I was going to have a new blog template in place by now, but Blogger has made customization (real customization, not just shuffling elements) a lot harder than I expected. And also I spent the time I thought I was going to use for that on a completely different web-based project, which you'll get to see pretty soon.
[Postscript -- oops. It looks like my experimentation with my blog template was more permanent than I realized. This isn't what I want the finished product to look like, but it'll have to do for now.]
Also I thought I would have something witty and heartfelt formulated to say, here at the end of the year, but all I really have is a short list of things I wanted to remember to mention in my next blog post. A very short list. Two things, in fact, which make a lopsided sort of list.
1) My sister has a sweet etsy shop up. Check out all her cool designs and consider: do you know anyone who doesn't need a shirt with an old-school boombox on it?
2) On a more serious note: If any of my readers are wondering what the big deal is about this whole domestic partnership thing in Oregon, here is a link that explains what's at stake.
The delay in passing the law affects people I care about, and that makes me sad. Then I read news stories where people cite "Christian values" as their reason for objecting to domestic partnerships for homosexuals, and that makes me angry. For shame! Take a look at the list linked above, imagine the past and future stories each of those numbers certainly represents, and tell me: Since when was Christ in the persecution business?
I don't want my blog to get political. But this has become personal.
[deep breath]
So, yeah, that's what I wanted to cover. And here I am in Roswell, NM ringing in the new year with Meep, as has accidentally become tradition. She has a new old house that she's just moving into, and back in Portland I have a new old life that I'm moving into, and everything looks pretty achievable from here, messes to sort and stow, tasks to undertake and conquer. We are capable and eager, and life just now is full of the kind of chaos that precedes creation.
Happy New Year, all.
Monday, December 31, 2007
Tuesday, December 18, 2007
Of Presents and the Present.
I was going to post last night, but then I got an early Christmas present from Sean, and I was no good at all for 3 hours 41 minutes 29 seconds, by which time it was really really late.
(There was an all-too-brief period in my life where I didn't have to look for new music to get excited about, when friends would regularly force me to sit down and listen to this marvel that they just uncovered, or that had been growing on them for the past two weeks like mold on an unrefrigerated pizza. And if I was really lucky they would explain, in words and gestures that a musical dilettante could understand, how it blew their skulls open to let light in; how it coiled around their hearts with a python's grip; how it hung their dreams and nightmares out to dry.
For years after I moved away from these people who were excited! about music!, I read reviews in Spin and Rolling Stone, looking for that contagious spirit of discovery. But the subtext of every review was: "I know so much about so many bands that I am too jaded to feel passionately about any of them (or too cool to admit it)." Also, they were constructed primarily of run-on sentences.
So my discovery of saidthegramophone two years ago was cause for much rejoicing. There are three guys who write for the site, but one guy whose passion carries it. That guy is Sean. Sean writes about how a song makes him feel, and oh, how he feels. He writes about the pictures a song makes in his head, and ah, what pictures he sees. Sometimes it's music that I love right away, and sometimes it's music that I wouldn't have given a second glance if he didn't sit me down in a beanbag by the stereo and explicate it for me. Either way, I'm grateful.)
Sean's Christmas gift to me -- and you, too -- is a list of his favorite fifty songs of 2007. Fifty little wrapped boxes: here, I picked this out for you. There are wonders and terrors here, tidy griefs and messy celebrations, scraps and shards of other people's hearts, each downloadable for the next week or two. If you are in the least bit interested in knowing about good music that happened this year, start at the top and download as much as your patience, or your bandwidth, will allow. And then read what he wrote about them.
You won't be sorry.
Anyway, yes, I'm back. I took the train home, which I would highly recommend to anyone who is going through a transition which deserves lengthy reflection. I was warmly welcomed by friends and family at several stops along the way. The journey was good, and the homecoming was good, and life is good in general. I've been thinking about some things that have changed in me since I left my library job, and though I hate to jinx it by making any specific claims, I'm optimistic that I've actually... well, grown.
After the holidays, I will be in Portland for several months, and I'm happy about that. I don't know where I'll be working, but it will be on a decidedly temporary basis. My taste for adventure has been whetted, not sated. I already have Big Plans for next summer (which involve boats of a different sort), and enough other ideas to fill the next couple of years at least. I tried settling down for almost a decade; now I'm going to try not settling down for a while, and I think it may suit me a lot better.
One of my many projects this week is to get all my boat photos sorted. I am gradually posting a selection of the best ones on my photo sharing site of choice. For privacy reasons, there will be no link to that here, but I'll gladly share with any friends who ask for it.
(There was an all-too-brief period in my life where I didn't have to look for new music to get excited about, when friends would regularly force me to sit down and listen to this marvel that they just uncovered, or that had been growing on them for the past two weeks like mold on an unrefrigerated pizza. And if I was really lucky they would explain, in words and gestures that a musical dilettante could understand, how it blew their skulls open to let light in; how it coiled around their hearts with a python's grip; how it hung their dreams and nightmares out to dry.
For years after I moved away from these people who were excited! about music!, I read reviews in Spin and Rolling Stone, looking for that contagious spirit of discovery. But the subtext of every review was: "I know so much about so many bands that I am too jaded to feel passionately about any of them (or too cool to admit it)." Also, they were constructed primarily of run-on sentences.
So my discovery of saidthegramophone two years ago was cause for much rejoicing. There are three guys who write for the site, but one guy whose passion carries it. That guy is Sean. Sean writes about how a song makes him feel, and oh, how he feels. He writes about the pictures a song makes in his head, and ah, what pictures he sees. Sometimes it's music that I love right away, and sometimes it's music that I wouldn't have given a second glance if he didn't sit me down in a beanbag by the stereo and explicate it for me. Either way, I'm grateful.)
Sean's Christmas gift to me -- and you, too -- is a list of his favorite fifty songs of 2007. Fifty little wrapped boxes: here, I picked this out for you. There are wonders and terrors here, tidy griefs and messy celebrations, scraps and shards of other people's hearts, each downloadable for the next week or two. If you are in the least bit interested in knowing about good music that happened this year, start at the top and download as much as your patience, or your bandwidth, will allow. And then read what he wrote about them.
You won't be sorry.
Anyway, yes, I'm back. I took the train home, which I would highly recommend to anyone who is going through a transition which deserves lengthy reflection. I was warmly welcomed by friends and family at several stops along the way. The journey was good, and the homecoming was good, and life is good in general. I've been thinking about some things that have changed in me since I left my library job, and though I hate to jinx it by making any specific claims, I'm optimistic that I've actually... well, grown.
After the holidays, I will be in Portland for several months, and I'm happy about that. I don't know where I'll be working, but it will be on a decidedly temporary basis. My taste for adventure has been whetted, not sated. I already have Big Plans for next summer (which involve boats of a different sort), and enough other ideas to fill the next couple of years at least. I tried settling down for almost a decade; now I'm going to try not settling down for a while, and I think it may suit me a lot better.
* * *
One of my many projects this week is to get all my boat photos sorted. I am gradually posting a selection of the best ones on my photo sharing site of choice. For privacy reasons, there will be no link to that here, but I'll gladly share with any friends who ask for it.
Thursday, December 13, 2007
Pau Hana.
My last day was good, too. As usual, nothing went quite as expected: while setting out for the afternoon's battle sail with the Lady Washington, we saw waves crashing over the top of the breakwater, nudged one another and said "That'll be interesting." Things did indeed become interesting, in a rollercoastery kind of way, as we rounded the breakwater: lots of green choppiness, and the boat plunging up and down madly, and things tumbling around below decks (yes, we stowed for sea, but there are degrees of stowing for sea, and we hadn't expected to need quite this much). The line between scary-fun and scary-not-fun is often a fine one for me at sea; we stayed out right to the near edge of that line before turning around and telling the passengers to come back tomorrow instead.
So then we actually had time to rig the lights (yes, rope lights in the rigging) before the evening's sail, which wasn't actually a sail so much as a motor through the marina for the lighted boat parade. This was much better than having to rig them underway. The lighted boat parade was cold and rainy, and the passengers lost enthusiasm after the first two hours, so we got to come back early from that too. But in the meantime I didn't feel the cold, because I was busy helping the new gunner clean the guns (and touching off a few as well (whee!)). The lighted boat parade was an exercise in jaw-dropping tackiness, with giant glowing snowmen and blaring music of the "Rockin' Around the Christmas Tree" variety, and it became apparent relatively quickly that our captain's strategy was to fire on the all most obnoxious vessels. I was fine with that, personally. And so, apparently, was my loyal friend Janellie, who braved traffic and weather to join me for my last outing on the Chieftain and to take me out to Pinkberry afterward.
And then a night, and a morning, and pau hana: work is finished, time to go home.
Every time I leave that damn boat, I leave another chunk of my heart behind. I was so careful when I packed up my things, not one object forgotten to be lamented over later. But my heart, it seeped into the bilge and twined around the yards and I couldn't untangle it, had to feel it tearing (ow ow oww) as I walked away with a smile on my face and the voices of the crew in my ears:
Safe and sound at home again,
Let the waters roar, Jack.
Long we've tossed on the rolling main,
Now we're safe ashore, Jack.
Don't forget your old shipmates,
Folly-rolly-rolly-rolly-rye-oh!
So then we actually had time to rig the lights (yes, rope lights in the rigging) before the evening's sail, which wasn't actually a sail so much as a motor through the marina for the lighted boat parade. This was much better than having to rig them underway. The lighted boat parade was cold and rainy, and the passengers lost enthusiasm after the first two hours, so we got to come back early from that too. But in the meantime I didn't feel the cold, because I was busy helping the new gunner clean the guns (and touching off a few as well (whee!)). The lighted boat parade was an exercise in jaw-dropping tackiness, with giant glowing snowmen and blaring music of the "Rockin' Around the Christmas Tree" variety, and it became apparent relatively quickly that our captain's strategy was to fire on the all most obnoxious vessels. I was fine with that, personally. And so, apparently, was my loyal friend Janellie, who braved traffic and weather to join me for my last outing on the Chieftain and to take me out to Pinkberry afterward.* * *
And then a night, and a morning, and pau hana: work is finished, time to go home.
* * *
Every time I leave that damn boat, I leave another chunk of my heart behind. I was so careful when I packed up my things, not one object forgotten to be lamented over later. But my heart, it seeped into the bilge and twined around the yards and I couldn't untangle it, had to feel it tearing (ow ow oww) as I walked away with a smile on my face and the voices of the crew in my ears:
Safe and sound at home again,
Let the waters roar, Jack.
Long we've tossed on the rolling main,
Now we're safe ashore, Jack.
Don't forget your old shipmates,
Folly-rolly-rolly-rolly-rye-oh!
Penultimate.
December 7, 2007
1130 hours
Santa Cruz was hard on us all. Oh, it's a nice port; the people were friendly, and the town was pretty cool. But the swell in the marina was terrible. We had extra mooring lines out, and extra chafe gear, and still the lines groaned and the dock screeched and clunked all night. And that was when the weather was nice.
When the storm kicked up offshore, we moved farther into the marina. The night of the 3rd was the roughest: the boat popped two and a half cleats and broke a mooring line (a flimsy excuse for a mooring line, but still) before we all ran up on deck in our pajamas and moved to a spot with stronger cleats. Two of the boat's heavy ironwood kevels splintered like balsa under the tension of the lines wrapped around them. We put out even more mooring lines and stood night watches thereafter. The water under the pier sucked and swirled, and the dock bowed upward under the heinously creaking lines, but the boat stayed put until the weather cleared enough for us to leave the harbor for good.
We got into Marina del Rey around 4 a.m. today. The weather window we caught was a good one; after getting some distance between us and Santa Cruz, the transit was surprisingly smooth, even around Point Conception. The last few hours were a little bumpy, but not terrible. I quit taking the dimenhydrenate around 11 p.m. last night and felt fine thereafter.
What I remember most about the transit to San Francisco is sunlight, blue skies and blue water. What I'll remember most about the transit to Marina del Rey is the stars. This evening, through Los Angeles' urban glow, they were only a pallid reminder of the profligate brilliance I saw over the Pacific two nights ago. Those are the stars that inspired the ancients to visions of heroes and monsters. The sky opened into an unobstructed view of outer space, and we floated in it, the tiniest of specks. And there were stars in the water too, flecks of phosphorescence glinting past in our pale wake.
So today I got to sleep in late, and then I got to hang off the side of the boat and prep the stern windows for a new coat of varnish, which was really fun for a while and then really not fun for a while (cold wind, and legs getting numb in the harness, and the masking tape not sticking). And then after dinner I went out for one last time with crew, and we listened to a fairly bad U2 cover band and swapped stories and stayed up way too late. Tomorrow is a busy day, with dockside tours in the morning and public sails in the afternoon and evening, and it will be cold and rainy, and no one will want to do anything but sleep at the end of it. But today was a really great next-to-last day.
1130 hours
Santa Cruz was hard on us all. Oh, it's a nice port; the people were friendly, and the town was pretty cool. But the swell in the marina was terrible. We had extra mooring lines out, and extra chafe gear, and still the lines groaned and the dock screeched and clunked all night. And that was when the weather was nice.
When the storm kicked up offshore, we moved farther into the marina. The night of the 3rd was the roughest: the boat popped two and a half cleats and broke a mooring line (a flimsy excuse for a mooring line, but still) before we all ran up on deck in our pajamas and moved to a spot with stronger cleats. Two of the boat's heavy ironwood kevels splintered like balsa under the tension of the lines wrapped around them. We put out even more mooring lines and stood night watches thereafter. The water under the pier sucked and swirled, and the dock bowed upward under the heinously creaking lines, but the boat stayed put until the weather cleared enough for us to leave the harbor for good.
We got into Marina del Rey around 4 a.m. today. The weather window we caught was a good one; after getting some distance between us and Santa Cruz, the transit was surprisingly smooth, even around Point Conception. The last few hours were a little bumpy, but not terrible. I quit taking the dimenhydrenate around 11 p.m. last night and felt fine thereafter.
What I remember most about the transit to San Francisco is sunlight, blue skies and blue water. What I'll remember most about the transit to Marina del Rey is the stars. This evening, through Los Angeles' urban glow, they were only a pallid reminder of the profligate brilliance I saw over the Pacific two nights ago. Those are the stars that inspired the ancients to visions of heroes and monsters. The sky opened into an unobstructed view of outer space, and we floated in it, the tiniest of specks. And there were stars in the water too, flecks of phosphorescence glinting past in our pale wake.
So today I got to sleep in late, and then I got to hang off the side of the boat and prep the stern windows for a new coat of varnish, which was really fun for a while and then really not fun for a while (cold wind, and legs getting numb in the harness, and the masking tape not sticking). And then after dinner I went out for one last time with crew, and we listened to a fairly bad U2 cover band and swapped stories and stayed up way too late. Tomorrow is a busy day, with dockside tours in the morning and public sails in the afternoon and evening, and it will be cold and rainy, and no one will want to do anything but sleep at the end of it. But today was a really great next-to-last day.
Monday, December 03, 2007
Good and Sick.
December 3, 2007
0900 hours
Less than a week to go now. It's my last day off, and I'm lying in bed trying to work out how to pack a box to mail home so that my remaining luggage won't be too much to carry. The trickiest part is that the box also has to be easy to carry: the post office is about a half an hour away on foot. Meanwhile, the Chieftain is underway, children on deck screaming "All hands aye!" in response to a new education coordinator. My departure is taking place around the same time as a couple of other long-term crew members, which to me indicates that I timed it just about right.
There are other indications too. As hard as it is to leave -- and believe me, it's hard -- it would be even harder to stay longer. I look at the incoming crew, full of enthusiasm and ideals, and think about how well they'll work together. I so wish I could be part of that. But I'm dried up, bleached out, burnt down to ash. My stated intention at the beginning of this tour was to stay until I was "good and sick of it," and I think it's fair to say I've reached that point. I'm always tired and often cranky. I have a cold (aka "boat plague"). I take things for granted that I shouldn't: the good-natured banter of my shipmates, the feel of a mooring line in my hands, the patterns the light makes on the water. And my fatigue shows: I'm no longer trying to be the best I can, just trying to get through the day.
So it's time to get off the boat. My successor's contract begins today; she's already very good at this job, even though it's a new one for her. I can see that everything is going to go just fine without me, and that makes me both happy and sad.
I have one last transit to make, from Santa Cruz to Marina del Rey. We were scheduled to depart this evening, but the weather may not allow us to leave until Wednesday. It's actually been clear and sunny wherever we are almost every day since we reached California. Offshore, though, big weather is brewing, and the route south will take us around the notoriously choppy Point Conception. So here we stay until the forecast clears. (Meanwhile, back in the vicinity of Tillamook, the waves are around 30', and Gray's Harbor appears to have some sort of hurricane situation. Yikes.)
Postscript: The box was 21 lbs 13 oz. It took me an hour to get to the post office. My future self (the one that will be traveling home by train next week) better be grateful. Having shipped off all the stuff I won't need before I leave, I immediately bought a bunch more: Value Village was having a storewide 50% off sale, and there was this cool Asian discount store... erm, let's just say that apparently I've been craving colorful clothing. In other news, the waters outside the harbor were so choppy that we had an average of 10 ralphing children per educational sail today, much to the secret glee of certain crew members. The ones who weren't queasy, I mean. Me, I was just happy to be on land for the afternoon.
0900 hours
Less than a week to go now. It's my last day off, and I'm lying in bed trying to work out how to pack a box to mail home so that my remaining luggage won't be too much to carry. The trickiest part is that the box also has to be easy to carry: the post office is about a half an hour away on foot. Meanwhile, the Chieftain is underway, children on deck screaming "All hands aye!" in response to a new education coordinator. My departure is taking place around the same time as a couple of other long-term crew members, which to me indicates that I timed it just about right.
There are other indications too. As hard as it is to leave -- and believe me, it's hard -- it would be even harder to stay longer. I look at the incoming crew, full of enthusiasm and ideals, and think about how well they'll work together. I so wish I could be part of that. But I'm dried up, bleached out, burnt down to ash. My stated intention at the beginning of this tour was to stay until I was "good and sick of it," and I think it's fair to say I've reached that point. I'm always tired and often cranky. I have a cold (aka "boat plague"). I take things for granted that I shouldn't: the good-natured banter of my shipmates, the feel of a mooring line in my hands, the patterns the light makes on the water. And my fatigue shows: I'm no longer trying to be the best I can, just trying to get through the day.
So it's time to get off the boat. My successor's contract begins today; she's already very good at this job, even though it's a new one for her. I can see that everything is going to go just fine without me, and that makes me both happy and sad.
I have one last transit to make, from Santa Cruz to Marina del Rey. We were scheduled to depart this evening, but the weather may not allow us to leave until Wednesday. It's actually been clear and sunny wherever we are almost every day since we reached California. Offshore, though, big weather is brewing, and the route south will take us around the notoriously choppy Point Conception. So here we stay until the forecast clears. (Meanwhile, back in the vicinity of Tillamook, the waves are around 30', and Gray's Harbor appears to have some sort of hurricane situation. Yikes.)
Postscript: The box was 21 lbs 13 oz. It took me an hour to get to the post office. My future self (the one that will be traveling home by train next week) better be grateful. Having shipped off all the stuff I won't need before I leave, I immediately bought a bunch more: Value Village was having a storewide 50% off sale, and there was this cool Asian discount store... erm, let's just say that apparently I've been craving colorful clothing. In other news, the waters outside the harbor were so choppy that we had an average of 10 ralphing children per educational sail today, much to the secret glee of certain crew members. The ones who weren't queasy, I mean. Me, I was just happy to be on land for the afternoon.
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