The store that I managed and ran has finally closed its doors after eight months of "store closing". When the year began, before the owner decided that she wanted to close the store, I had already decided that I would quit in the spring. Swahili was a great experience for me but after a while it was like locking myself in a cage for 8 hours a day, literally. It was a small store and I was the only one there, I couldn't leave or use the bathroom without locking up, I dealt with tourists all day long and never interacted with another human being on any kind of personal social level. And the amount of actual crazy people I had to deal with on a nearly daily basis was astonishing. I worked there for a little over two years and by the end of year one I started to go a little mad with solitude and cabin fever. The last eight months tested my patience beyond anything that I could imagine. Answering the same ten questions day after day, I slowly sank into this deep calm accepting that the redundant and repetitive nature of my life was part of a cycle that I had to get through to reach the next level of awareness. Some days I didn't buy my own bullshit and the wrath that perfect strangers had thrust upon them was impressive, even to me. My last day at the store was last Thursday. It felt like what I would assume getting out of prison feels like. You understand that you're free but there is a shadow of a feeling like you have to go back, either because it's so familiar to you now that it's a part of you and even though you don't want to be there you can't shake the feeling that you HAVE to be there, or that someone somehow will force you to return. In any case, your time isn't served, no matter how far away you walk from those doors. That feeling stayed with me for a few days. I didn't realize how relieved I was to be done with it all until that night when my friends and husband took me out to celebrate. Drunk isn't quite the word I would use to describe my behavior for that evening. I think maybe, a spastic dancing happy monkey who had one too many vodka crans would be more accurate. Thankfully I don't have a clear remembering of the last hour or so of the night, and it's probably best that way. All I know is that I was a human pogo stick. The following day was a Friday and like any good hangover it kept me on the couch in the dark for the entire day and night. It was a cathartic process, one that needed to be done whether I knew it until after it was decided or not.

Sunday was our fifth year wedding anniversary. Since Adam and I were together for six years before we got married it felt unfair to stop celebrating our original anniversary in lieu of our wedding one, so now we have two. They are both very important days in our past and both have very unique and very humorous or horrific stories attached to them depending on your disposition. At any rate, every year we try to do something special for our anniversaries. This year Adam had the fantastic idea of spending the evening and night at a local nearby place called the Kennedy School. The Kennedy School was a former large one level elementary school that was bought and converted into a unique hotel. The classrooms were converted into guest rooms (complete with original chalkboards and cloakrooms), the auditorium was converted into a movie theater, and other spaces were converted into various bars and restaurants. There is a on-site brewery, a heated salt water soaking pool, a gymnasium that you can rent for special events, and a library. We go to the Kennedy School on a semi regular basis because of the unique bars and atmosphere but never before have we rented a room for the night. It was awesome. We spent the entire evening bar hopping throughout the school, grabbed dinner at one of the restaurants, took cocktails out to the soaking pool and in the chilly cloak of darkness spend the next hour outside in heated saltwater surrounded by palm trees and bamboo trees and a black sky. The pool was packed. For overnight guests it's free but it's also available for non overnighters for a $5 charge. Everyone in the pool was our age, groups of friends and clusters of couples, everyone casually laughing and talking and drinking as they sat or stood (it's only about 4.5 feet deep) in the heated water. Sure, it wasn't romantic because of all of the people but it was lovely to be a part of a secret Portland night community of people our age, all tattooed and socializing in their bathing suits. Afterward we dressed and moseyed over to the movie theater where we caught a (movies are free to overnight guests) late night showing of The Prince of Persia. Popcorn and beer were consumed while watching the flick (I love McMenamins bar/theaters). After the movie we went to another bar, had another drink and some late night tater tots, the perfect drunk food, and ordered cheesecake to go. Back in our room we played Patty Cake, chatted and ate cheesecake in bed at 1:30am and drunkenly fell asleep. I had awesome dreams of the hotel that night. I dreamt that our friends and Adam and I were all staying at the Kennedy School and I woke up to find a pile of black hair in the bathroom sink, soaking in bloody water. Soon after every space of wall, ceiling and floor was covered in soaking wet black hair, hanging like thick vines. (Yes, it's your classic Asian horror flick - gross). The hotel management claimed it was a plumbing problem and ordered an evacuation, so the rest of the dream was spent with my friends and I traversing the labyrinth-like tunnels of the basement through soaking wet hair vines trying to find the exit. Then I woke up at 3:40AM and was convinced, CONVINCED, that if I got out of bed and turned the corner to the long hallway that led to our room's doorway that there would be a little girl standing there with soaking wet black hair covering her face. So despite the protests of my bladder I stayed in bed, you know, just to be safe. The next morning we had a quiet breakfast before checking out and then spent a leisurely day around the apartment napping and watching Dexter. Now I feel reset, reborn, cleansed of the bullshit that has shrouded my life for the last eight months (at least). So what's next? Good question...

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I have a backlog of blogs waiting to be written, the photos cropped and sized, notes on each topic jotted on a post-it or in google docs. Every day the intention to blog is there, vibrant in the morning like all of the other possibilities that line up in my head as I shower and dress. But my mind is elsewhere, muddled and confused with anticipation and anxiety. I'm having bad dreams, night sweats, and at some point in my early morning slumber I become aware of a semiconsciousness that's rolled into my dreams so I continue to wake up, startled, every half hour or so. I don't feel rested. And it's been going on for days, the result of my heavy mind, and the stress builds like a toxin in my blood and my body reacts unpredictably. My life is cake, I know. But life is bothersome in so many ways and worries creep in like vines.

I'm going through some old writings of mine, transferring them from Word Doc into Google Doc and making a plan to gradually include them on this blog over time. I'm reading through old poems, short stories, letters to friends and random thoughts that I decided to write about for whatever reason. There's some really bad stuff, some good stuff, and some stuff that is quite emotional.

The one I'm about to post completely caught me off guard upon reading it. I'd quite forgotten I'd ever written it and though it was written a long time ago the sentiment still applies to an alarmingly accurate degree. So yeah, I kinda cried when I read it. Don't worry, I don't expect you to cry, too. It's very personal and reflects not only my relationship with my sister but also the desperation in which I cling to the past. So whatever, it's therapy share-time.

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Adam affectionately refers to our cat Commodore as The "C" Man. I adopted Commodore in Michigan mere days before moving to NYC where I started my life with Adam, so the two of them, Commodore and Adam, have both been the two constants in my life for eleven and a half years. Adam has great affection for Commodore, "We're buddies" as he puts it. But Adam keeps things in perspective, "He's a cat", he'll say when I balk at his lack of fervent love for our feline friend.

Commodore rarely comes anymore when I call for him. Adam says it's a simple case of supply and demand. Commodore knows my affection is in great supply so there's little demand for it. As expected, Adam is more reserved with the attentions he gives to Commodore. Adam even blatantly ignores Commodore's mewlings and proddings at times, spurring Commodore into vigorous headbutts and pawings. So when Adam calls out for Commodore, Commodore comes trotting in to him like it's such a fucking treat to be summoned by the Great Adam.

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I was raised in a house on a hill. Our house was nestled deep within the woods surrounded by our 28 acres of land, water and cornfield. There were no neighbors in sight, no traffic to speak of, no sound or light other than those of our making. It was secluded, serene, my own private wonderland of imagination and adventure.

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Every year, for the last 100 years, Portland celebrates the riches of the Pacific Northwest heritage by serving up a variety of programs and events under the umbrella title of the Portland Rose Festival. This festival, in its many incarnations, lasts for about three weeks and in 2007 was named by the International Festivals & Events Association (IFEA) as the Best Festival in the World. The festival's two most popular events are the Grand Floral Parade, one of the nation's top two all-floral parades, and the Waterfront Village, which features carnival rides, fireworks, The Circus Project (a troupe that performs Cirque-like acts with aerial arts, acrobatics, dance and music), an exotic animals exhibit, a petting zoo & pony rides, The Big Sling (a human catapult that slings riders skyward nearly 25 stories high at over 3 Gs of gravitational force), the Artisans Pavilion, and other specialty events rotated on a weekly schedule. Also included in the Rose Festival are events like MusicFest, the Dragon Boat Race, Fleet Week, a Starlight Parade, a 5k "fun" run, a road racing event called the Rose Cup Race, a Rose Garden show, historical tours and golf tournaments. Of all of Portland's summer events, to which there are many, the Rose Festival is the most highly anticipated one of the year.

While most of these things look fun on paper, and probably are ideal for people with kids, I personally find things like parades and races to be a bit lackluster in experience. There's a lot of standing around watching other people have the fun. And golf? Give me a golf tournament and I'll give you a really good nap. MusicFests sound like a good idea but never are, you go hoping for some good tunes and end up trapped in a crowd of beer sloshing drunkards listening to music you'd turn off if only you had the plug. So every year when the Rose Festival hits town what I most enjoy is the city's energy, the hustle and bustle of temporary structures being built and banners being strung, the sexy sailors roaming the streets for Fleet Week, and of course, all of those sparkly lights.

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It's hard to make friends. I'm a solitary person most of the time so it doesn't bother me too much that I can count my Portland friends on one hand. I married my best friend so when I tire of spending time by myself I simply walk into the next room and tap him on the shoulder and say, "hi" or I just throw my arms around him and say, "LOVE ME!" That works, too. And I have my cats who provide me with endless entertainment and affection. So when we left our 20+ friends behind in NYC and moved to Portland, Oregon where we knew exactly no one, I wasn't worried. Adam and I are both socially outgoing and it wouldn't be long before we were bound to meet all kinds of awesome people in our awesome new city. Right? Right....

In the beginning Adam met some people through the band he joined shortly after we moved here. I too met some people through my new job at Pier One. And while all of these people were (and still are!) cool, and I occasionally went to a party or out to dinner with one or a few of them, I hadn't yet met anyone that I connected on many levels with. And then about a year after we'd moved here I got a new job and met my beautiful blond (soon to be) BFF. After Adam and I went to dinner with her and her boyfriend one night, the four of us formed a friendship that has continued to grow and blossom over the years, seeing each other almost on a weekly basis and spending every major holiday together. And so my social life here in Portland consists of mainly two people. It is occasionally peppered with one or a few of Adam's "Transformer" friends that he met through an online forum, or with one or a few of Adam's band mates. But I have yet to meet anyone else. Back in NYC Adam and I would throw parties at least once a month. These parties would consist of about 10 to 20 people and our freezer was never in want of alcohol because it was always stocked, always. So being in Portland and wanting to throw a party is rather depressing. Sure we've had the occasional "get together" but the attendees are mismatched and barely know each other.

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Stumptown Comics Fest is Portland's celebration of indie comics and creators. It's a convention style setup, with rows and rows of tables each run by a comic book writer or artist or publishing press. The style of the books and creations featured are, like all art forms, vastly different from each other and genuinely unique. I went last year, my first year attending, and fell madly and completely in love with the event. I spent hours wandering, slowly taking in what every table and artist had to offer, and $200 later I left the fest with a glow, affectionately clutching my treasures to my chest. I'd been looking forward to this year's event for months now, being sure I had the day off of work and the spending money set aside. I attended the event on Saturday and I've decided to share my findings with you all in detail.

I started reading comic books back in 1999. Well, that's partially true. I started reading Archie comic books back in the 80's. Every week I spent my allowance on at least one Archie Digest and would proceed to read it half a dozen times, memorizing each panel to the point where reading the story played more like a cartoon on TV than a book I was reading. But after I entered high school my reading preferences changed, and while I still occasionally read from my stacks of Archie comics, I no longer sought out new books or expanded my interest in the comics genre. It wasn't until 1999 that I met a girl who introduced me to Warren Ellis's Transmetropolitan, and then to Garth Ennis's Preacher, it was then that I fell head over heels into the comic book world again. And so I started to explore what that world had to offer to adults, and my findings were surprising. Creative and intricate story lines, excellent writing, gorgeous art, vibrant colors, let's just say that I started to read quite a lot of comic books after that. I gravitated more toward the indie comics or at least to the comics that didn't focus on the typical Marvel or DC world of Superheros, and there I comfortably stayed for many many years. It wasn't until just these past few years that comic book writer Gail Simone lured me into her world with her indie creation Welcome to Tranquility which floated me over to her other title about a group of second rate villains, Secret Six. Then shortly thereafter she took up the Wonder Woman title therefore making me curious as to what I may be missing from this fantastic writer if I continued to avoid the mainstream superhero stuff. So I started reading Wonder Woman which snowballed a little into her Birds of Prey run which led me to some Huntress titles and now I'm reaching even further into the pot and digging around for some Black Canary/Green Arrow runs. Like I said, snowballed.

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In one of the many conversations Adam and I have had about ourselves, as we are our favorite subjects, I said to him, "I read fiction, you read literature." It was a statement of definition of character as much as it was a definition of reading preference, and ever since I have rested easier with that understanding, no longer waiting for that spark of interest to register effortlessly when trying (without success) to read Nabokov's Lolita, or struggling to grasp the language and unconventional style of Faulkner's As I Lay Dying. Instead I wrap myself in the folds of mysteries of Cornwell, the horrors of McCammon and King, and the steampunk sci-fi oddities of Blaylock. Less poetic in language I'm sure, but the ease at which I can fully be a part of their worlds is a seductive and alluring mistress. It is no wonder that my own writing reflects these styles and authors, and if ever success is to be had by my pen it will bear the mark of Fiction, and not of Literature.

This brings me round to the cold and rainy evening of Tuesday night. Adam and I found ourselves with an hour to kill while out and about so we took shelter inside Powells on Hawthorne. The majority of the time when Adam and I are in a bookstore together we immediately part ways, sequestering ourselves off to our separate corners of the reading world only to be summoned by text or a tap on the shoulder signaling the time for departure. But last night we didn't have a bookstore agenda. Our purpose for the evening was to spend time together so when we entered Powells, uncharacteristically, we followed each other. From aisle to aisle, from book to book, we casually grazed on titles and authors and shared idle comments. Within one of our pauses and perusals Adam picks up a book and says, "I've always wanted to read this." I casually glance over and my brow rises, "Huh! Me too." In his hand he was holding, Moby-Dick.

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A few years ago Adam gave me an odd gift, a bright pink pillow case with a horse skull on it. It quickly became one of my favorite things and every night as it lay before me on the bed, welcoming me into the promise of slumber with a toothy grin, my spirits lift and my head finds its eager rest upon the pink casing, the skull so familiar now it's like a dreamtime friend.

Affectionate thoughts of this pink skull pillowcase eventually led way to memories of a previous favorite pillowcase from childhood, and ebay, the land where lost childhoods go to be reclaimed, assisted me once again in finding this beloved artifact, the Garfield and Odie pillowcase.

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One of my favorite finds from last year's Stumptown is an artist by the name of Jonathan Case.
I picked up this poster from his table, among other things, and it has become one of my favorite pieces.


Monster Picnic

Atop the hill, I spy a clutch of grass
Precisely suited for a picnic spot:
In shelter of that sycamore we'd pass
An afternoon away from those who've not
The patience for our love, O monster mine!
And from a wicker basket, overfull
With all the finest grub, I'd give ye wine
To soothe those crooked courses in your skull,
And fruit to sweeten every sour word
Ye'd level at yourself. The welts I see
My kin left on your back will seem absurd
For every batted lash you'll take from me.
O, monster, leave behind the ones ye'd slay,
And let us have a picnic down the way!

Today is Commodore's 11th birthday. Happy Birthday Commodore! He's watching me as I type this, sitting next to my laptop, riveted with the anticipation of what I will be saying about him. Will I divulge his secrets to the world? Will I tell people how sometimes he wakes me up in the middle of the night so that I can carry him to the litter box because he's afraid of monsters in the dark of the living room? Nooooo. Of course not! I certainly won't tell people how you have a catnip addiction, meow in corners, stare into light bulbs, and eat chicken off of the floor. I have more respect for you than that, dude.

The story of how Commodore came into my life 11 years ago goes something like this...
I was living in Upper Peninsula of Michigan with my mother and her husband, Jim. I had been banished to the wilds of Bessemer, into my mother's welcoming embrace from the oily streets of Flint by my father, who had had enough of my directionless gypsy ways. The prior couple of years I'd spent moving around the US, Colorado to Florida to Michigan to DC to Michigan ... and now I was planning another move to NYC! I needed a few months to work and save money but at 20 years old I had worn out my welcome with my empty pockets and undefined dreams. Living with my mother and Jim in the middle of Nowheresville turned out to be one of the most treasured times of my life. My stay was only four months long but those four months were transformative. At the end of my stay, as I was preparing my move to NYC, my mother spotted an ad in the paper for free Siamese-mix kittens. I'm not sure what made her think bringing a kitten into my life just as I was about to drive 1,200 miles east in a U-Haul was a good idea, maybe it was the fact that I was raised with Siamese-mix cats and had an affinity for them, or maybe she thought I would find comfort in having a kitten on my new adventure in NYC, who knows. But I jumped at the offer and she and I drove to the house that was giving away the kittens.

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About four years ago I decided I wanted to be a runner. It seemed like the ideal exercise, no equipment needed, no classes to attend, no gym to pay, all you need is a pair of tennis shoes and the great outdoors, so Adam and I started jogging in our neighborhood. Outdoor running proved extremely boring and I never could seem to set a good pace for myself, always running too fast and feeling like death was imminent or running too slow which just felt like a fast walk. Also, I am a longtime sufferer of back pain and shin splints and running outdoors on the NYC streets proved to be extremely painful. So we joined our local YMCA and I gave the treadmill a try. It was far more entertaining, what with a TV being there and all, but I still suffered from shin splints, back pain, and my feet were always killing me. I had a few girlfriends who were really into fitness and they suggested it might be my shoes. They pointed me to a place called Jackrabbit where they specialize in fitting people for running shoes. Here they do a video analysis of your running and then pick a running shoe based on what your feet do when they run. It was helpful and informative and not cheap but I left the store with confidence that these shoes would make all the difference in the world. Imagine my dismay when nothing changed. So I bought another pair of shoes of a completely different type and brand, sure that my problem, aside from biological, was still my shoes. My back and foot pain and shin splints persisted and the amount of time I had to take to recover from these injuries made "exercise" a completely ineffective event. It was then I decided that I was just not meant to be a runner. A more low impact exercise is what my body craved, or so I thought. I started doing workout videos at home and while at times they proved challenging I felt like my body was going in slow motion. I ached for speed, for the aggression of a run, for the rush of energy it sends to your heart and to your head. I was disheartened and not enjoying myself so that too was pushed aside and the activity of exercise was again put on the shelf.

Years passed, we moved to Portland, and I started to read about health. I learned a lot about nutrition, bones, muscles, body reaction, injury, everything. I wasn't exercising at the time but the topic was (and is) fascinating to me. I've always felt that my body is a machine capable of amazing physical feats and the fact that I was out of shape and fragile made me angry and frustrated. So for my 30th birthday I asked for a treadmill. What was I thinking? I don't know. That having the machine at home would allow me time to slowly build the muscle in my back, shins, and feet so that one day I could run without pain? So I laced up my running shoes and popped in a movie and started to speed walk. It was good at first, really good, I built myself up from a fast walk into a slow jog over the course of weeks and slowly gained speed. But the more I ran, the more my body would become racked with pain afterward. I wasn't getting shin splints at first but my back was killing me. I eventually, again, stopped running because of the discomfort and my beautiful expensive treadmill lay dormant, gathering dust.

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It's no secret that I have a predilection for strong, smart, witty women who kick ass and make no apologies. I think it all started when I began playing Tomb Raider back in 2000. Stepping into Laura Croft's sexy hiking boots and short shorts was empowering (until I died) and firing her pistols at bad guys, wildlife, and dinosaurs was exhilarating (until I died). Watching her gracefully jump and hang from rocks and balance on beams and climb shit, all by my hand and with my mind, was addicting (until I fell, and died). Then I started watching Buffy and MY GOD did I ever want to karate kick someone in the head and then poke them with sharp things. And it's just snowballed from there, everything from the militaristic fighting machine of Alice in the Resident Evil movies, to fiercely independent and witty Lorelai Gilmore in Gilmore Girls. More recently it's been the intense honor, poise, and warrior methods of Wonder Woman in comics and the resourcefulness, wit, and ballsiness of Veronica Mars in the Veronica Mars TV show. Hell, I've even started reading the Kay Scarpetta novels written by Patricia Cornwell, wherein the protagonist is the Chief Medical Examiner in Virginia and every story revolves around her solving a murder. Only recently did I identify and acknowledge a pattern with these things, and a part of me doesn't even think of this predilection as a "thing", though it clearly is one. I'm living vicariously through these women and damn if it isn't a helluva good time.

When I started reading the comic book, Birds of Prey, written by Gail Simone, it quickly became certain that the book epitomized everything a girl like me could ask for. You have Oracle, a computer genius who despite being paralyzed from the waist down and in a wheelchair can still manage to break out of a jail cell (without her chair!) because she's just that damn crafty. Black Canary, who is a devoted friend and a deadly martial artist, excels in operative situations and can improvise her way out of any jam. And then there's my favorite character, Huntress. This woman's dry wit and take no prisoners attitude, coupled with the fact that she is rarely intimidated, makes her incredibly charming. They all have soft sides when they aren't fighting crime, of course, and it's these odd details (Black Canary owns a flower shop, Huntress is a school teacher, and Oracle ... well she's always Oracle) just adds to the depth and femininity of these women. That and they're all incredibly beautiful (in awesomely ridiculous outfits no doubt). It's fast becoming one of my favorite comic books though I'm only in the middle of the series and am bracing myself for the change of writers that takes place in another twenty issues.

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I've been having strange dreams these past few weeks. And I'm not talking my typical run of the mill zombies and apocalypse strange dreams, these are a different strange. Like a David Lynch movie on acid. The most recent one was about a trip to the candy store. I was paying a visit to my home town and I wanted to make a trip to the old drug store called, Ben Franklin, where I used to buy all of my candy when I was a kid. They had bins of penny and nickel candy, old fashioned kinds and new sparkley kinds, I'd buy a paper sack full. So, in my dream I go to Ben Franklin and when I enter the doors the store is suddenly out in the middle of no man's land and it's kind of turned into a farm house/barn/drug store. There's loads of people mulling about and it's fairly dark and quite dirty. I ask some stranger where the candy stash is hidden and he laughs and tells me to see the old man at the hay stack. When I find the old man and tell him I'd like some old fashion candy he grins and tells me that I have good taste. As he's scooping candy from a large barrel he tells me that the effects will wear off after a few hours but in the hours anything could happen so be careful. I look around and see for the first time that the people aren't people at all but they're monsters. Mutated versions of themselves with tentacles and too many eyes, big heads, tails, claws for hands, reptile skin. Everyone is different and they're all eating candy by the fist full. I stumble around on the dusty floor, turning dark corners and running into partying monsters. For the most part they seemed harmless, still aware in a way that they were people, but some of them seemed lost within the folds of monster flesh and these creatures are eating more than just candy. I spot them, stolen away behind shelving or barrels, eating limbs and faces of other monsters. I call Adam on my cell phone and ask him to come get me, I'm lost and can't find my way out, he tells me to stay put, that he's on his way. As I'm wandering around I run into my friend Carl. He'd just eaten some candy and started to transform into something odd. Only he doesn't see it, doesn't feel it, thinks I'm crazy and tells me I'm lying. I ask him where Natalya is and he says she's in another room and that he'll take me to her. When we get to the room she's sitting on the floor watching TV, her back is to us but from what I can tell she looks perfectly normal. I call out to her and she turns around and her eyes are missing. In their place is static, like the kind you see on a TV screen when the channel isn't coming in clearly, and she smiles at me and mouths words but she has no voice. I scream and run out of the room, down some corridor, and run smack into an ex boyfriend. He looks normal enough but he smells funny, like secrets and desperation. He's trying to smooth talk me but forgets how I know he's a liar so I don't fall for it, he tells me that he has a different kind of candy, one that won't make me into a monster but will make me into something amazing, I tell him I'm already amazing (ah, it's good to retain my wit in dreams). He offers it to me anyways, with his flashy smile and hungry eyes, and I tell him it's really good to see him again as I tip over shelving and it falls on his head. I turn around and there's Adam, looking worried and fascinated and he takes my hand and I wake up.

Then there's the one where there's a swamp inside my childhood home and in the swamp are water dwelling beasts who try to glamor me and my family. The water is oily and my parents are young, in their early 30's, and my sister has been kidnapped by the Swamp Queen and it's up to me to rescue her. There's a big battle that rages between the swamp beasts and my family, complete with torches and archery and canoes. It's muddy and slimy and everyone's skin is porcelain white and flawless and we're all beautiful and fit and warriors. I eventually kill the Swamp Queen by realizing she can be defeated if your heart holds no fear, I invoke her powers and glamor all of the swamp beasts and set them all on fire and my parents smile and dance in the amber light of the flames.

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