kept a couple of horses--a mischievous black Arabian with rubbery lips and a knack for unlocking gates, and a small, spirited, flaming red Quarter Horse, who we rescued from neglect and loved me to pieces.
In general I liked taking my horse (the red one) apple-picking and running wild in the woods, paying as little attention to stuffy riding conventions as possible. We couldn't be bothered to saddle up or "look pretty"--bareback, and with both our manes and tails askew, we stampeded our way up trails and down ravines and had an excellent time together. She was an awesome companion.

Anyway, the way that my horse and I operated was in stark contrast to what follows in this YouTube clip (and I think my horse much preferred it that way, to be honest). Typically I can't agree with people who try to make their horses perform unnaturally, so I don't advocate stuff like dressage (shown in the clip) or show jumping... but nevertheless, I can't resist posting this. (You'll need audio to appreciate it fully, and try to watch at least a few minutes, because she doesn't really get going until the YouTube timer reads 4:50.) The horse is obviously dancing to the music on the loudspeakers and seems to be getting a real kick out of it. Look at her keeping time with her hooves, it's insane... and watch what she's doing with her tail (particularly later on in the video); she's like a sorority girl flipping her hair. Pretty funny.

Anyone who says that animals aren't sentient beings obviously hasn't seen anything like this. No human dances this well.

I'b sick.

Only one week of vacation between summer term and absolute middle school* madness, and what happens? I get a cold within the first 12 hours and spend the next two days knitting scarves, drinking Vernor's, and watching a bewildering combination of apocalyptic OPB programs and Harry Potter dvds (whilst drugged up on cold medicine, no less).
"Smah" is the term that sums it all up most succinctly.
But at least the weather is drizzling along with my nose.

*Can't remember whether I mentioned it or not... I've been placed in Junction City schools for my student teaching bit this year. In the fall I start at Oaklea Middle School (and in the winter I move on to high school). I'm already bracing myself for blasts of excessive eighth-grader cologne and mouldering lockers decorated with Teen magazine clippings. Save me, Suzanne, save me.

After watching Dead Poets Society...

...I so desperately need a teacher who makes me shout "Yawp!" that it's not even funny.



Instead of studying for my impending test (at 3:00), I've spent the last thirty minutes fucking about with my blog colors---because I'm all professional like that. Anyway, while messing with HTML I realized that I had somehow turned off the comment ability some months ago... it's now back on. Yep.

Something wicked this way comes.

Our flat's been overrun by a procession of spinsters: spiders, spiders in the living room, in the bathroom sink, on the exterior of the mosquito netting on my bed... a myriad of black, eight-legged creepy crawlies tiptoeing along the ceiling plaster, traipsing across the countertop, tapdancing through my dreams. I'm living in an Edward Gorey picturebook.

And because I live with one A. Livesay, whose parents perpetually kept a "No Spray" sign in their drainage ditch, and who has grown up stubbornly like-minded in the realm of pesticide useage, I can see that there'll be no Chemical Spider Death bombs allowed on my agenda. Instead we'll simply coexist with these spiders until they grow into Shelob proportions and, eventually, eat us alive with a side of relish (using our own cutlery, no less).

Fall is coming. At night you can feel its damp weight in the air.

Oh, the geekery.

Which Hogwarts house will you be sorted into?

08/08 greatest.

A (day late) compulsive listy-kadoo of the past few weeks' 8 most inspiring and/or frivolously wonderful things.
Brace thyself.

1. Blasting Paul Simon's Concert in the Park album while driving on Highway 99 at night, during a harvest moon, with the sunroof open to the sky.
2. Eating perfectly browned oatnut toast with homemade strawberry jam.
3. Watching Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix (film). Better music, better visuals, a fantastic magic scene in the Room of Requirement, and (and!) the ever-brilliant Helena Bonham Carter. I loved her as Bellatrix.
4. Finding a long, brown, button-down car-coat that makes me feel like a British spy in a 1970s film. (Every woman needs just such a coat, I think, especially at the price of $28.00. Come shopping with me and I'll find one for you. And then we'll sit on a street corner smoking cigars and looking serious.)
5. Picking the first plump blackberries of the season--and freezing them for smoothies.
6. Listening to a family friend from London imitate various regional and colloquial British accents, including South London's (in which, apparently, all 'th' sounds at the end of words are turned into 'f's). I was completely enthralled.
7. Talking about farts with my wunnerful friend Shay. We should have met, like, 13 years ago; we would have been completely inseparable. She is a righteous babe.
8. And (last but certainly not least...) going to Suz'n'Tom's beautiful (and miraculously fun!) wedding, and having a delightful time schmoozing it old school with Joey, Tania, and Kenny, among other things.

A cryptic griping. Skip this one.

It's when you think you've got your feet firmly planted that the rug inevitably flies out from underneath.
It's pretty much impossible to please everyone at once--and since, to a despicable degree, my own sense of fulfillment relies on appeasing other people, I also have trouble pleasing myself. It's all just a brutal cycle of blundering and flapping about like mad to keep everybody happy. No amount of chaotic scrambling ever gets me anywhere, but the scrambling doesn't stop. I wish I'd get the clue.

It would all be so much easier if I didn't take the falls so personally.
And if people weren't so sharp-edged some of the time. It's probably not meant to be taken personally, probably just a lack of social etiquette, but still.

Drop it, Nilly.
Gravity always wins.

An archaeological dig.

This evening, while digging through the mountainous mess that has accumulated atop his desk over the past year, Andy unearthed a mysterious card (written in an unknown, decidedly grannyish hand) featuring a recipe for Elephant Stew.
Hours later, its origins and author continue to elude him.

It's moments like these that make me rethink my compulsive cleanliness. If Andy lets his rubbish and rubble accumulate and germinate long enough, he might eventually unearth something far more valuable and bizarre than an Elephant Stew recipe. A deed to the Taj Mahal, perhaps. Or maybe a Suzuki violin. Or even better, an infant Wookie.
Anything, apparently, is possible.

Do and Don't.

What I simultaneously do and don't miss about being an English student:
1. Writing about I.B. Singer until my eyes blurred with sleepiness or saltwater. (Mostly I miss it. This new stuff doesn't exercise my brain in the same way at all--now I simply read a textbook and regurgitate what I've memorized back into a test. It's a really sad way to educate future teachers; I think they're trying to make us docile enough for The System. It won't work with me, I tell you... I won't be institutionalized again. I'll kick and scream and teach David Sedaris and Jonathan Safran Foer! I'll recite wildly sexual Anne Sexton and Allen Ginsberg poems, and I'll bring the entire acid-tripping works of Ken Kesey into the classroom, because that's the stuff life's about, damnit! I'll teach kids to love writing, or at least I'll teach them to write really excellent, scathing satires! I'll teach media analysis skills and give free karate classes, and there'll be no stopping me!*
And now back to the list...)
2. Reading flowery, verbose ballads from the 1500s that stretched on and on for 150 pages. Spenser, I'm talking to you, baby.
3. Being so challenged by a professor or a text that I could feel my brain physically stretching with stress and new ideas. A feeling reminiscent of those 80's commercials for "Stretch Armstrong" dolls, if you recall.
4. The Oxford English Dictionary (which becomes so familiar to English majors that the acronym OED is no longer an acronym, but a word in itself: oeedee; like see-threepio). Ah, the OED. It is both friend and foe--a revealer of divine light or a sardonic sphinx of the reference section, depending on the day. It helped me understand Shakespeare on a whole new level. (Look up 'will' and 'wit' before you memorize all the sonnets; I learned well from Freinkel...)
5. The hideous 1970s steel-and-brick monstrosity that is Prince Lucien Campbell hall, or PLC. I had a great many undergraduate classes in that hall with people who were more or less equally obsessed with words as I am. It was a windowless hall full of recycled air, and it made us all a little lethargic... but now, for the most part, I miss it. I wish I were still breathing the recycled air of my People.
I'm not so confident that I belong in education, but I think that education should belong to people like me.
We need to shake it up. I know at least a few people in my cohort who will, and that, at least, is encouraging.

Another tangent in a different direction:
At night, I've noticed, Eugene starts to smell a bit skunky. Either all of the citizens of the Eug are coming out en masse and smoking weed in some covert corner, or we've got some sort of gnarly chemical factory upwind that's releasing pungent toxins into the air in the dead of the night.
It's really rather creepy.
If I suddenly grow a half-shell and don a bandana, you'll know why.


*I always write these things in hope that nobody from my department will happen to stumble upon them, but in case anyone does, I have to admit, they're all true. We all know it's the radical teachers who inspire us and get us to grow, and I won't settle for less than that. I feel no need to apologize.

More on the Harry Potter epilogue. Spoiler warning.

Copied and pasted from (I know, I know, terrible,) MSNBC.com.
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Finished ‘Potter’? Rowling tells what happens next
Exclusive: Author gives details on events after the book’s final epilogue

Spoiler alert: This story reveals some key plot points in the final Harry Potter book. So if you've haven't finished the book, J.K. Rowling asks that you not read this story.

If you found the epilogue of “Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows” rather vague, then J.K. Rowling achieved her goal.

The author was shooting for “nebulous,” something “poetic.” She wanted the readers to feel as if they were looking at Platform 9¾ through the mist, unable to make out exactly who was there and who was not.

“I do, of course, have that information for you, should you require it,” she told TODAY’s Meredith Vieira rather coyly in her first interview since fans got their hands on the final book.
Ummm … yes, please!

Rowling said her original epilogue was “a lot more detailed,” including the name of every child born to the Weasley clan in the past 19 years. (Victoire, who was snogging Teddy — Lupin and Tonks’ son — is Bill and Fleur’s eldest.)

“But it didn’t work very well as a piece of writing,” Rowling said. “It felt very much that I had crowbarred in every bit of information I could … In a novel you have to resist the urge to tell everything.”

But now that the seventh and final novel is in the hands of her adoring public, Rowling no longer has to hold back any information about Harry Potter from her fans. And when 14 fans crowded around her in Edinburgh Castle in Scotland earlier this week as part of TODAY’s interview, Rowling was more than willing to share her thoughts about what Harry and his friends are up to now.

Harry, Ron and Hermione
We know that Harry marries Ginny and has three kids, essentially, as Rowling explains, creating the family and the peace and calm he never had as a child.

As for his occupation, Harry, along with Ron, is working at the Auror Department at the Ministry of Magic. After all these years, Harry is now the department head.

“Harry and Ron utterly revolutionized the Auror Department,” Rowling said. “They are now the experts. It doesn’t matter how old they are or what else they’ve done.”

Meanwhile, Hermione, Ron’s wife, is “pretty high up” in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, despite laughing at the idea of becoming a lawyer in “Deathly Hallows.”

“I would imagine that her brainpower and her knowledge of how the Dark Arts operate would really give her a sound grounding,” Rowling said.

Harry, Ron and Hermione don’t join the same Ministry of Magic they had been at odds with for years; they revolutionize it and the ministry evolves into a “really good place to be.”

“They made a new world,” Rowling said.

The wizarding naturalist
Luna Lovegood, the eccentric Ravenclaw who was fascinated with Crumple-Horned Snorkacks and Umgubular Slashkilters, continues to march to the beat of her own drum.

“I think that Luna is now traveling the world looking for various mad creatures,” Rowling said. “She’s a naturalist, whatever the wizarding equivalent of that is.”

Luna comes to see the truth about her father, eventually acknowledging there are some creatures that don’t exist.

“But I do think that she’s so open-minded and just an incredible person that she probably would be uncovering things that no one’s ever seen before,” Rowling said.

Luna and Neville Longbottom?
It’s possible Luna has also found love with another member of the D.A.

When she was first asked about the possibility of Luna hooking up with Neville Longbottom several years ago, Rowling’s response was “Definitely not.” But as time passed and she watched her characters mature, Rowling started to “feel a bit of a pull” between the unlikely pair.

Ultimately, Rowling left the question of their relationship open at the end of the book because doing otherwise “felt too neat.”

Mr. and Mrs. Longbottom: “The damage is done.”

There is no chance, however, that Neville’s parents, who were tortured into madness by Bellatrix Lestrange, ever left St. Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies.

“I know people really wanted some hope for that, and I can quite see why because, in a way, what happens to Neville’s parents is even worse than what happened to Harry’s parents,” Rowling said. “The damage that is done, in some cases with very dark magic, is done permanently.”

Rowling said Neville finds happiness in his grandmother’s acceptance of him as a gifted wizard and as the new herbology professor at Hogwarts.

The fate of Hogwarts
Nineteen years after the Battle of Hogwarts, the school for witchcraft and wizardry is led by an entirely new headmaster (“McGonagall was really getting on a bit”) as well as a new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher. That position is now as safe as the other teaching posts at Hogwarts, since Voldemort’s death broke the jinx that kept a Defense Against the Dark Arts professor from remaining for more than a year.

While Rowling didn’t clarify whether Harry, Ron and Hermione ever return to school to finish their seventh year, she did say she could see Harry popping up every now and again to give the “odd talk” on Defense Against the Dark Arts.

More details to come?
Rowling said she may eventually reveal more details in a Harry Potter encyclopedia, but even then, it will never be enough to satisfy the most ardent of her fans.

“I’m dealing with a level of obsession in some of my fans that will not rest until they know the middle names of Harry’s great-great-grandparents,” she said. Not that she’s discouraging the Potter devotion!

“I love it,” she said. “I’m all for that.”

Link to this article can be found here.

Additionally: J.K. Rowling talks about the deaths of central characters on MSNBC.

P.S. remember my cliche obsession with accents?

Well (ohmygod), just look at this!
Hours of entertainment.

The Speech Accent Archive.
My prayers are answered.

Boy howdy, am I sunburned or what.

My chest and shoulders are so sunburned from wearing my strappy tank-dress that now when I go naked, I look like an Oompa Loompa wearing a caucasian tanktop.


Should I worry that Andy says it's sexy?
I think so.

On Three Whole Years with an Irritating Irishman.

Things people don't tell you about being in a relationship for three years:
1. You'll have heated arguments over the ingredients of pancake batter. And even if you're right about the fucking baking soda, your boyfriend won't throw out the fetid garble of ingredients that he's already put together, so that the two of you can make something decent for breakfast. You'll inevitably end out glaring at each other over a breakfast that looks like flattened, fried dog-sick. So much for romance.
He'll smack his lips and bite his fork as he devours this so-called breakfast, and you'll despise him for it.
2. You'll realize that the books he's read that used to impress you are, in fact, the only fine literature he's ever read in his entire life. They are limited to the following: One Hundred Years of Solitude by Gabriel Garcia Marquez, and The Dharma Bums by Jack Kerouac. Note the conspicuous lack of estrogen in this enormous reading list. You'll start to consider its impact upon your relationship, and conspire to plant the works of Virginia Woolf around the house wherever he might accidentally pick one up. You'll pray to Virginia for salvation.


Every relationship is an unpredictable weather system. For the most part we have fairly clear skies, but sometimes there are stints in which we don't mesh at all---a few days in which disaster seems imminent; the plane will surely go down in a blaze of lightening-stricken glory--flames and rubble. But miraculously, we survive.
I guess being in love is figuring out how to navigate through the crappy parts to find the light again.
Any time now, the clouds will clear out.
As soon as the smoke from our unsuccessful breakfast drifts out the window, I'll feel infinitely better.

Photos!

Swept by a wave of nostalgia produced by Suzanne's "Days of Yore" photo set...
Out to sea in a teacup, back in three hours.

Dear you (no obvious spoilers for not-yet-finished HP readers)

Dear Jo Rowling,
You made me cry a lot, but I still love you. There's no way you can't call your last book somewhat of a bloodbath, but I can see your point in making it so... to trivialize and soften war and death by saving all of our favorite characters would have contradicted the entire point of Harry's epic journey to kill off Voldemort. Death is permanent, and love is enormously risky, and life is delicate and transient and miraculous... and even in a so-called "kids' book" series, you conveyed it all brilliantly. Props to you for keeping it real about war and loss, and knowing when to cut the strings.
Still, what's with your epilogue? What happens to George, for criminy's sake? And to Luna? And does Harry really keep his promise to Lupin? (I guess we know the answer to this last. After his own experience, it would be impossible for him not to.) More closure might have been nice though...
Epilogue aside, what a treasure of an epic you've woven for us all--this series has completely reset the standard for quality fiction, in my opinion. I doubt we'll ever see the streets of London crowded with book characters again in this lifetime, but you've inspired so many people to start writing that it might actually be a possibility. Thanks for that. And for getting so many kids into reading and imagining a world beyond their everyday existence... any English teacher knows that's no small feat.
An earth-shaking end to a fantastic series. Way to go, Jo.

Heart,
Nilly

P.S. While reading, I literally cheered aloud (in my silent house at approximately 3:00 AM) for Molly Weasley. Knew she had it in her! A woman with fiery red hair and seven children? But of course!

Missing the train.

Just you go ahead and read this article and try telling me that the people who run our justice system aren't missing the point.

Absolute rubbish.

Dear Bill Gates,
It turns out that my excrement is more compatible with Ipod software than your new Windows Vista operating system is. Thought you might like to know. I'd be willing to sell it to you for 50 cents a sack if you'd like. Or I could just deposit a bag of it on your front porch and set it on fire--whichever you'd prefer.

Sincerely,
your friend Nilly

This is just to say...

1. I have had "You're a Mean One, Mr. Grinch" running through my brain perpetually for the last five hours. Am hating it. I wonder if God is trying to tell me that it's my destined themesong or something. I am not male though, to my knowledge, so I am hoping he's perhaps got the wrong address.
2. I am tired of politics and alliances and beer-drinking buddy circles (which, of course, meet when I cannot meet) already. And it's only my third week of grad school. You never knew that almost all of your teachers got together for a brewfest on a regular basis during graduate school, did you? It's a reality, kiddies.
I never go though, becuase I have karate that night. Got to learn for the masses.
3. I put red henna in my hair last night (a god-awful, muddy mess), and after 25 minutes it still came out looking the same (only glossier), leaving me to conclude that my hair has actually become strawberry blonde over the last five years. Hormones? Miracles? Both, inseparably? Thank God, at least I've got hair that fits my temperament. Fiery orange and frizzled as hell: that's me.
Both of my grandmas are redheads, so I guess it makes sense that it might have actually changed color. Still: odd.
4. My car (which we call "The Ocarina of Time," because something in its air-ciruclation system is loose, causing it to whistle haunting melodies as I drive), is gradually going kaputt. Monday was the second time in a week that I've taken it into the shop, but at least the repair guy (a lad about my age) fixed it for free. Hooray for the Wonderbra, it just saved me fifty bucks.
Just kidding, of course.
5. Harry Potter Harry Potter Harry Potter. Costumes! Gryffindor patch! Done! Pictures later! Will be devouring book this weekend for sure! Something along the lines of postpartum depression thereafter, undoubtedly! But nevertheless---!

07/08 greatest.

1. Looking at hand-drawn animations by Portland, Oregon's Bill Plympton.
2. Eating fresh, juicy white nectarines (the best of the season, don't miss out).
3. Making a costume for the Harry Potter book release party (finally ready).
4. Organizing local karate practice (so I don't have to commute three times a week).
5. Buying Thai iced teas from the local Asian foods store.
6. Showering with tuberose-scented soap.
7. Browsing through pictures of the Sky Lantern Festival in Pingsi, Taiwan.
8. Basking in the glory of Scottish accents (see previous post).

A brief moment of panic.

Oh my GOD.
Graduate school.









That's all I can muster.

Eugene is out in full force.

Eugene is a whole different city after college students leave for the summer. Any pretence of community normalcy goes straight out the window within five days after the graduation commencements. When the U of O populace pours out of town and heads homeward, Eugene's boldest and bizarrest and most colorful characters flock to the streets to parade around conspicuously in cross-dress and talk weird to themselves--and I have to say, I absolutely love it. Sometimes I privately think to myself that they must be wizards trying to act like muggles and totally failing to pull it off, in a most marvelous way.

Just on my five-minute drive to the market yesterday, I saw a man in a short brown women's bathrobe and electric aqua women's dress shoes sauntering down the sidewalk by Euphoria Chocolatiers. And two minutes later, while I was stopped at an intersection, a man wearing nothing but a Utilikilt, who had flaming red hair, a huge bristly beard, and an oversized beer dispenser perched atop his head, bicycled through the crosswalk, beer straw in mouth. So much for brown-bagging it.

Last fall I literally saw a guy biking through town while practicing the tuba. And there's also an old guy who quite regularly cycles through campus in very Gandalfish regalia: he wears a weather-worn cape and a strange hat with a large brim, ala the White Wizard. I'm fairly certain there's a portal somewhere near the Women's Building on campus that leads to Middle-earth.

Three cheers for Eugene, Oregon.

A tech investment.

Since my poor, rather senile laptop has finally become incapable of typing vowels (I use a separate keyboard now), and since its burner doesn't work and its pitiful 30 GB hard drive is stuffed to a breaking point with music and graphics programs, I've decided it's time to invest in a new notebook. Or rather, a refurbished notebook. From (dun dun dunnn) Dell.
I know it's dangerous to order from Dell, and that its service generally sucks, etc., etc.; and I know that Macs are the way to go now, if you're dastardly-rich enough to afford them, anyway--which I am not. Nevertheless, I've had a good personal history will Dell: Irmabelle (my old Dell Inspiron 2650) made it through graphic design school, gaming geekery, and gigabytes upon gigabytes of music madness before finally leaving on longterm mental vacation. May the next one manage to do the same.

This is the model I ordered, very basic:

Inspiron 640m/E1405 Notebook
Intel Pentium dual-core T2080(1MB Cache/1.73GHz/533MHz FSB)
80 GB EIDE SATA Hard Drive (5400 RPM)
1 GB DDR2 SDRAM 533MHz (2 DIMMs)
9 Cell Primary Battery
14.1 inch WXGA Notebook Screen (probably should have upgraded, hmm...)
24X CD RW/DVD Combo Drive
Internal NIC/56K Modem
Intel Integrated Graphics Media Accelerator 950
Windows Vista Home Basic (but I think I'll run XP because of RAM limitations)
1390 Wireless Card

It was about all that I could do on my budget, and I think it'll be fine. The fact is that after using Irmabelle regularly for the past two (precarious) years, anything newer will seem heavenly and will most likely run what I need it to. I made sure that it comes with a warranty, in case it decides to crap out.
It was odd buying a computer without the input of gamer/programmer friends. Now I mostly hang with lit geeks and teacher-people and karate masters, and am quite disconnected from techie things. I probably just bought a rock with a Duracell battery taped to its side, but that's still a step up from Irma.

I am considering sending Irmabelle to a computers-for-schools program, but am uncertain they'd take her, due to keyboard problems.

Jigging in the skivvies.

An incredibly wild week of socialization has kept my hermitish blogging tendencies at bay. Over the last five (rather bewildering and blurry) days I've managed to whiffle my way through an enormous graduation party, closely followed by a myriad of appointments and wedding preparations, and finally (today), rounding off with my aunt's wedding, in which I was the unofficial Maid of Honor/Hapless Decorating Minion. Furthermore, tomorrow at 8:30 AM begins the Middle/Secondary Education orientation, in which I'll groggily shake hands with other education cohort members and schmooze (in what I hope won't seem a lethargically zombie-like manner) about public education with various U of O Big-Wigs. I can't believe it: grad school's here already. Gollygee, hope I can pass as an extrovert.
At least this week's given me practice. Sure.

Time now for a fitful snooze before I awaken at the asscrack of dawn to scurry schoolward. Wish me luck, kids, wish me luck.
I'm going to rock out to some semi-tasteless paddy punk as I dress in the morning. That way, by the time I get to school I'll be so composed (a.k.a. exhausted) that people will never ever suspect I've been shaking my fist in the air and jigging around the kitchen in my skivvies.

An ode to my kind of femininity.

Despite my typical barrage of complaints, there are some things I really relish about being a woman.

I'll readily admit that I enjoy the material aspects of femininity especially well: the clothes, the trillions of shades of fingernail polish, the ritual application of eyeliner and mascara in the morning. I like the fragrances (sweetpea, vanilla, laundry detergent) and the textures (tulle and satin and silk) and the colors that are widely associated with femininity (lemonade pinks, lilac purples, peach, cream, and crimson; the rich, florescent palates of rose gardens and sunsets). I love some of the domestic skills with which women are often associated, as well--constructive, artful and ritualistic activities, like cooking and knitting and nesting and decorating, that form a common, cross-language bond between mothers and sisters and girlfriends around the globe.
And on occasion (although certainly not always) I get a real kick out of the subtle, tight-knit exclusivity of being a chica amongst other chicas. I am endlessly amused by the fact that even the most ostensibly innocent woman invariably holds at least a few of her man's marionette strings close at hand, her moments of puppetry so skillful that he rarely registers her influence or intervention at all. Brava! Encore! On with the show...

It's undeniable that I sometimes bitch about the inequity of living with a female body, so temperamental and tumultuous and desperate for fattening foods at the end of each month. But ultimately, there are really delightful aspects of everyday womanhood that I can't imagine can be equally paralleled in men's lives. Like crooning with Joni Mitchell in pitches a guy couldn't hope to reach, or purring with Cat Power in a timbre no man can ever seem to manage. Or being able to move gracefully in all manner of footwear, including Wellington boots; or murmuring purry silliness into a lover's ear; or privately lusting after a male musician who shreds the fiddle in some local band. Buying matching skivvies just for the satisfaction of matching; or intuitively finding the gifts people have always wanted, and wrapping them with frilly domestic prowess. Writing prettily. And, perhaps best of all, knowing that there'll always be some little old man willing to help me find the ripest cantaloupe or the healthiest head of lettuce in the produce section.

Good stuff, that.

Feathers in her hair.

Today's projects
- creating playlists for this weekend's graduation party and my aunt's upcoming wedding
- buying bobby pins and using some of Andy's fly-tying feathers to create wild hair ornaments like these, which are absolutely exquisite (I'll post a photo later)
- thrifting for a light pink or white belt

06/08 greatest.

Hooray(!) for
1. Red grapefruit halves sprinkled with sugar
2. Old people shuffling down the sidewalks sporting full-body sweatsuits in electric 80s colors
3. Boyfriends who regularly pick wildflowers and cook dinners for their ladies, even after years and years being together (like mine)
4. The newest Wilco album (sub-Yankee Hotel Foxtrot but super-A Ghost Is Born, with upbeat, retro hooks)
5. 1940s-era phrases and exclamations ("Holy mackerel!" "Okay, you mugs!")--and the funny old coots who still use them on a regular basis
6. The silent ferocity of cacti
7. The human-like curiosity of cuttlefish
8. The festivity of blooms in the June sunlight


Additionally, because I'm both strange and verbose and have a penchant for colorful expressions, this month I will attempt to incorporate the following British slang terms into my regular vocabulary. Please join in. Standard American dialect could use a bit of a brush-up.

Sixpence short of a shilling: a term to describe someone who's eccentric. Always useful.
Spitting feathers: thirsty, or fretful/agitated/frantic. (Appropriate for when I begin graduate school this summer term--it will be both hot and stressful, undoubtedly.)
Stonking: impressively large. Also used in place of 'extremely' or 'very,' as in "We had a stonking good time."
Mint and minted: excellent/wonderful, and wealthy, respectively. "The new Woody Allen was mint"; "the guy living up the hill from us is obviously minted..."

Most excellent.

Celebrity look-alike generator: oh, the vanity.

How strange. MyHeritage.com's celebrity look-alike generator seems to think I look really Japanese for some reason.
I'm white as hell though.
Was quite thrilled to be compared to J.K. Rowling (and the comparison to Kiera Knightley wasn't bad either, although I can only dream of being that beautiful).
Funny shit, kids.

Here were the results.

http://www.myheritage.com

Dear you.

Dear Eugene, Oregon Alpha Male Type who honked at me extensively when I didn't leave an opening for you to illegally cut through four lanes of traffic on a one-way:
Please rest assured that when I am a public schoolteacher I will corrupt your children with my liberal values, ensuring that none of them can possibly grow up to be as aggressive and shortsighted and compassionless as yourself. Thanks for the motivation, buddy!
Love,
Nilly

Dear angry young couple downstairs,
Please, for your sanity and the well-being of every other person within auditory range of your apartment, politely refrain from behaving as though every second of your homelife is being taped for an episode of Jerry Springer. Or if it in fact is, at least hire me to make a cameo appearance dressed as a drunken white-trash neighbor who wears a tubetop and sweatpants and shouts winning lines such as "GIVE HIM THE CHAIR! THE CHAIR!" and "OH NO YOU DIT-INT!"
I mean, I could sure use the money and I think I could add an extra dash of trash to your already impressive repertoire, if only you'd give me the chance. But preferably, since I am a drama class dropout and all, I think you should just tone it down: watch some Seinfeld and make smoothies, listen to "All You Need is Love" on repeat, eat fiber regularly, maybe volunteer at an animal shelter together. Or, you know, you could break up your disturbing relationship so all of us could get a little more sleep at night.
Sincerely,
Your neighbor, Nilly

Hearts.

I want to get ahold of the newest album by Bill Callahan of Smog... just because it's called "Woke on a Whaleheart," and that's freaking great.


I have some albums full of music that I don't often listen to or even particularly like, but which I nevertheless can't get rid of because I love the album titles.
It's a real issue, my weirdness about words.
Good night, kids.

Run for your lives! It's...

A mindlessly self-indulgent survey.

1. What is in the back seat of your car right now?
Dirty green rubber gardening gloves, an ice-cream tin full of pennies that I've been meaning to Coinstar into cash, a green HSU karate belt (which I forget to take to class if it's not left in the car), and a bendy figure of Gumby, who occupies the passenger seat ashtray. Lots of green objects.

2. When was the last time you threw up?
I got horrendous food poisoning from eating at the county fair in eighth grade, when I was about twelve. I think it was from some sort of an Italian pasta dish, because I couldn't eat pesto for years afterward.
If I was twelve then, I've gone through an entire decade absolutely vomit-free. That's pretty super-freak, considering that the last ten years encompassed both high school and college graduations, and my 21st birthday.

3. What's your favorite curse word?
The eff one. When I'm going for emphasis, I appreciate its staccato sound. And I find it more readily alliterative than other expletives.

4. Name one person who made you smile this morning?
Andy. He woke me up this morning by staring at me as I slept until I got a tingly sensation that I was being watched, and awakened. Then he fell back asleep, and later, during breakfast, denied the whole episode. I laughed at him for not remembering.

5. What were you doing at 8:00 this morning?
Dreaming about starting a college radio show; nightmaring about the kinds of pretentious weirdos that I might meet when I apply. They'll probably be cool people though, really.

6. Favorite sports team?
Corvallis Karate Dojo! We meet in the back of a Corvallis music shop, in a room lined with guitar and ukulele cases. We're an unorthodox motley crew--an underground rebel alliance fighting against the evil empire of the nit-picky and nastily exclusive Corvallis Shotokan Karate Society, or whatever they prefer to call themselves.

7. If you could marry any celebrity today who would it be?
By appearances and presence alone, I would go for the fiddle player from Amadan (a local and increasingly popular Celtic punk/trad band). Chad Marks-Fife is an exquisite musician who pretty much fits my complete definition of male beauty. I like his hair and his smile and the way that he dances and the shoes that he wears; he is visual perfection.
But don't tell my boyfriend.

8. Have you ever been to a strip club?
No, although god knows Springfield offers plenty of opportunities.

9. Have you ever known someone that killed another person?
Distantly.

12. What are you wearing right now?
A sky blue camisole threaded with velvet ribbons, under a frosting pink stretchy surplice covered in vintage-looking roses, with skinnies and a pair of bizarre multicolored pastel sandals circa 1987. All via clothing exchange or thrift. Clothes are my one material addiction--unoriginal and pathetic, perhaps, but true.

13. Last food you ate?
Nachos with Tillamook cheddar, beans, and fresh salsa. It was too hot to eat anything else.

14. Have you bought any clothing items in the last week?
Perfect black patent leather skimmers and aforementioned pastel 80's sandals from Goodwill (thoroughly disinfected); clear jellies from Target for $2.50; four secondhand camisoles/tanks/surplices; one cute little black strappy dress for attending graudation and weddings. I had to do some shopping because I'm without very many decent summer clothes. Usually I have gnarly jobs in the summer, like firefighting or landscaping, which don't afford any opportunity to dress up. This summer I'll be in school instead, so it's time to get a little more girly.

15. When was the last time you ran?
Last week, but it wasn't on purpose. I burned myself out on running in high school. Now I practice karate instead.

16. What's the last sporting event you watched?
Beaver baseball in Corvallis, about three weeks ago.

17. Last movie you saw?
Marie Antoinette. It made me want to eat mass amounts of cake and change my entire wardrobe. Sonofabitch.

18. Who is the last person you sent a message on Myspace to?
No Myspace. I boycott it. This stupid blog is self-indulgent enough, I think... abundantly so...

19. Ever go camping?
Yes. Every great affordable roadtrip you'll ever go on requires that you camp at least 50% of the time. I camp a lot while I'm on the road, bottle of whiskey, paperback book, and barbecued corn at hand.

20. Were you ever an honor roll student in school?
Most of high school, and all except two terms of college. Obsessive compulsive?

21. Do you like sushi?
I love how it looks and how it's packaged with the fluorescent pink ginger and the kitschy plastic grass, but it tastes too much like the Newport bayfront to be enjoyable to me. When you grow up on the Oregon coast, you're wrecked for seafood--for life.

22. Do you have a tan?
I get pink, freckle, and fade out again. Very western European.

24. Do you drink your soda from a straw?
No. I like it semi-warm and straight from the can...
Unless the straw is twizzly, in which case I can't resist.

26. Are you someone's best friend?
Mhmm.

29. What color is your watch?
I don't have a watch--when I wear one I feel enslaved by civilization, so instead, I'm just perpetually late.

31. What do you think of when you think of Australia?
An artist I know in Melbourne. Stands of eucalyptus trees. The dead horse that Andy and Chris had to drag into a creek to feed to some crocodiles. Multitudes of marsupials.

32. Ever ridden on a roller coaster?
Yes, and if there were any substantial ones within 300 miles of where I live, I'd go and ride on a regular basis just to have a cathartic little-kiddish freakout of happy feelings. I love them.

33. What is your birth stone?
It's an opal. In comparison to other birthstones, it's hideous. I don't typically wear any jewelry though, so it doesn't matter.

34. Do you go in at a fast food place or just hit the drive-thru?
The only fast food joint I actually walk into is Muchas Gracias, this semi-sketchy, super greasy little Mexican food place in downtown Eugene. Otherwise I either don't go, or order from the passenger seat while Andy's behind the wheel. Fast food rarely seems worth it. I'd rather eat an apple.

35. What is your favorite number?
Nine (9). I also like seven (7) and fifteen (15). For reasons of my own.

36. Do you have a dog?
I want a dog in the same way that most women my age and older want children. I'm waiting until I have a house with a yard, and then I'll adopt some sort of a mutt or a greyhound.

44. Biggest annoyance in your life right now?
Lack of money. But I can't really be all that annoyed, since I don't, you know, have a job, and am not actively on the search for employment.
Yeah.

46. Are you allergic to anything?
Sometimes sunshine gives me itchy little hives on the backs of my hands.
I blame it on my Scottish roots. My body seems to find decent weather most unnatural.

47. Favorite shoes that you wear all the time?
Brown and black striped distressed leather slip-ons. A bit unfeminine, but I love them.

48. What is one thing you've learned about life recently?
Idiocy will out.
I know I'm supposed to say something diplomatic and wise, but nothing comes to mind at the moment.

49. Are you jealous of anyone?
No.

50. Is anyone jealous of you?
Nope.

51. Do you have an ipod?
His name is Little Jesus. He is a 20 GB 4th generation ipod, several years old, and he came back from the dead, completely restoring my faith in modern technology.

52. Do any of your friends have children?
Yep. In fact, some of my friends are the children of other friends that I met beforehand. It's a strange deal.

55. Do you hate anyone right now?
No.

58. How tall are you?
About five feet five inches--average height for an American woman. Most people still say that I'm short, but I think it's because I have little-girl shoulders and arms.

59. Have you ever been to Six Flags?
Alas, no.

60. How did you get one of your scars?
A piece of coral sliced a few long razor-cuts into the skin next to my knee, somewhere off the shore of Kauai. It actually bled a lot while I was snorkeling, and I was a bit worried that I'd become shark-bait.

Get your angels straight.

Flipping through our five measly rabbit-ear TV channels, I happened to run across the Cubs vs. Dodgers game. Apparently the Cubs have a left fielder named Angel Pagan.
Funny shit.
Angel Pagan. One huge contradiction, is it not? But I guess his parents thought "Cupid" would be too effeminate for a boy, or worse: a bad baseball name.
Still, I'd prefer a bad baseball name to one that cancels itself out.

Craigslisting for karate?

If I post an ad on Craigslist for a once-a-week karate partner here in Eugene, how will I know whether the person who responds is actually sane? What with all of the people I see talking to themselves on street corners in this city, the odds seem slim at best. Yesterday as I sat wolfing down my ever-so-nutritious chicken strip lunch, I noticed that two out of five people walking into Fred Meyer by themselves were speaking to some invisible entity; I kid you not--I tallied. I think it's the fumes from the mill north of Eugene that drive its citizens to senseless self-talk.
But I guess self-talk is fine. Whatever. When I worked in data entry, recording cherry genetics statistics alone in a room for eight hours on end, I certainly talked to myself: and in a fake British accent, no less. It's not the babblers, but the potential rapists and stalkers and weirdos-with-axes-to-grind that I most worry about.
That said, should I take the plunge and post an ad?
Are my self-defense skills really that good yet? Not sure.
Where's my faith in humanity?
Would I be having this sort of insecurity if I wasn't female? Unfair!

No admittance except on party business.

I finally completed the batch of graduation party invitations, and the shindig is scheduled for Sunday the 17th of June between 4 and 8 PM. I haven't sent the cards out yet, and have no idea who will show up; my scattering of friends mostly consists of middle-aged people with families (from karate) and just a few longtime buddies from the homeland and my most recent college (U of O).
In short, my hoppin' party might be a bunch of 50-year-olds, but I guess that's fine.
I don't mean to be antisocial; I've just moved so much in the last five years that I haven't kept very many longterm college connections. My relative loner-ness has never really bothered me, because I've always been occupied with Andy and school and karate (and its people), and made friendly acquaintances (if not longterm friends) in every class. So I've never really felt lonely. It's a cowgirl's life, kids.
I just hope this party won't be too bizarre. (Save me, Suzanne!)

At least the food is going to kick ass. On the menu will be Chicken Coconut Curry, which I've been experimenting with...



And probably Watermelon Cilantro salad (see recipe below), without the feta--because feta is a very personal and often offensive cheese:

1 small red onion
2-4 limes
½ large sweet, ripe watermelon
1 cup crumbled feta cheese (goat’s milk feta can be used)
1 bunch fresh cilantro, chopped
1 bunch fresh mint, chopped
3/4 Tbsp extra-virgin olive oil
fresh ground black pepper

Peel and halve the red onion and cut into very thin half-moons. Squeeze the lime juice over them and leave them to marinate. Cut the rind off the watermelon, deseed it, then cut into bite-size chunks. Place in a large non-aluminum bowl, add the crumbled feta, cilantro and mint. Pour the onion and lime juice over the mixture, then add the olive oil and black pepper to taste. Toss gently and add more lime juice to taste.

Perhaps also on the list (assuming I can find all the ingredients):
Grilled chicken with kumquat lemongrass dressing
Grilled corn with lime and cheese
Lemon pasta with tomatoes and feta (or another cheese)?
Tossed green salad
Chocolate cake

I hope people will arrive hungry.

Her name is Yoshimi...

One of the things I most love about shotokan karate is its universality. I get a nerdy thrill out of watching kata videos from Spain and Israel and Japan and recognizing the exact same movements and sequences that I practice and obsess over on an almost-daily basis. Like dance, karate really defies the language barrier. Although I can't understand most other languages, there's a certain subcultural connection that I feel with karate people worldwide, because of the intricacy and difficulty of our shared art. I love anticipating the turn and the punch and the snap of the gi, and knowing (to an extent) how the performer's muscles tensed or locked or suspended during this or that movement. They've probably struggled with some of the same techniques as me, cursing quietly in a myriad of different languages at the same exact stuff that I have--and yet (like me) appreciating the challenge all the while.
Martial arts are sort of masochistic beasts.

I'm definitely not naturally great at karate, but I absolutely love it, even though (or maybe because) I have to work really hard for every centimeter of improvement that I acquire. I'm not a fast physical learner, but I am thorough, and I like understanding how movements work and why. I hope someday (probably thirty years from now) I'll be able to instruct in my own community, wherever I end out. I'd run my dojo exactly like Reed does.


This is one of the katas (karate forms) I'm learning right now at Saturday morning practice. It's called Gojushiho-sho, and if you can get your hips going well enough when you perform it, your gi makes a series of fantastic swishing and popping noises that I love. And it's a formidable kata aside from that.
I thought y'all should see.
(Note that none of these people are me; I am a lowly green belt.)

And this (called Heian Godan) is the kata I have to perform for my next test. This clip is not an especially dynamic performance, but admittedly, if I could do it this well, I'd shit a brick. (It's more difficult than it looks; just try.)

Abandon ship! Abandon ship!

I've been having this insane surge of creativity over the last five weeks--writing and painting and decorating and stencil-making and karate-practicing like a madwoman--but for the moment I feel that it's beginning to wane (or rather, it's lurching in a most sickening manner to an absolute stop). I sit down to write but nothing substantial comes out, and I tried last night to paint, but ultimately just fucked up what I'd started, got angry at myself, painted the whole canvas black, and threw it into the trash bin. (The turn of events seemed bizarrely incongruous with the music I was listening to as a soundtrack: I was convinced that Andrew Bird would somehow save my painting, but alas, he didn't.)

So the muse has left the building.
I need some nuance, I think, to cajole it back into action. I wish I could just hop a plane to some other place with some other landscape, but the funds just aren't there (and won't be, until I get off my lazy ass and get a real job).
Instead, I think tomorrow I'll swap a few books down at the Smith Family Bookstore, take some photos of weird urban Eugene stuff, and then maybe hit up the local Goodwills for some trashy treasures. I want to find a few bright ceramic vases (orange! turquoise! pink!) and tacky 80's patent leather slingbacks (which I live in habitually) and maybe some vintage childrens' storybooks (which have the best color schemes and animal illustrations ever). If you put these things into a blender and hit frappe, you'd have the Elixir of Life. But don't tell anyone.

For now I'm going to drink a glass of wine (ever so grown-up) and watch Disney's Cool Runnings (perhaps not so grown up after all).


I am trying to convince Andy to start a U of O radio show with me, but so far he's not taking the bait. Updates on this as they unfold.

I made a pretty.

In the last two days I've been whipping up a god-awful acrylic mess atop my kitchen table, in tribute to my mom, whose own kitchen table was similarly plastered with (my) paint and glitter all throughout my childhood.



This little moon footstool (and a copy of Fruit Bats' Spelled in Bones and a bottle of Catwalk Sexed Up Shampoo, which smells like strawberry lemonade heaven) is for her. Because she is an absolutely spiffing mom, and I am an incurably random gift-giver.

And now it's off to bond with mummy.

Love has a way of causing premature senility.

And I mean that in the best way possible.

After three years of total immersion, you, too, will begin to laugh at jokes that your significant other never made. And when he points out that he never, in fact, made the joke, you'll nevertheless congratulate him for his brilliant ability to make you laugh (and contract a fierce case of hiccups) without even trying.

On occasion, you'll argue amongst yourselves about whether or not NPR is turned up too loud as you sit at the stoplight on the way to Winco.
"Turn it down. You're officially bumping the NPR."
"Am not."
"Are so. The guy in the Ford in front of us is looking at you funny."
"His bumper sticker says 'Whip Me, Strip Me, Tie Me, Fly Me.' He's a fly-fisherman. He's probably listening to the same thing."
"You're going to blow out the speakers."
"Am not."
"Are so."
"Oh, fine, I'll turn it down. Quit heckling."

And after five minutes' worth of such senior-citizen-esque bickering, you'll declare your love for each other afresh, with much patting of knees and squeezing of hands.
"You're my favorite-est."
"You're a wild pumpkin."
"I love you too."
"Did you bring the grocery list?"
"No, I forgot it."
"Well hot damn."

Lime soup.

Whenever I manage to make a meal without signaling all of the smoke alarms in our apartment complex, it is truly an event worthy of photographic documentation.
Observe, friends, the following snapshot of the lime soup and flour quesadillas I made for dinner this evening:

That's right. Eat your heart out, Campbell's.

This recipe is a modification of the recipe for lime soup that can be found on Epicurious.com. I added ground cumin, a tiny bit of chili powder, and a can of diced tomatoes for extra spice.

An anemone.

When I was in the third grade, my teacher, Mrs. Arnold, asked our class to research and draw our favorite animals for an art/writing assignment. We were each to write a sentence or two about our chosen animal and provide a colorful illustration of the animal in its habitat. I remember being quite delighted by the assignment, because this was the sort of thing I did to entertain myself regularly at home--I was a strange and precocious kid.
Anyway, a day or two passed in which I vigorously sketched, re-sketched, and researched my animal, and finally it came time to post our masterpieces on the bulletin board at the back of the classroom. Among my classmates' Crayola drawings of cats, dogs and ponies, I proudly tacked up my sketch of the majestic sea anemone...
Thus beginning a stigmatism that lasted until I graduated from high school and left my hometown.

More reasons Oregon is the best.

The Willamette Valley in the spring is like taking a chilly bath in a box of watercolors. Every morning simultaneously sundrenched and gray, every surface reflective, every unfolding leaf so irridescent green it's almost yellow.
The world is thick with the scent of cottonwoods.


Random sidenote:
Y'all ought to make some lime soup.

April and I.

Oh, FINE: I need to get a job. I concede, I concede; I am not happy about it, but I will begin a serious search this week. I was so enjoying having more time for creativity, but it would appear that I am down to my last $200 of tax refunds, and will soon be flat broke. No more bumming around and trading used books and painting at whim for me--the rat race calls, loud and clear: it's time to get out there and perform my mad little tapdance for the Pied Piper once again.

At any rate, the past month of vacation has been, hands-down, the most blissful in my entire life--better than any summer vacation I had as a kid, and the only real break (longer than perhaps a week total) I've had since I started working every summer after school.
An commemorative (and admittedly self-absorbed) inventory of What I Did in April is in order, I think--yes. Ah, April, the times we had together.

In April, I read (at a leisurely pace for the first time in years) these books, which I'd never before read:
Life of Pi by Yann Martel,
The Aguero Sisters by Cristina Garcia,
Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close by Jonathan Safran Foer,
Dubliners by James Joyce,
Persepolis by Marjane Satrapi,
Boy: Tales of Childhood by Roald Dahl, and
Orlando by Virginia Woolf.

I traveled through three states (Oregon, California, and Arizona) and saw a healthy chunk of the great American southwest; I camped in the cacti and the petroglyphs and the sequoias; I drove all the way up the California coast, listening to Andrew Bird with my Andrew-bird. And--as I've been planning for years and years--I finally recorded a travelogue and took tons of photos to document our road-tripping, roguish youthfulness and campsite bed-head.

I practiced karate at least three times (and often more) every week, learned three new katas, and am preparing for my next exam (at long last) after 9 months of absence from the dojo. (My friend John--also an English major at UO--practices with me every Monday in a massive, majestic, lofty ballroom that we found in a building on the U of O campus... going there, I feel like I'm in a museum or a castle in a much earlier time period. We train when nobody else is around; we found the one door that remains unlocked after hours.)

I finished a painting, got back into drawing, practiced sketching the undersides of hands, began developing a comic strip, created two stencils for urban artwork, and made a ridiculous scavenger hunt for Andy with a prize at the end (see earlier post).

I slept until ten almost every day, except on Saturdays, when I awoke regularly at the asscrack of dawn to commute to karate. And I dreamed as I haven't in years and years and years.

I started writing an epic novel, which already has an intricate skeleton of a plot---it's the first plot that's ever taken shape fully in my mind before beginning to write. I began the first chapter last night and so far it seems to have quite a lot of potential. We'll see.

I listened strictly to albums and artists that I hadn't given enough attention before. I sorted through my eight gigs of tunes and deleted some of the bands I've outgrown or associate with circumstances I'd rather not remember. And I sang wildly with Joni Mitchell in the car, as usual.

I visited my grandparents and took my Gram around the city, which she loved, as she can't drive or move around very well on her own. We rode on an ancient hand-pulley operated freight elevator in a furniture shop, which was actually rather terrifying; we shopped for flowers and got coffee from the Beanery in celebration of our survival.

I walked along Nye Beach at the Oregon Coast on a sunny day with Andy, and found a lost and confused elderly poodle, its concerned family, a huge China cap shell, and columns of tallies carved into a stone sea-cliff. I poked gently at the sticky sea anemones in the tide-pools; they're some of my favorite creatures ever. Later that day we went to the Devil's Punch Bowl and had some chowder at Moe's in Otter Rock, something we don't do often enough as Oregonians. The best part of having chowder at the Otter Rock Moe's is that it's in a windier, more exposed location than the bayfront Moe's, which makes the tiny restaurant cozier and the soup all the more comforting after you come in from the elements.

I'm sure there are wonderful things I've forgotten, but these are the best of the best. I feel really refreshed after this month--restored, rebuilt, and almost, but not quite, ready to go back to school again.
Now to do some laundry.

Thundereggs and bandoliers of bells...

It may seem laughable considering the sort of shite that I typically write in this blog, but I've concluded that I'm doomed to write an epic.
The epic elements simply won't stop appearing in my dreams... I would tell you about them, but to be honest, I am afraid to abbreviate or share any details for fear of losing them altogether. They have to be written in complete form and somehow (miraculously) interwoven into a cohesive whole. God help me, what an arduous process, but I'm starting to feel it's urgent... it's all building up and gaining momentum, and has been for years. Even weirder: lately I'm encountering all kinds of bizarrity in daily life that also demands to be included in the story, and I'm convinced that I'm running into this stuff for a reason. It all belongs.

I wanted to write one of those wry, witty postmodern novels that takes a character's mundane existence and makes it strangely extraordinary, but that's just not what my mind is inclined to produce at the moment, or possibly ever. My pockets are stuffed to the seams with epic elements--I seem to have spent all my life becoming equipped to write such a thing, but never fully recognized it until now. A childhood on horseback in the Oregon Coast range; reading books about Celtic shamanism; designing maps of imaginary places on rainy afternoons; bookshelves stocked with Le Guin and Tolkien and Lewis and L'Engle and Nix and Rowling and Konigsburg and Campbell and Spencer and Shakespeare; a house full of filial struggles; a strangely mystical aunt; an obsession with magical realism; encounters with ghosts in a turn-of-the-century farmhouse; training in martial arts and their history; education in English literature, folklore and mythology. It all adds up to something I never thought I'd write, but as it's been shouting insistently from the periphery for years, and I think it's time I confronted it.
The dream that I had last night is a good starting point.
Today I begin.

Origami fairy boots.

One of my fellow firefighters made a pair of these last summer, but was very secretive as to how she went about it. Today I set out to learn this frivolously delightful trick, and now I'm divulging it to you--so's you can be all suave-like the next time that cute waiter compliments you on your shoes.

This is the best way to leave a tip that I've ever seen; use a dollar or a five for the boot and slip any extra change inside. (Instructions can be found here and are user-friendly to the origami impaired. My first boot took me about three minutes.)

Platonic adj. 3. purely spiritual; free from sensual desire, esp. in a relationship between two persons of the opposite sex.

Even the brightest men apparently don't understand the definition of platonic relationships or comprehend the significance of my not being available either now nor in the long-term. Which is fucking frustrating, because before I sprouted hips, breasts and self-confidence (just a few short years ago), I always used to hang with boys--I couldn't deal with the baggage of my capricious fellow femmes, and typically sought refuge with the opposite sex instead. I've always easily befriended guys because conversations are generally honest, my hobbies are similar, I like the same sort of writers, and I don't (usually) have to deal with unnecessary drama. But now it appears the male-friend avenue is (at least temporarily) closing, because I find that (short of my friendships with John and Andrew and a few other brotherly or paternal or already-devoted men with heads on their shoulders,) men are invariably disappointed when I wave the white banner of "Friend But Nothing More." They get short and bitter and skulk away, and then things are awkward for months or years thereafter. It's classic.

The key, apparently, is to find those rare female friends who fit the following criterion*:
- don't bitch and backstab and bullshit,
- don't obsess about self-image,
and lastly,
- aren't attracted to me in any sexual manner. (Friends can be lesbian or bisexual or whatever; I couldn't care less, as long as they aren't interested in me that way. Which, for some reason, they often demonstrate themselves to be.
No, I don't get it either.)

*I know that typing this goes against the grain of every pro-feminist principle I generally preach, but the fact is that I do have trouble finding other women with whom I can connect without any superficiality. Suz is one of the only. And my surrogate sister, but I never see her anymore; she camps out in Zigzag.
She would be disgusted at me for writing this.

I'm disgusted that I'm compelled to write it, and that people can't just be chill about things and not expect more of me that I am willing to hand over.
Nobody needs that. It's shite.

Fortunately, I'm tight with most of the karate family (which has a few pretty cool new female members) and Andy's family (a riot) and some of the ladies in my graduate school teaching cohort (fellow geeky teacher girls), and they collectively redeem the rest of humanity in my mind.
But still: grumble.

Yesterday's and Today's Projects

(One) A "Goodbye and Good Luck" mix for Professor Walter:




(Two) Preparing stencils for some well-intended artistic mischief:

Woody Allen's profile (made from an image found on Cinematical.com; to be used by me for non-profit, no-credit, one-time-only property beautification exclusively):



Silhouette of a woman bathing (based upon, but not an exact replica of an image by artist Robin B. Fuller; also to be used by me for non-profit, no-credit, one-time-only property beautification exclusively):



I am searching for good photos to make stencil templates of Chas Tenenbaum and Max Fischer, but have yet to find anything with enough contrast. Keep yer eyes peeled for me, yes?
The world could always use a little more Chas.

The Passions of Neighbors.

Copied/pasted from the fabulous list section at McSweeney's:

Apparent Passions of
My Upstairs Neighbors.
BY GLENN LINGLE

- - - -

Moving furniture

Rolling bowling balls off of tables

Keeping time to music by beating a staff

Picking up anvils, and then dropping them

Riverdance


Applied to my own situation:

Apparent Passions of
My Strange Easterly Upstairs Neighbor
and The Disturbing Couple Downstairs.
BY NILLY

- - - -

Avidly practicing both clarinet and pipe organ in preparation for a career as a live elevator-muzak performer in Disneyland's Enchanted Castle.

Operating an underground daycare business for the care and feeding of semi-domestic rhinoceri. (Possibly trading them on the black market?)

Pursuing a world record title for "Most Days Spent Lurking Indoors With the Mini-Blinds Completely Closed." (And perhaps a second title for "Most Deprived of Vitamin D and Healthy Social Interaction.")

Having alarming domestic disputes** involving shouting and door-slamming competitions.

Participating in the Dance Dance Revolution (between aforementioned disputes).

**We called the cops once, because it sounded as though the woman was in physical danger. The disputes have been less severe ever since, but I still worry about weirdness going on downstairs. Whenever I hear something gnarly erupting from the netherlands, I stomp around the apartment loudly so that they know they're being distantly surveilled; it's the best I can do. Lately the woman has begun shouting back at the man, and I haven't heard any sounds of slamming or pursuit, so I think the situation is perhaps improving--but it's hard to tell. I keep tabs on them the best that I can, but don't want to get too involved, for obvious reasons.
Bit uncomfortable.

Here's the deal.

In case you haven't already noticed (baha!), I don't write for profundity. Not because I'm shallow or incapable of deep thought, but because I have a tendency to dive into years-long depressive slumps if I think too critically too often, and/or if I censor my creativity to produce only the sort of thing that others will find interesting, important, innovative, or any number of other multisyllabic words that begin with 'i.' I write compulsively, not for others' validation or personal catharsis, but to maintain my own little sense of homeostasis: what I produce is shaped by me, and in turn whatever I write reshapes and reifies my sense of internal being--even if it's just a list of mundane ideas that I flicker through while dozing off to sleep. While my blathering bloggery may not impact anyone but myself, and may not make a brazen world more golden at any socially significant level (as Sir Philip Sidney once claimed poesy is capable), writing and recording--even my pinkest and bluest and most simplistic thoughts--has a way of solidifying my life for me. Which is why I'm here, typing this shite on a daily basis.
This shite which I so love to type.
Any bit of writing has the potential to germinate into something much larger and more beautiful than itself; there's no sense in self-censorship for audience approval. Write it all, I say.
Write anything.