Here are some words I wrote.

Blogs and the Updating Thereof.

2011-08-15T18:37:00.001-07:00

Yeah, I don't know when I'm gonna finish writing about co-housing. There are certainly lots more things to say about it, since I only got halfway through writing up the tour. But July hit, and with it, madness: sorting, discarding, repairing, preparing. So much to get done in one short month, with precious little downtime. Yet somehow* it did get done, or done enough, and after bumping back my deadlines a tad, I got myself packed up and out of town. And that saga is addressed in detail on the New Blog, which you probably know about already but just in case, here it is. That'll be taking first priority over the co-housing posts, and I'm already behind over there, so: yeah. Co-housing can wait.

As previously mentioned, that blog won't replace this blog. That blog is intended to promote my project and my writing, with a view to eventually getting some paid work out of it. It's very self-consciously public and narratively focused; it is a specific thing and not other things. This blog continues to exist, and to be sporadic and amorphous, because we all need a place like that on the internet, or at least I do.

* "Somehow" mostly being "with lots and lots of help from friends."

Cohousing Tour, Part Three: Peninsula Park Commons.

2011-06-27T00:21:00.000-07:00

There's a particular type of 1930s apartment design you see a lot of in Portland. It's single-story, typically brick, laid out in a row that's usually bent into an L or a C in order to squeeze as many units into the lot as possible. If you've lived here, you know the ones; some of you have even lived in them. In 2003, local developer and contractor Eli Spevak bought one of these old complexes at the edge of Peninsula Park, not far from I-5 in North Portland. "We just sort of stumbled into it," he says of the purchase, and thus Peninsula Park Commons was born. After renovations, he sold 5 of the 7 units, most to young families like his own, for about $80,000 apiece. The 6th unit became a common area, and he and his wife moved into the 7th, where his daughter was later born.

The apartment courtyard soon bloomed with an ebullient communal garden, a certified wildlife habitat and the scene of many social gatherings for its residents. Eli, who has met us on the street to welcome us in, explains, "Every cohousing community has its own themes, and our themes are biking and gardening." Sure enough, the concrete at the base of a nearby bike rack is studded with ceramic tiles, lovingly hand-painted with bikes and tiny poems about riding them. The residents of the community are having a yard sale in the courtyard today, and many of them stand smiling beside tables and racks of cast-offs. We smile back, and I deliberately avoid looking at their wares. (Now is not a good time to bring home more stuff.)

We pass through the cluttered common apartment ("You can tell it gets a lot of use") into a second courtyard, this one paved with a swirling pattern of reclaimed brick. When renovations were completed in 2005, Spevak et al. pulled up the parking lot and added two more buildings, containing an additional three units and a common guest room and bike garage. The units filled instantly, and it's easy to see why: the new construction is utterly charming. The new courtyard and adjacent concrete steps curve organically, and in keeping with the bike theme, old bicycle parts serve as tasteful decorative features of the new architecture. A kid whizzes by on a foot-powered scooter. High above our heads, laundry on a third-floor line flutters like prayer flags.

A genial resident leans down from a second-story balcony and invites us up for a tour of her home. It's beautiful: not large, but bright and airy, with thoughtfully placed windows and high ceilings (not to mention radiant floor heating, solar panels, tankless water heaters, and just about every other conceivable eco-convenience). The place captures my imagination in a way that Daybreak utterly failed to do (though at this point, if anyone in these new apartments were to sell, prices would be comparable). Granted, I'm a sucker for airy, compact architecture; but it's more than that. Where Daybreak has the feeling of a handful of polite people in a large container, Peninsula Park Commons is unruly with life.

Jess, our host, describes the commons as "cohousing lite, a really kinda laid-back community." Community-wide meetings happen monthly, work parties happen quarterly, and the only "team" is responsible for the garden. Community involvement seems to be very much on an as-able basis. Jess describes her husband as an introvert who was initially wary about living in close contact with so many people, but is now very comfortable here. But the member of the family who has benefited most from living here is her son, the kid who zipped by us earlier (whom I estimate at maybe nine years old). "There's so many kids here," Jess says, her smile relaxed, "and there's been absolutely no conflict in regard to parenting." Her son's adjustment to the community has been a smooth one, though she did have to train him to knock when dropping in on neighbors. He's not only formed friendships with the other kids of the Commons, but also developed positive relationships with adults beyond his parents, something that just doesn't happen outside some sort of community setting.

But Jess also speaks readily about the negatives of cohousing, and her candidness surprises me. "Living here has been easy, it's been wonderful, but it's incredibly insular. When we moved here from just a few blocks away, we tried to keep up relationships with our old neighbors, but it was really hard to do. This has become our social circle.

"It's very comfortable," she continues, "but everyone here has similar life experiences and perspectives.... If spots open up here and we tell our friends about them before we announce them to the wider community, we are guaranteeing insularity for the future." It's clear that she feels real concern about this, and it dawns on me that one of the inevitable functions of community, or at least of this kind of community, is to exclude non-members. When those who are included line up along certain demographics, Jess says, "You lose diversity." Her son, I note, is one of only two non-white cohousing dwellers I will see out of the many people I encounter today.

Further, I suspect Jess is well aware of the context of her comments: this neighborhood's history of decades of racial and economic segregation, followed by abrupt and relentless gentrification. Granted, in 2003, that economic wave had already gathered unstoppable momentum; it could not have been altered either way by one man's decision to buy one tiny apartment complex. But the middle-class residents of Peninsula Park Commons have all directly benefited from the impact of gentrification, and now live very comfortably in its wake. I don't blame them, but I do wonder who was living on this lot when Eli bought it, and where they went, and what their lives are like today. Would they be welcome here now? This community is a truly wonderful thing... but as with many of the shiny new wonders of North Portland, I question whether it had to be built on the ashes of the communities that once, against all odds, thrived here. I honestly don't have any answers, but I certainly don't think ill of anyone who has chosen to live here. I must confess my own eyes lit up green at the mention of that initial cost of $80,000 per unit. Condos that affordable are hard to find in other areas of inner Portland.

Eli began his career with several years' worth of work for Habitat for Humanity, which means he is doubtless well aware of the complicated context of his community, and has put considerable effort into providing housing for the poor. Jess tells us that he and his family will eventually be moving to his newest construction project about 3.5 miles east of here, a 16-condo community called Cully Grove. "I try not to think about that," she says, her smile rueful.

It seems to me that the unspoken third theme here is that of family. Peninsula Park Commons is a place where families, obviously, thrive; but it also has the feeling of a large extended family, and the Spevaks' impending departure is, in a way, a loss of family members. They'll always have a connection with Peninsula Park, but it won't be the same; their loyalties will lie with a new family. And then someone else will move into their condo and become part of this family. I'm a teeny bit envious of those people.

We thank Jess and return to the sunlit courtyard. Our timing is good; the bus is rumbling nearby, ready to take us to Cascadia Commons, where lunch awaits.

Cohousing Tour, Part Two: Daybreak Cohousing.

2011-06-09T00:29:00.003-07:00

At Daybreak Cohousing, the first thing you inevitably notice is the brand-shiny-new, ultra-conscientiously designed architecture: warm bright colors, ample windows, spaces laid out to facilitate eddies and clusters of residents. A gorgeous old maple towers over a tidy community garden and a circular play area, a perfect peninsula of fresh wood chips on a lake of green lawn. There's a spacious rooftop deck with a hot tub and a fine view of the humped green spine of Forest Park. Electronic fobs allow access to elevators and common areas. The place strikes me as a tad on the posh side, an impression reinforced by the price sheet I pick up off a table in the Common Room: the cheapest unit available, at 665 square feet, is $225,000 (not counting utilities and HOA dues). To me, that seems like a lot of money for such a little space.

Our tour group is broken up into bunches of five or six in order to be more easily guided around the complex by residents. Laura, our guide, takes us to see her home. It's a tiny space, probably another 665-square-footer: just a living area separated from the kitchen by a low bar, with a smallish bedroom and bath. She decorated it sparingly and painted it a vibrant sea-green, a color she says helps get her through the gray seasons. Laura chose the unit because it had its own private garden area out back, instead of a deck. She points out the concrete floors, through which heat is piped, and the high windows that encourage crossdrafts to take the edge off the hottest days. Insulation is excellent, she adds. With all this sustainability-consciousness, I'm a little surprised to see that the unit has a full-sized, traditional hot water tank, rather than a solar or tankless water heater.

After Laura's place, we see a much larger unit belonging to a different resident, as well as a smaller, empty unit which has been furnished "for show." Daybreak was completed in 2009, but only half of the units have been purchased. More recently, the residents have decided to open them up to a lease-to-own model, and it's clear that our tour today is intended not only to inform, but to market. I try to imagine, if money were no object, if I would want to live here. I'm uncertain; the facilities are certainly very nice, but what about community life?

Of the 19 residents of Daybreak Cohousing, 17 are adults ranging up to 70-something; one is 16 years old, and one is 18 months. One resident gets around by wheelchair (all units are ADA-accessible). Adult residents are expected to participate in two monthly community meetings, to show up for work parties, and to join at least one "team". There's a finance team, a facilities team, a food team, a garden team (Laura's on the garden team)... actually, there's a pretty long list of teams. "You go to a lot of meetings," Laura admits. There's no minimum work requirement, but it seems like all the residents are very motivated to invest in the community. Earlier, co-founder Kristin told us that everyone here pulls their own weight, and takes turns bearing the heavy responsibilities.

All decisions are made by consensus, which means you can't just take a vote and let the majority rule; everyone has to be on board. That translates into an awful lot of group discussion, and an awful lot of time put into each decision. This method of decision-making is typical of cohousing communities. Laura says the policies that took the longest to work out concerned smoking and pets. People who don't fit in with the group's way of thinking, she says, "vote with their feet."

Someone asks what the membership process is like: how does one become a resident of Daybreak? "Well, we like to get to know people," says Laura. Prospective members get acquainted by attending group meals (held 3-4 times a week, optional for residents) and work parties; if it "feels like a fit," they can apply to move in. Though the community needs more residents, Laura expressed some uneasiness about growth, which I could relate to. Once you've got your community (boat, cabin, etc.) to where it's comfortable, the prospect of adding more people in can be scary. The number of ways things can go wrong multiplies exponentially with each personality you throw into to the mix.

So how does the community handle interpersonal conflicts when they come up? Community policy, says Laura, states that the offended party first addresses the person causing the offense directly, and if they can't come to an agreement, the two of them will meet with a committee. If the committee can't resolve the conflict, the issue is brought before the entire community. To me this sounds not only reasonable, but familiar.

Laura takes us back to the wide Common Room, big enough to hold the entire community for a meal or dance, to give us a tour of the building it's in. The Common Room is adjacent to a large and very professional-looking kitchen, as well as several smaller sitting rooms for quiet coversation. Downstairs, there's a whole subterranean level of wonders. There's a room for yoga and meditation. There are guest apartments, for visitors of residents who don't have space to put them up. There's a shared laundry room with clotheslines (most residents have not chosen to acquire their own washer and dryer, though the units have hookups for them). There's a community storage room, mostly empty, with stacks of holiday decor and a sprawling "Goodwill pile," as well as a room with areas marked out in paint for individual storage. There is a vast bike garage, containing a startling number of bikes (and a canoe), and an impressively well-supplied communal tool shop. As residents downsized from single-family dwellings to move into cohousing, they donated more than enough to furnish the shop, as well as the guest apartments and common sitting areas (one of which has a flat-screen TV and an old piano).

Daybreak residents pool a lot of resources, and they don't hesitate to offer assistance to one another. Many participate in informal car-sharing, and the 18-month-old resident has a whole bunch of aunties and uncles on-site who are willing to provide care on short notice. Needs and offers are communicated informally via e-mail or face-to-face, and so are impromptu party invitations. Though I still have trouble picturing myself living here, there's a lot about it that appeals to me, and these aspects are probably the most appealing.

I've absorbed so much here at Daybreak that I almost wish the trip were broken up into four separate outings on four different days, to give me time to process everything I've seen. But Laura's description of the Garden Team is interrupted by a helpful resident who wants us to know the charter bus is boarding for our next destination: Peninsula Park Commons.

Cohousing Tour: Part One.

2011-06-05T23:47:00.001-07:00

Yesterday I went on a day-long guided tour of four of Portland's six established cohousing communities. In a sense, this was Stop Zero on my intentional community research project, so I took copious notes, which I intend to share with you over the next week or so. I'll devote a post to each of the communities I visited (Daybreak Cohousing, Peninsula Park Commons, Cascadia Commons, and Kailash Ecovillage), and also give you some highlights from the panel discussion we had with members from each of the six communities.

Cohousing is defined by the Cohousing Association of the United States, which organized this event, as "a type of collaborative housing in which residents actively participate in the design and operation of their own neighborhoods." All four of the communities we looked at were urban in design, and thus "dense" in the sense that all residences were apartments within larger buildings. They ranged from shiny new construction to slightly shabby rehabbed apartments, and from heavy membership involvement expectations to more of a laid-back approach.

We met in the common room of Daybreak Cohousing, a spacious multi-purpose area with lots of windows. Bagels, juice, and coffee were set out for us. The morning sunlight, which we've gone so long without around these parts, made the clean, warm colors of the walls glow.

Our guides introduced themselves: Terri and Kristin, Daybreak co-founders, and Ken, an early joiner of Cascadia Commons. Then the 35-odd folks here for the tour made their introductions. About half the group had carpooled all the way out from Boise, and some had come from farther afield, from Corbett to Ventura to Nashville, and an intrepid couple with a toddler who had come all the way from Australia. (I was intrigued to hear they were just winding up a tour of sustainable commmunities. More about them later, of course.)

Everyone there looked white and solidly middle-class, ranging in age from late 20s to 60s, with a ratio of roughly one single person for every couple. A lot of them were empty-nesters who were looking to retire into cohousing. I guessed that this group was a fair representation of local cohousing populations, and based on what I saw later, I wasn't too far off.

When asked why they had come, nearly every single attendee said s/he was there because of an interest in either beginning or joining a cohousing community. I think I was the only one who didn't state such an interest (I said I was doing research for a book on intentional communities, which led to some interesting conversations later). I kinda like the idea of cohousing -- it seems like a pretty decent lifestyle for those who can afford it -- but I don't feel a strong pull toward it. So I didn't go into this expecting to find my dream lifestyle, but I was still intensely curious about these communities and what makes them work.

The Post I Should've Written Months Ago.

2011-05-24T23:43:00.000-07:00

I've been sitting on these plans for over a year now. Got so comfortable with 'em under my bum that it feels weird to have 'em hatch and walk away chirping. But here they are (peep! peep!):

I quit my job. I'm still working, but my contract's up the end of June, and I'm not renewing it, and my employer knows that.

End of July, I'm leaving town. Renting the house out. Gonna travel the country by car and bus and train. Gonna visit some intentional communities (housing co-ops, ecovillages, organic farms, monasteries, boats) and see how people live there. Gonna have some adventures. Gonna write about my adventures.

I'd like the adventure-writing to eventually take the form of a book-shaped manuscript, and with a view to promoting such a manuscript, I'll be starting a second, more professional-looking blog in which to record said adventures.* I don't particularly want to conglomerate everything I've written here and the persona I'll be promoting there, so this one will remain distinct, scruffy and personal (and irregularly updated). For friends and e-stalkers only.

I have the roughest of timelines in mind: wandering the West Coast for the first several months, then heading eastward; visiting some places briefly, staying in others for a month or so to get something of a feel for life there. I envision the whole walkabout as lasting maybe two years. But it's all very flexible. I'm entirely willing to get sidetracked by interesting possibilities, and if I get sidetracked by less-interesting necessities, well, that is also an acceptable outcome. And if the book part doesn't happen, that's okay too. At least I'll have had some interesting adventures. Which is really the point. Or one of the points.

(peep!)

So I've been pretty busy lately, working out details of these plans, and also doing the apparently interminable work of downsizing, and also still working full-time and trying to take good care of myself and get in quality time with local friends while I still can. It feels like I'm trying to live in the future and the past and the present all at the same time, and giving all of them short shrift. That's what I've been up to, and it's also my excuse for not writing about this sooner, now that my employer knows and there's no reason to keep it under feathers anymore.

* I've been experiencing some inauspicious writer's block in coming up with a name for this travel blog, or even for the project as a whole. Your suggestions are welcomed.

The World Was Never Grayscale.

2011-04-04T22:55:00.001-07:00

When I was in college, some of my friends occasionally bought black and white film for their cameras. It made our pictures look ironically sentimental and remote, like it all happened such a very long time ago.

Nigh twenty years on, that irony has twisted around to bite its own tail.

Losing Everything: Two Stories.

2011-02-24T20:17:00.000-08:00

Last weekend I heard some amazing stories, all of them true. A couple of them had some striking parallels.

George Takei remembered standing at the front window of his home, watching soldiers coming up the driveway to take him and his family away. It was 1942, and he was five years old. Carrying only what they had hastily packed the night before, the family of five was transported to a "holding cell" (actually a stall in the stable of a racetrack) on their way to the first of a series of concentration camps, where he and his family spent the next five years of their lives.

Cora Smith* remembered wading in water up to her chest, clinging to her pregnant mother, as they tried to escape their flooded town in 1948. The single road out was jammed with vehicles. Cora, then a grade-schooler, was lifted onto the back of a Red Cross truck to be evacuated with a bunch of other children. It took three days for her mother to find her again.
* I am not certain I have remembered Cora's last name correctly; I apologize if I've gotten it wrong.

George's memory happened in Los Angeles. Cora's took place in Vanport City, which is now the Delta Park neighborhood of Portland, Oregon.

George's family home, his parents' dry cleaning business, and nearly all their possessions were lost to them forever. Their bank accounts were frozen. They were required to take a "loyalty questionnaire" containing trick questions that, when his parents refused to answer in a way that would compromise their character, got them sent to a squalid high-security camp. George recalled fleeing with his father from Jeeps full of armed soldiers who'd been sent out to deal with camp residents who dared to peacefully demonstrate against the camp's awful living conditions.

He and his family were incarcerated for five years due to Executive Order 9066, which relocated all Americans of Japanese descent to holding camps for the duration of World War II. All of them (except for those few who were later admited into military intelligence). That's 120,000 Americans, stripped of their possessions and locked up for years, guilty of no crime other than their ethnicity.

George told this story in his role as guest of honor on a panel entitled "Fighting for Civil Rights: The Japanese-American and LGBT Experience." Other members of the panel were Jeff Selby of Portland Japanese American Citizens League, Setsy Sadamoto Larouche of Oregon Nisei Veterans, Marty Davis of Just Out magazine, and Jessica Lee of Basic Rights Oregon. As a fixture of the original Star Trek series, he overshadowed the rest of the panel considerably; but even without the fame, he would've done this just by being George Takei. He carries himself with a striking air of nobility: incredibly gracious, handling even the most face-palmingly ridiculous questions from the audience with gentleness and respect, but he is clearly not a humble man. He knows the weight his words carry, and wields them accordingly.

Of course, George represented the other half of the panel's topic as well. He introduced the audience to his husband Brad Altman, whom (if I understood correctly) he has been with since the Star Trek days. George has been active in civil rights campaigns most of his adult life, and most recently in campaigning for marriage equality. Because he and Brad were married in California before the passage of Proposition 8, their marriage is recognized by the state of California, but it is not recognized by the federal government... which still denies them over 1000 benefits, rights, and privileges guaranteed to heterosexual married couples.

George's speech covered a lot of ground, but it had two main points. The first was the fragility of our civil liberties; it took one man's (FDR's) signature, he said, to put 120,000 Americans into concentration camps. The second was the necessity of "heroes," as he put it -- people who will put everything on the line to persistently and courageously defend those liberties for everyone. (As an example of the latter, he told us about Min Yasui, a lawyer from Hood River who tested the constitutionality of the curfew laws imposed on Japanese-Americans (before the internment) by walking around downtown Portland after dark, and finally turning himself in to the police for arrest. His case went all the way to the Supreme Court, which did not decide in his favor.)

* * * * *

When the floodwaters receded, Cora's mother went back to their home to see if any of their possessions could be salvaged, but it had already been scoured by thieves. The only item she was able to retrieve was her marriage certificate. Cora remembers a beautiful dollhouse she was given shortly before the flood, and her bitter disappointment when she learned she would never see it again. Cora and her mother were shuffled into a housing project with other flood refugees, and bounced around between projects for many years before they were finally able to buy a home of their own.

Cora told this story at an event put on by the Portland Housing Center called "Why Vanport Matters: From Displacement to Homeownership." It was also a story about civil rights, though the connection may not be as obvious.

Until 1926, Oregon's constitution contained laws designed to exclude African-Americans (and, to a lesser extent, other races) from the state. But the demand for labor in Portland and Vancouver shipyards during World War II brought a surge of workers from other parts of the country, including nearly ten times the state's previous African-American population. Most of these people, like Cora and her mother, were housed in a public housing development which had been hastily thrown together outside what were then the city limits. The dike that protected this development from the Columbia was clearly insufficient, and the known danger of flooding was downplayed by officials even on the very morning of the flood. Residents were assured they would be given ample time to evacuate, right up until the dike actually gave way.

After the flood, flimsy housing developments were thrown up in what is now North Portland. It was made clear to the predominantly black population who settled there that they were not welcome anywhere else. Even there, they were denied bank loans (PDF link), ignored or hassled by law enforcement, and discriminated against in multitudes of other unofficial, indirect ways. With the deck stacked against them, families like Cora's struggled to make a decent life for themselves. Many of them actually managed it. But if you know anything about Portland, you know what's happened to that part of town in the last 15 years. Those same families lost hard-earned homes to skyrocketing property values, as developers scooped up residences on the cheap and flipped them for ridiculous returns. The neighborhoods they built are theirs no longer, and their communities are scattered.

Cora's audience, many of whom knew of Vanport's legacy in a very personal way, wanted to know: but what can we do about this? At this point, the Portland Housing Center (an organization with the mission of helping people purchase their own home) stepped up to introduce a new program they're offering called Getting Your House in Order (PDF link). It's a "financial fitness course with a culturally and historically African American perspective." (One of the organizers assured me that everyone is welcome, regardless of race or income level.) This four-week course is designed to help people build a healthy relationship with money, something all sorts of Americans tend to have a tough time with. It starts in April, and it's free. And they'll feed you dinner. Not to name any names, but I know of at least one workshop covering a similar topic range that charges $100 per family and doesn't include dinner. So please, if you know anyone who might be interested in this opportunity, spread the word.

Things Superheroes Might Think About...

2011-02-20T21:23:00.000-08:00

...While Skulking Atop Buildings Waiting for the Opportune Moment to Sneak Across Highly Visible Passageways to the Tops of Other Buildings, Like, Say, a Gymnasium.

Wow, the sky's really pretty tonight. Is that a star? ...Nope. Airplane.
Geez, lady, how long does it take to get two kids into the car?
I wonder how long I can crouch like this before my leg completely stops working.
You can totally see why this roof leaks all the time. Whoever designed this building clearly had no concept of how rain works.
Maybe if I slide over here I can stand up without being seen... oh. Crap. There's people on that side of the building, too.
Don't all of you nice people want to go home and watch TV now?
How 'bout... now?
This is the worst flashlight. This is worse than no flashlight. I had no idea this flashlight was so terrible.
Are those air conditioning units? They get air conditioning here now? Daaang!
Are these people leaving in shifts, or what?
Okay, nose. I get it. It's cold. You can stop dripping now.
Wouldn't it be funny if I called ___ from up here? "Hey, ___, it's me! A Superhero! On top of the ___ building! Verbal high five!"
...Maybe that's not such a good idea.
I probably shouldn't sit on this rooftop; who knows what kind of gunk it might leave on my superhero costume.
Are they still standing there talking? Holy crap. They're still standing there talking.
Screw it, I'm sitting down.
Is that Mt. Tabor? Wait, no, Mt. Tabor's that way. Which one is that then?
Uhhh...
Why do I still not know the names of all the buttes in this part of town?
I really hope whoever's cleaning this building right now can't hear me sneaking around up here, because if I was them, that would totally weird me out.
Aaand more people in the parking lot. Does this place ever shut down?
Aww, those ol' trees. Why are those trees so amazing. Seriously, they're like... ptschhh! Art! Wow.
Actually, they probably grow that way because they're straining for sunlight between two buildings.
Still, though! So awesome.
Hey, I can totally see in the window of this other building! Which... has... an awful lot of people in it.
Who are all also presumably going home at some point.
Erg.
No way am I sitting up here all night. I got places to go, supervillains to catch.
Also, my nose is still dripping.
Is the coast clear? Let's say the coast is clear. Who's gonna be looking this way anyway, right?

Note: This list is purely theoretical in nature, and has absolutely nothing to do with the previous post.

On Ghosts, and the Haunting of College Campuses.

2011-02-17T00:42:00.002-08:00

This evening, for the first time since it closed for good, I returned to The Campus Formerly Known As Cascade College. My current employer is renting space there for commuter classes. Sooner or later, it was inevitable that I would get invited over there to teach a room full of students how to use their library's electronic resources....

I've written before about my alma mater and former employer, and the diversely intense emotions I have toward that now-extinct institution. I've been avoiding the place, to be honest; the good memories and the bad are painful in different ways. But now my number was up: time to go back. I could've pawned this responsibility off on someone else from my department, but no, that seemed wrong somehow. No use trying to escape the inescapable; might as well get it over with. I recently spoke to a fellow Cascade alumna who had a similar experience, going back to teach a class there last year. She told me she cried. I wondered if I would, too.

"We meet in S207," the instructor chirped over the phone, "the very newest classroom in the building! You just go right up the stairs by the entrance, and it's the first door on the right."

First door on the right. The back door into the library, leading into a musty little room full of periodical stacks, with a couple of cubicle-sized offices at the back, one of which I occupied for nearly a decade. Yes, I know that door.

It's been a heck of a week, even without this, a week that has demanded pretty much all I had to give. So when the time to get myself over there drew near, I was fighting weariness and panic at once. I prefer it when they fight each other, so I left just late enough that I had to zoom to get there on time. No time to think! Find a place to put the car and get yourself in there!

It wasn't that door, after all; it was the next one over, the segment of the library that held the Curriculum Lab for the last few years of its existence. And I didn't cry. I told the students I was a little disoriented because I used to work there, but now the room was completely different and the doors had changed walls (once I pointed this out, they noticed the old doorways in the cinderblock). I didn't tell them it made me feel like the ghost in my first NaNoWriMo novel. I told them that, before the room was part of a library, it was part of a men's dorm ("If these walls could talk... we definitely wouldn't want to hear the stories, har har").

I gave my presentation with the spotless new screen and the bright new projector, and then I left, and I walked around the building looking in doors. The old IT office had mirrored glass, so I couldn't see inside. The computer lab was still there, but the door was closed, so I don't know if it still smells the same. I could see one more classroom in the former library (the Reference room, that once had study tables with drawers everyone signed on the sly). A couple of classrooms were open downstairs, too, all with extra-bright fluorescent lighting and stark white-painted cinderblock.

I went out into the courtyard, which has a new paved area, benches, and of course that weird fountain-henge-thing. It was dark, and pouring rain. The old Student Center was dim and mostly empty, with a couple of tables (pool? ping-pong?) along the walls. I know it was remodeled long before the school closed, but part of me was still sort of puzzled that it wasn't the old brick cavern I remember. Memories in this place have such thin strata that it's hard to look at any one thing without thinking of several other things it's been.

There were adolescent boys doing basketball drills in the gym lobby. This made me grin; the echoing slam and screech and the sweaty reek of the gym never change. I sort of wanted someone to ask, Excuse me, are you lost? so I could reply, Oh, no, I know exactly where I am. But no one did.

Heading back toward the parking lot, I looked up to see lights on in the room over the gym entrance, in that weird leaky room where most of the library stacks used to live. I tiptoed up the fire escape to peek in the window and saw... beds!? And one of the beds had someone sitting straight up in it with an alarmed expression! Oops! I started to beat a hasty retreat before realizing it was a CPR dummy. Shuffling over to peer toward the other side of the room, I caught a glimpse of a student at a desk. Not wanting to alarm any real people, I ceased my surveillance and continued toward the parking lot.

But right there at the edge of the parking lot was scaffolding. Scaffolding that, even though the bottom segment had been removed for the night, even though it was still raining, even though I was wearing nice work clothes and a skirt... would've been a cinch to climb. And I've never been on top of the Ad Building!

I stood there for quite some time thinking about this. What a great story this would make! I thought. I will probably never get another chance! If it hadn't been for the cars still arriving in the parking lot, and the scaffolding's prominent and well-lit location, I might not have been able to talk myself out of it. If I hadn't been there in a professional capacity, I might not have bothered to talk myself out of it. But it was and I was and I did. Talk myself out of it, I mean.

In that moment, though, I fell into a memory hole, right back down through the strata to a time when Sanders Hall was the Ad Building, and things were meant to be climbed. And I left the campus in a pretty good mood, after all.

How Much Do I Spend on My Car?

2011-02-07T21:32:00.003-08:00

As you may be aware, I've been interested in the simplicity/minimalist/low impact lifestyle movement(s) for a while now. These folks, as you might guess, tend to be really down on automobiles. Aside from the obvious stuff about environmental impact, they point at crazy-big numbers that the average American spends on cars: $8604? $9519?!

I've always scoffed (with insufferable smugness!) at numbers like these, especially now that I live close enough to my workplace to commute on foot. My car is, as of this year, old enough to take into bars with me, so it's all paid for, and insurance is cheap. I tend to stick to my own corner of town, and my occasional road trips rarely take me more than 3 hours away. But recently, as I contemplated cleaning out my filebox to make room for 2011's paperwork, I started wondering exactly how much my car does cost me.

So I added it all up. Here's what I spent on my car in 2010:

689.36	repairs/maintenance
512.00	fuel (approximately)
383.40	insurance
72.00	half of biennial tags/DEQ fees
57.00	AAA membership
1713.83	total auto expenses in 2010

That's nowhere near the national average... but it's definitely more than I was expecting, given how rarely I've been driving of late. I mean, what's up with that repair bill? Well, Baby needed transmission work (always pricey), as well as a new wiper motor. But surely that's not typical? I mean, my car's a nice sturdy Volvo, and it's in remarkably good repair for its age!

I dug back through the archives to figure out what "typical" looks like. Not counting the year I got the car (2004), my average annual output for parts and repair is... $510.68.

Huh. Would not have guessed that. It hasn't been very painful, partly because the money has been there when I needed it, partly because I usually fix my car before it breaks down, and partly because my mechanics are such a pleasure to do business with (seriously, I love those guys). But apparently, if I ever do that "budgeting" thing people talk about, I should be planning to spend over $500/year for auto repair. Good to know.

At my current income-to-expense ratio, $1700 per year ($142 per month) is really not a big deal. But if this is an indicator of the least-expensive end of car ownership,* well, that's still a chunk of cash, isn't it?

* Barring doing your own repairs, of course, which I'm just not about to tackle anytime soon.

Three for the New Year.

2011-02-03T21:51:00.001-08:00

Some comics for your 3rd:

Still wondering, actually.

Maybe I was, though. Hard to say!

Sometimes I just need to waste some time before I can get anything done.

It's the Year of the Rabbit now, though, for reals. Gung hay fat choy! The intermission between New Year celebrations is over; time to get on with the show. The days are finally getting longer and we've even got a touch of Fake Spring around these parts. 2011 is drumming its fingers on my doorframe, sneaking glimpses at its pocketwatch: Are you ready yet? We've got so many things to do.

2010 in Movies, and Some Books I Forgot.

2011-01-31T22:06:00.002-08:00

I found some more books I read last year! My record-keeping has been terrible, apparently. (I wonder if I left anything else out...?) Below the Forgotten Books of 2010 list, I'm also including a very short list of the very few movies I saw in 2010.

M is for Magic by Neil Gaiman (3)
A kid-friendly short story collection. See previous comments on Gaiman's writing: this is more of the same. (It's probably a good thing I haven't read anything by this guy since early 2010; apparently I'm getting jaded.)

Work is Love Made Visible: Collected Family Photographs and Poetry by Jeanetta Calhoun Mish (4)
I don't often pick up a book of poetry and read the whole thing, but last year I had the opportunity to join a panel of judges for a writing award, and this one was a shoo-in for the winner. (There wasn't much competition in the poetry category, but even with more, it would've done well.) This is matter-of-fact poetry, unpretentious and effective. The writing captures moments from Mish's own life and personalities from her family history in a way that lets you see dirt under nails and creases around mouths.

The Butcher and the Vegetarian: One Woman's Romp Through a World of Men, Meat, and Moral Crisis by Tara Austen Weaver (4)
One of your favorite bloggers publishes a book and comes to Powell's to sign it for you; of course you buy a copy, and (eventually) read it too. Weaver's book traces her quest for better health all the way to the butcher shop, a terrifying destination for a lifelong vegetarian. I sympathized with her struggle to feel better, and appreciated her insights on responsibly raised meat.

Whirlwind Wonderland by Rina Ayuyang (3)
A collection of Ayuyang's short comics about the events of her life, from traffic jams and favorite TV shows to visits to family in the Philippines. She's not a spectacular storyteller, but I liked the genuineness and everyday-ness of her work, especially because much of her everyday-ness is so different from mine.

What It Is by Lynda Barry (5)
Part memoir, part meditation on creativity and the self, part instruction manual for writing exercises (I should really do some of those writing exercises...), all done in a combination of comics and collage that spills and sprawls all over the page. This decidedly weird book made me a Lynda Barry fan, but ever since reading the louse story I suspected I would be.

And now for the movies:

The Karate Kid (1984) (4)
No, I'd never seen it before. It totally lived up to the hype.

Up (2009) (3.5)
I'm not a mad Pixar fan like the rest of the planet - they know exactly where my buttons are and have no compunction about hammering on them, which tends to leave me feeling emotionally violated. Still, in the main, I enjoyed this. Especially Kevin.

Scott Pilgrim vs. the World (2010) (4)
Relentlessly entertaining, and a better translation of book-to-screen than I would've believed possible, given that there were 5 books and less than 2 hours of screen time to work with.

Avatar: The Last Airbender, Season 1 (2005) (5)
Y'know, all the raves about this show? Are not exaggerating. It is really, really, really good. I need to get my hands on the other seasons this year. (I didn't, and won't, see the movie.)

The Work of Director Michel Gondry (2003) (4)
Music videos, short films, and commercials, ranging from the beautiful to the disgusting. Like a series of windows into the crowded head of a completely charming, utterly odd man.

The Iron Giant (1999) (4)
Yes, I've seen this one before. And yes, it's still a great flick (and so pretty!), though I find the heavy-handed portrayal of the military annoys me more than it used to.

Wit (2001) (2)
A middle-aged Lit professor (Emma Thompson) dies, alone, of cancer. Probably a great stage play, but a completely depressing movie, especially if you don't know what you're getting into (and I didn't).

Reel Injun (2009) (4)
Great documentary of the portrayal of Native Americans in cinema over the past century. Lots to learn here, for sure, and left me wanting to see some flicks made by Native Americans for once.

The Road Home (2001) (3.5)
Chinese film, nesting the story of a young couple in love within a story about the burial of a husband and father. Beautifully done.

(Yep, that's really all the movies I watched last year. There's no additional forgotten cache of films to tack on in a later post. Some years are movie-watching years, but 2010 just wasn't one, for me.)

2010 in Books.

2011-01-14T23:22:00.012-08:00

I read some books in 2010, and here is an annotated list of them, or at least all of them I remembered to write down. This time I'm separating nonfiction from fiction, just because; but I'm not separating comics/graphic novels from books-without-many-pictures, also just because. Numerical ratings appear in parentheses after the author's name, corresponding to the following:

(1) - I hated it. *
(2) - I'm not sure I liked it.
(3) - I definitely liked it.
(4) - I straight-up loved it.
(5) - It crawled inside my head and moved things around, or burrowed inside my heart and made a little nest there.

* This is only a list of books I actually finished reading, so none of them got the (1) rating. If I were including unfinished books, I would certainly give it to M. John Harrison's Viriconium. I barely made it through the first story in this fantasy/sci-fi collection. It was a heavy, humorless, and interminable tale of war-wearied men doing manly deeds of manliness in <Mr. Voice> a time of war </Mr. Voice>, and wearily philosophizing about it all in a manly fashion. Harrison's good with words, but the tedium, I can't even describe it (this from a huge LOTR fan), and let's not even talk about how he deals with the female "characters." Anyway, enough of that; on to the good stuff!

Non-Fiction

The Irresistible Revolution: Living as an Ordinary Radical by Shane Claiborne (5)
Claiborne isn't the world's greatest writer, but he lays out his proposition with clarity, humility, and humor: we urgently need to reconsider how we do this whole Christianity thing, because we're really messing it up. He has made his own life the laboratory for doing it differently (waaaay differently), so his words have a little more weight than the typical writer of such themes. His account of life in an inner-city intentional community planted seeds in my brain that are currently sprouting some weird-lookin' leaves.

The Artist in the Office: How to Creatively Survive and Thrive Seven Days a Week by Summer Pierre (3)
A nice book, full of nice ideas. I enjoyed looking at it, but I wasn't really the target audience.

Let's Talk About Love: A Journey to the End of Taste by Carl Wilson (5)
Wilson is a music critic, and like most music critics, he hates Celine Dion. More than most music critics, in fact, because he's from Quebec, where they never shut up about her. So he forces himself to listen to her music over, and over, and over, and interview her fans, and take her work seriously in an attempt to understand the appeal. And in the process, he has to reconsider all of his music-snob presuppositions about artistic taste and its value and function. This was a book I needed to read, and I'm glad I found it when I did.

Acedia and Me: A Marriage, Monks, and a Writer's Life by Kathleen Norris (5)
This book explained me to myself, on a level that I am not entirely comfortable explicating on a blog.

The House That Jill Built: A Woman's Guide to Home Building by Judy Ostrow (3)
This book was mostly success stories of the sort which suggest it should've been subtitled "A Guide to Home Building for Women with Lots of Money and/or Relevant Experience." Nice for them. The one exception was the profile of a woman who built her house with the help of Habitat for Humanity's Women Build program, which was a good thing to learn about. (One of these days, I'm actually going to volunteer with them.)

Fiction

The Arrow Over the Door by Joseph Bruchac (4)
Children of the Longhouse by Joseph Bruchac (4)
Children's historical fiction about Native Americans that, for once, is written by a Native American. (More of those here.) The first involves a real historical encounter between members of the Abenaki tribe and a fellowship of Quakers, and the second takes place pre-contact, meaning it is a story that takes place entirely outside the circle of European influence - not something easy to find on any English-language bookshelf. Bruchac's quite a good writer, and I thought enough of these to put them in the hands of my little brother (who is going to figure out one of these days that he, being of Mexican descent, is also therefore descended from Native Americans).

Sandman: Endless Nights by Neil Gaiman (4)
Odd and the Frost Giants by Neil Gaiman (3)
Anansi Boys by Neil Gaiman (audiobook) (3.5)
I can't call Gaiman a one-trick pony - he changes up genres and mediums constantly - but there is a curious sameness to much of his work for me, a sense that I've been here before. Still, his "here" is not necessarily a bad place to be, and there is comfort in the familiar. Endless Nights is an anthology of short stories set in the Sandman universe, each illustrated by a different artist. Unlike the original series, all of the art is brilliant; I honestly don't remember much else about the book at this point. Odd and the Frost Giants is kid lit, Gaiman riffing off the old Norse myths, not bad, nothing special. Anansi Boys would've been a mediocre read, I suspect, but its entertainment value was greatly enhanced by actor Lenny Henry's voice(s). If you've been meaning to read it, skip the dead tree and go directly to the MP3.

Epileptic by David B (4)
A heavy (in both senses of the word) graphic novel by a Frenchman about how his brother's ailments affected his childhood and the man he became. Not a feel-good family tale; David B recklessly explores the darkness in his own heart, and the ending is hardly cheerful. A fascinatingly honest autobiography that uses images in remarkably inventive ways.

Fables: vol. 1-5 by Bill Willingham (4)
Fables: vol. 6-11 by Bill Willingham (2)
An ongoing comics series, collected volumes 1-11 form the first big "story arc" of Fables. (I borrowed them from a friend in two batches, thus the division above.) It showed so much promise at the beginning - genuinely witty storytelling - but then devolved into a really tedious, lengthy finale in which the plot devolves into an illustrated list of creative battle strategies. Oh, and the whole exoticized Arabian Nights thing (can we move past those stereotypes yet, please?), paired with the blatant "We're heroic underdogs, just like Israel is in the Middle East!" was really, really icky.

Finder v.3: Talisman by Carla Speed McNeil (4)
Finder v.7: The Rescuers by Carla Speed McNeil (2)
Finder is an indie series of sci-fi graphic novels. Talisman follows a little girl who obsesses over a lost book, and while the setting is techno-dystopian, the theme is autobiographical. Beautifully told, and rings poignantly true to a bibliophile like myself. The Rescuers is equally meticulously illustrated, but the story is confusing (partly because too much is implied rather than explained, partly because of layout choices), and also gets into some iffy territory regarding the tropes it uses to portray an aboriginal race.

Magic for Beginners by Kelly Link (3.5)
I think there was one story in this anthology that I really, really liked. Maybe it was the one with the handbag that contained, depending how you opened it, a fairy-tale village, a dimension containing nothing but a hungry demonic dog, and a handbag's standard interior (which you can read online). Or maybe the one about the teenagers who are simultaneously the subject of, and obsessing over, a mysterious TV show (which, hey, you can also read online). Anyway, Link's stories are always odd, usually disconcertingly so, if not outright bewildering: in a Link anthology, the rules of reality are as flexible as those of Calvinball.

Jimmy Corrigan, The Smartest Kid on Earth by Chris Ware (3)
I only read this oddly-shaped graphic novel because a friend begged me to (Note: This normally doesn't work, but there were Circumstances). I'd already read a portion of it and knew what I was in for: nobody does bleak quite like Chris Ware. His bleak is the bleakest bleak, a bleakness only alleviated by occasional darkness which tapers off into bleakness again, or an occasional glimpse of hope which is inevitably denied. Yet Ware's genius is undeniable, both as artist and storyteller, so reading this was certainly not a waste of time... just, y'know, a major bummer.

Scott Pilgrim's Finest Hour (v.6) by Bryan Lee O'Malley (3.5)
I'd been waiting a long, long time for this book. It wrapped the graphic novel series up in a manner I found satisfying, but not outstanding, and my memory of it was eclipsed shortly thereafter by the movie, so I don't have much to say about it right now.

The True Deceiver by Tove Jansson (4)
Tove Jansson's Moomin books were the #1 literary faves of my childhood, so when one of her several adult stories finally gets translated from Swedish into English, I get pretty excited. This is a very strange little book, understated, wintry, with complex, difficult characters that are hard to like but easy to visualize. There are plenty of books on this list that I enjoyed and promptly forgot. This one I wasn't sure I loved while reading it, but long afterward it lingers, starkly beautiful, in the mind's eye.

Cloud Atlas by David Mitchell (3)
This book was a Big Deal when it came out a couple years ago. It's built around a clever literary trick, a series of interlinked stories that nest like Matryoshka dolls, but the stories involved are mostly not all that great. I frequently became impatient with their weaknesses, particularly the one written in an imagined far-future Hawaiian pidgin that only served to reveal that the author had no familiarity with actual Hawaiian pidgin. Still, I have to admit it's impressive that the trick works at all.

The Lost Conspiracy by Frances Hardinge (2.5)
I just couldn't get into this YA fantasy. I wanted to, and it had some cool bits (like the secret tribe of people who were supposed to be dead, and had sworn their lives to revenge; I really liked them). But it didn't swoop me away like I wanted to be swooped. Also, the way it handled dicey topics like colonization and genocide just seemed a little glib to me.

The Line Between: Stories by Peter S. Beagle (3.5)
I've had a great deal of affection for Beagle's work ever since that one day in grad school when, after weeks of trudging through abominably written textbooks, I picked up a copy of Folk of the Air and not five minutes later was stabbing my finger in the air and yelling to an empty dorm room, "See? See?! That is how you compose a sentence!" As per usual with Beagle, I found the writing in this fantasy collection to be delicious, the characters masterfully drawn, the stories themselves... not tremendously satisfying.

Favorite Father Brown Stories by G. K. Chesterton (3.5)
An assortment of comical mysteries (not comics!), cleverly composed and fully aware of their own cleverness. I love Chesterton's enthusiasm and his playful wit, but these stories fall into that dangerous stylistic gap between outright fantasy and realism that just does not make sense. Still, I'd read more.

The Arrival by Shaun Tan (4.5)
Gorgeous, gorgeous wordless picture book about the experience of an immigrant coming to a new land. The land, its alphabet, its flora, fauna, and customs are all completely invented, and thus communicate the feeling of drowning in a sea of foreignness very effectively. One of those books that doesn't take long to "read", but rewards hours of attention to all the details. If I had to recommend one book on this list to everybody unequivocally, The Arrival would be it.

Tulku by Peter Dickinson (4)
Historical fiction (young adult, I guess) about the son of a missionary from the US who survives the Boxer Rebellion by escaping to Tibet and taking refuge in a Buddhist monastery. It's a complex story, with difficult, memorable characters and an even more difficult clash of cultures and religions, but Dickinson is up for the challenge, and from where I sit (with admittedly limited understanding of all the historical and cultural factors involved), it looks like he handles it admirably.

Guinea Pig, Pet Shop Private Eye v.2: And Then There Were Gnomes by Colleen Venable (4)
Mini-graphic novel for kids. I used to raise guinea pigs, so I have a weakness for the heroine (who is, unlike real guinea pigs, smarter than mice), as well as for the dorky, grade-school humor of the book. I gotta get the other books in the series... uh, so I can give them to my little brother. Yeah, that's it.

The Baby-Sitters Club: vols. 1-4 by Raina Telgemeier and Ann M. Martin (3.5)
Bought these graphic novel versions of the popular series for my pre-adolescent niece. The grand irony here is that when I was in the target age group for the original BSC books, at the height of their popularity, I wouldn't touch them... or with anything else that seemed to be about modern reality (particularly someone else's idea of what my modern reality ought to be like). If it didn't have dragons or tiny people or portals into magic realms or at least was about something that happened in a far-off land, preferably a really long time ago, then I wanted no part of it. If these graphic novel versions had been available, though, I might've actually given them a go. Telgemeier's a long-time fan and heavily loyal to the original text; her lively drawings add depth and subtlety to the characters and their interactions. 1987-Lindsey may or may not have dug these, but 2010-Lindsey genuinely enjoyed them. And my niece lost no time in devouring them.

Chiggers by Hope Larson (3.5)
Larson's husband may have struck pop-culture gold with Scott Pilgrim, but she's miles ahead of him as both an artist and storyteller. Chiggers is a YA graphic novel about adolescent girls at summer camp, with all the typical complexities and reversals involved in their relationships. An entirely believable tale, beautifully drawn, subtly and honestly told. The aspiring-geek tendencies of the protagonist made for yummy icing on the cake; her shy admiration of D&D gamers, her fantasies of herself and her crush as elven royalty... that was totally me.

Castle Waiting v.1 by Linda Medley (5)
Castle Waiting v.2 by Linda Medley (4.5)
My sister once said her favorite kind of movie was "the kind where people mostly just sit around talking the whole time." I had to admit she was on to something. Though not without action, comic book series Castle Waiting's best parts are the conversations its characters have, and the stories they share with one another. The setting is a land of fairy tales, but the characters aren't the usual suspects, they're the barely-mentioned people in the background (Sleeping Beauty's ladies in waiting, the wife and child of the beanstalk giant, etc.). I adore so many things about this series: Medley's precise yet lively line art, her unhurried pacing, her wry sense of humor. Vol. 1 was a re-read of an old fave in preparation for Vol. 2, but though Vol. 2 was full of great story, it's clear that something went terribly awry along the road to publication. After the first chapter, the lettering changes jarringly in both size and style, while through the course of the book the page layouts become dramatically simpler, the drawings larger and less detailed. There is no proper title or copyright page, and Medley's name appears nowhere on the volume except on a barcode sticker. Neither Medley nor publisher Fantagraphics are talking about it, but this doesn't bode well for the future of the series.

Another Year Bites the Dust.

2010-12-31T23:31:00.001-08:00

So this is it, this is my last chance to write a post in 2010, a year of not writing so many posts. 25 posts: that is not very many (though a significant improvement over the 13 I wrote in 2009). I was thinking just the other day that I've kind of forgotten how to write a blog post. In the Venn Diagram of my life and interesting blog post material, do the two circles even overlap at all? What exactly is contained in their intersection?

That's a cop-out, of course. This is a blog for friends. My blogging friends could put pretty much anything on their blogs and I would read it (or at least skim it for juicy bits, if it was really tedious). It is pretty safe to assume that my blog-reading friends have a similar tolerance level. I mean, if you're still reading this, isn't that proof I'm right?

I went out with friends for a bit this evening, although I went home long before midnight (I'm fighting off a cold, and therefore have a lowered tolerance for human interaction). Even as I was reaching the point where polite conversation was a strain, I was struck (as I often am) by how lucky I am to have so many kind, interesting, and downright odd people in my life.

We raised our glasses, friends and strangers around the table, and we drank to the best year of our lives. I liked that toast, its hopeful ambiguity, its weaselly superlative. Maybe it will be the best! But if not, maybe the best one is still to come, out there on the hazy horizon.

To tell the truth, I feel out of sync with the planet again, like last year, like the year before: the end of the calendar year just doesn't feel like an endpoint to me. It feels like I'm still very much in the middle of things. Someone asked me about my goals for 2011, someone else asked about resolutions, but I got nothin'. I've got plans, sure, but I'm not about to restrict them to 2011. (Plans. I should blog about my plans. But no, it is not quite time for that yet, either.) So no new leaves for me, right now. No abrupt lifestyle changes, no vices relinquished. There will be a time for these things, but right now I'm pretty much just gonna keep on doing what I'm doing.

To those of you starting new things, or stopping old things: I salute you. And to all of you kind, interesting, and downright odd people who make life better for me in so many ways: Happy new year.

Wandering Around, With Photos.

2010-10-30T19:51:00.004-07:00

Yesterday I had occasion to be out in Corbett, an itty-bitty town up the Gorge. I was at Menucha Conference Center, and I had a bit of free time on my hands.

So I went exploring, lured by the promise of walking trails and spectacular views, and by the glint of sunlight on damp leaves.

They weren't kidding about the views, that's for sure.

Though the river was mostly hidden behind a generous curtain of trees, this was the view from the swimming pool. The pool itself was also spectacular:

Not so much in the "wanna dive in!" sense as in: Wow that's green.

Not far from the emerald pool was a giant stone hearth. It has clearly been far too long since someone set up a blaze here:

You could definitely cook some stuff in that thing. If you click to see the photo larger, you might notice the inexplicable initials inside: J M. It's obvious that stories are piled up here, thick and musty as the dead leaves.

Menucha also has a really nice labyrinth, made of brick and stone and moss and pebbly mosaic:

The plastic jugs had candles in them, stabilized by sand.

Walking the labyrinth is probably my favorite form of meditation. The twists and turns made me think of the unexpected nature of living life in a chronologically linear fashion, and how sometimes, when it looks like you are moving away from the goal, you are actually moving toward it.

But the rich smell of damp leaf mold and sweet evergreen lured me deeper into the woods, past all the interesting things made of concrete and rocks. I picked a trail and a direction, and started walking.

I didn't know where I was going. I had a rough trail map, and a vague idea that most of the trails went in a circle, but I didn't really know where I was... and that was the best feeling. My favorite dreams are like this, where I'm in an interesting place and I'm exploring it, with no sense of urgency, discovering curious new things at every turn.

There were a lot of things to discover, here.

I was sort of obsessed with all the moss, and took way too many macro shots of it. Here is the best one:

The ferns were amazing, too. I was trying to get a really good shot of the ferns from the underside, like from the perspective of a little forest creature looking up through them, when I was distracted by the sound of someone picking their way down the bank. I was annoyed -- I was enjoying the solitude and didn't want to shift back into polite banter mode -- but when I looked up, I froze. It was a mule deer, about to take a shortcut across the path. It saw me and it, too, paused.

I tried to sneak in a sneaky photo, without moving or looking away, just hoping I had the deer in the shot. Flash! ...oops.

Instead of bolting, though, the deer walked a few paces back (off to the right, still in the frame of this shot) and stopped moving, still nearly in full view.

Ah. Excuse me. I walked softly away, and so (I saw, glancing nonchalantly back over my shoulder) did the deer.

I followed a narrow side trail, which began wobbling down a hillside toward the sound of rushing water. I began to get excited about this stream, and about taking pictures of it. But the mud was getting muddier and muddier, and I wasn't wearing mud-friendly shoes. So when I reached a particularly swampy stretch of path, closely flanked by tall drippy weeds and blocked by a substantial spiderweb, I turned back... but not before looking up.

The weather has been all wrong for autumn color this year, but a few trees managed to represent anyway. The gold-on-blue is so heraldic, I think. Giving up short of a goal is always disappointing, but the golden tree made it feel like a triumphant moment: I came this far! And I knew when it was time to turn back! Huzzah!

Revenge of Camp Stories: Postscript.

2010-08-21T01:19:00.002-07:00

My search for a YouTube video of the song I referenced in the previous post developed into an obsessive google-quest. I believe it was first taught at Wisconsin Christian Youth Camp about five years ago, in Whompy and Bethany's singing class, and I always assumed the title was "He is Wonderful." The piece, as sung by these mostly white Midwesterners, is neo-baroque: square and crisply choral, one of the few songs that almost never lags at WCYC. It's all over YouTube, but most of the recordings don't sound at all like what those campers were singing. The closest approximation I could find was filmed in Samoa, which is not so strange when you consider that the song was probably brought over by a missionary from the Midwest.

But most of those YouTube videos are performed by African-American choirs at a far more relaxed tempo, with a swing and a sway, and with bits I didn't even recognize. I was curious: did this song originate with a white church and later get an infusion of soul? Or did it come from the gospel music tradition and get ironed and starched by European-Americans? Well, after lots and lots of googling, I found my answer in the original 1985 recording. (The singing starts in about 3:45, but if you skip the music of that preacher's voice, I'm telling you, you're missing out.)

The writer is A. Jeffrey LaValley, who was actually born not far from WCYC, in Milwaukee. He's the minister of music at the New Jerusalem Full Gospel Baptist Church in Flint, Michigan. The song is titled "Revelation 19:1," and it was "chosen as the entrant for the Papal Celebration at the Vatican in June, 2006" (source is PDF). I don't know whether that means it was performed or just submitted, but if it was actually sung at the Vatican, that must have been amazing. If you're interested in other performances of the piece from around the world, I found the YouTube links on this page to be of better quality than the ones Google gave me.

* * *

So what exactly did that epiphany mean to me, there at that last devo? Or more to the point, what does it mean now and for the future?

Well, it doesn't mean I'm necessarily going back next year. Jury's still out on that one, but there's a good likelihood I'll be busy with other things at that time.

And it doesn't mean my dilemmas are resolved, not by any means. In fact, they'd only be resolved if I had decided not to return. Because the other way of resolving them, by just blindly accepting what is being taught without measuring it against my own experience and understanding, is no longer an option.

It also doesn't mean that I'll be returning with a mission to rock the boat. I won't be standing up on the cafeteria table to proclaim, "Jesus drank alcohol!" or whispering to campers that perhaps some of these praise songs might sound better with guitars and drums, heheheh.

It means that when I go back, I need to be on my toes, looking for appropriate opportunities to share my perspective, even at times I'm not sure it will be heard. It means that I need to view my work with these folks as collaboration, even when our approaches seem to be in conflict. It means that sometimes when things are done in a way that I disagree with, I'll have to just let it go, knowing that the outcome is in God's hands, not ours. It means that I will need to accept that there are things I too will mess up, and be okay with this, knowing that messing things up is what people do. And then, of course, I will have to do what I can to make them right.

(I really think that last part is the clincher. I'm a perfectionist; I will do almost anything to avoid messing things up, doing things the wrong way, saying the wrong thing. I really need to get over that. It has cost me a lot of opportunities for speech and action.)

When typing up this journal, I debated whether to use the phrase "working at cross purposes" to describe what I feared I was doing at WCYC, because its potential double meaning was exactly the opposite of what I intended. But no other phrase seemed to quite fit. The mental image I had was of two objects colliding with each other while headed in completely different directions. Or a bunch of parallel lines, and then one line coming in out of left field and intersecting them all at some crazy angle. Or that politically divergent couple who cancel out each other's vote at the ballot box. If I'm going around trying to fix what you're doing, and you're going around trying to fix what I'm doing, then not a whole lot is going to get done, was my thinking.

But I'm reclaiming that entendre now. I'm currently operating on the theory that working at cross purposes with other believers may, if done in love, not be as contrary to cross purposes as it might seem.

* * *

There's so much I left out of this journal. I didn't tell you about how I was three days in before Toto's "Africa" stopped running through my head nonstop. I didn't tell you about the cabin devotionals, or about what I shared during our second round of confessions. I didn't tell you about how the camper I was afraid I'd have trouble with, aside from a couple of mildly abrasive encounters, never actually caused any trouble. Out of respect for their privacy, I didn't tell you much at all about the campers, which means you didn't get a lot of class and cabin narrative. And out of respect for my readers' sensibilities, I didn't talk about my digestive system nearly as much as I might have, or even mention the no-soap experiment.

I left out the conversation I had with Shane right after being "healed of leprosy." I didn't say whether the devo talks got better as the session progressed (answer: not as much as I would have liked), or about taking a teacher and board member aside to tell him about how it seemed to me there was a lot of talk of sin this year at the expense of spiritual growth (he hadn't noticed until I brought it up, but now that I mentioned it...).

And I didn't tell you about my ride back to Chicago or the time I spent with Mitch, teaching her friends to play Monster Cards, wading in Lake Michigan, scouring the comic shops for a copy of Scott Pilgrim v.6, and watching video footage of ourselves in 1995 (we were sooo cute!).

But I managed to cram in an awful lot, and if you've actually read all two weeks' worth, bravo! That was a lot of words. Thank you for reading them.

Revenge of Camp Stories: Friday, July 30.

2010-08-20T00:51:00.003-07:00

Again with the doom-and-gloom in Rabbi's Meeting this morning about this post-modern generation and their lack of objectivity. I finally speak up: I hear what you're saying, but I have a lot of faith in this generation as the future of the church. They're going to get a lot of things wrong, but they're going to get a lot of things right, and I'm excited about that.

The naysayers are polite, but unrelenting in their disapproval of Christian kids these days: sure, they're very spiritual, but they're lacking in self-discipline and conviction and focus and... I forget what-all, but I've heard all this before from baby-boomer Christians, and I have very little patience with it. There is always reason to despair. There is always reason to hope. And I am certain that these teachers' parents had similar rants about their children's generation.

Then Roger the Cowboy says, Well, I came to an objective decision about my faith when I was young, and then the spirituality came later. But maybe these young people have to do things in a different order. Maybe they have to get to where they're going on a different horse. I don't know that horse, so it's hard for me to trust it, but it may get them there all the same.

I appreciate this, but as I move on to the Bible class I'm teaching, that unanswered question from last week writhes in my gut: Do I even belong here anymore? Am I working at cross purposes with these people? Or are we just presenting two sides of the same coin?

I do not hesitate to identify myself as a post-modern woman with a post-modern faith. I believe it's possible for an action to be sinful for one person or situation, and yet to be completely innocuous for another. I'm convinced it's a waste of effort to try and convince people that alcohol, cigarettes, and coarse language are to be avoided by everyone at all costs. I believe it's far more important to be earnestly seeking God than it is to follow all the rules. I believe that, as a means of encountering your environment and experiences, feelings are just as valid as objectivity and logic, and to omit one of those is as dangerous as the other. I believe the Bible is a document that comes to us from a specific culture and period in history, and that fact has to be taken into account when applying it to our lives (and, more significantly, the lives of other people). It seems to me that, if all your friends believe the same things you do, it's time to make some new friends. I believe God is love, and that in Christ, we are free indeed. And I believe in admitting I could be wrong about even the beliefs I hold most dear. That doesn't mean I believe in them any less.

It feels good to write this out, but the question remains. In the balance, it's clear to me that what is being done here is so much more beneficial than harmful. But am I wasting my own energy working alongside people whose teachings so often make me grit my teeth? And if I am more active in speaking up when I disagree, am I going to mess things up for everyone else?

It's raining now, so we have to scramble for indoor class locations. For Bible we cram into the front room of the Nurse's Cabin, squished together on the cool concrete floor, and the physical closeness of the group feels cozy and appropriate for our last day together. Another class bumps my World Travel class from the Lodge to a smaller venue. While we're waiting outside to redirect everyone, there's a crunch and a chorus of shrieks from the Lodge's back porch, which hangs out over the hillside on some seriously sketchy-looking concrete pillars. Cries of "The porch collapsed!" go out, though later we learn that only a single weak board gave, under the weight of a large group of people standing close together in prayer.

In World Travel I ask the students to talk briefly about a trip, real or imagined, that they might take, including some of the logistical details we've discussed through the week. Most of them say the kinds of things I'm expecting to hear, speaking of planned mission trips, upcoming family vacations, the dream of a bicycle tour of Scotland. The student from Mexico is last. He says, Well, I've been a lot of places, and he lists them; he has in fact seen more of the US than I have. But, he goes on, I can't leave the United States, because they won't let me back in. I don't have those papers yet. I make sympathetic noises; I'm sorry to have put him into a corner where he has to share this. Well, I hope your papers come through for you soon, I say thoughtlessly, and then bite my tongue. His expression says he's not holding his breath. Even knowing all that I know about immigration, it's hard for me to wrap my mind around the idea that my country doesn't jump at the chance to have such a talented, intelligent, compassionate and responsible young man as a member of its citizenry.

The camp song (or "The Singin' News") is an annual favorite which I suspect was originally penned by Roger, with a chorus that's easy to join in and verses that sum up the highlights of the year's session. The afternoon is mostly taken up by rehearsal with Roger on guitar and counselors Bethany and Lorraine on vocals (the really time-consuming part of this is getting them all in one place at the same time). I offer them what I consider to be the finished product, and invite them to adjust it as they see fit. We work on it a bit more after rehearsing, adding a line here and a twist there, and then we're ready to go. We perform it that evening to a highly appreciative audience. A sample verse for your entertainment:

We played Braveheart and Death Star
   and hid Snipes in the trees,
And kept Nurse Carol busy
   with all our injuries.
The skeeters were so bad this year
   they joined in all our games;
They carried off two campers,
   but we forget their names.

I don't reckon that'll happen again in months and months and months;
I don't reckon that'll happen again in months and months and months!

Devo happens immediately afterward, in the Great Hall, because there are so very, very many mosquitoes. There's no campfire in here, sadly, but the cross is on the table again, this time with a cluster of candles at its... uh... crux? (Geometrically speaking, it's not the center.)

Tonight, head teacher Shane actually asks us to speed up the songs: "You can fit in a few more that way," he suggests gently. I fear I may have verbalized my response ("Finally!") a little too audibly, because nurse Carol, sitting behind me, strokes my ponytail and whispers "Sweetheart!" in a tone that I interpret as equal parts amused and reproachful. But though I fear the request will have little effect, there's a huge difference in the tempo of the songs. They are full of life and energy, and joining in is an unmitigated pleasure.

While I'm singing, I reflect again on the question that's been dogging me all day, and has popped up repeatedly through the session. Do I belong here? Should I come back? Would I just be waiting until some conflict so dire that I walk away so angry I no longer even want to return?   I consider ruefully that if I'd made the time to discuss this with someone, maybe I'd have an answer by now. Maybe. But I was never clear enough in my dilemma to feel I could adequately explain it.

One more time, Shane gets up to give us the nightly injunction: "Consecrate yourselves, dedicate yourselves, prepare yourselves, for tomorrow the Lord is going to do some amazing things among us." By this time the campers know it so well they can say it with him, but tonight it has a special meaning. It's easy to expect (and be looking for) God to do amazing things at camp, because it's clear to us that he has; but tomorrow, we're all leaving. We are consecrating and dedicating and preparing ourselves to return to our mundane, everyday lives, and we are expecting him to do amazing things there, in the places that it seems least likely.

Director Jeff speaks again, too, reminding us of the two greatest commandments, and saying that if we are faithful in following those, God will let us know about any other behaviors we need to be correcting (a message I deeply appreciate right now). Then he calls forward all the graduating seniors, and announces from their ranks the winners of the camp's Mr. and Miss WCYC contest (a tradition abhorred by so many of the staff that every year I expect to hear it's been canceled). The overheads dim to black, and Jeff lights two pillar candles, one for each of them, from the lights on the cross. With those two candles they ignite camping candles in the hands of the other seniors, who pass the fire on to everyone else present. As flame flickers from wick to wick, the darkened room fills with warm light, and with song.

All praises be
to the King of Kings
And the Lord our God,
He is wonderful!

It is the prettiest of camp songs, a four-part chorus in intricate, jubilant polyphony.

Allelujah!
Salvation and glory,
honor and power:
He is wonderful!

And it is there, amid hands and voices and faces and flames lifted in worship, in a moment of intense emotion, that I find the answer I'm seeking: I have given my Word into the hands of imperfect people, with the full knowledge that they, and you, are going to mess it up, yes, sometimes very badly. But these are the flawed stones from which I have chosen to build my own house, the imperfect tools I'm using to construct my Kingdom, the Kingdom of Heaven.

I must confess this sounds like a terrible idea to me. It sounds messy and endlessly frustrating, and I don't see how it can possibly work. But my approval is not required, and neither is my comprehension of the plan in its entirety. What is required is my willingness to put myself into places where I can be useful.

Hallelujah,
He is wonderful!

I'm pretty sure this is one of those places.

Revenge of Camp Stories: Thursday, July 29.

2010-08-18T22:09:00.002-07:00

I get really frustrated in Rabbi's Meeting today (again, this is the class where Bible teachers go over the day's text and discussion questions before teaching their own classes). First there is the question of whether the two greatest commandments can be obeyed separately. One teacher says that no, you cannot claim to love God if you do not love your neighbor, and you cannot truly love your neighbor if you don't love God. Though I agree with the first part of statement, I strongly disagree with the second. But I'm slow to respond, thinking through this, and feel I'd missed my opportunity to say so before the discussion moved forward. So I'm angry at myself.

Then there's more tsk-tsking about this generation, how shallow they are, how driven by their feelings, oh, everything has to be about feeling good with them. Now. This whole topic of feelings vs. religion is a sore subject for me that goes way back, and could fill a sizeable blog post on its own. Suffice it to say that, over and over in church when I was growing up, we were told not to trust our feelings, that our feelings were inherently flawed and could only lead us to ruin. Feelings = stupid! Feelings = weakness! Logic and reason were the only approved ways of interacting with reality, and the inherent flaws of those were never acknowledged, though there were some pretty blatant examples in plain sight. For a girl who felt things pretty strongly, and was already unsure of how to handle those feelings, this message was toxic. Honestly, I'm still dealing with the fallout.

So I'm pretty growly by the time I go off to teach Bible class, but once again, talking with the campers gets me all hopeful. They're not boxed into a comfy Christian social circle that thinks like they do, as many of their teachers seem to be. I wish more of them had Christian friends back home, but I'm glad they're interacting with the non-Christian world and its accompanying dilemmas, even if that means they have more opportunities to make choices that are harmful to them. I bring up the question of whether the two Greatest Commandments can be taken separately. Shrugs and hesitant negatives. But when I say, hey, I've got some atheist friends who are a whole lot better at loving their neighbors than I am... then they start talking.

The afternoon is busy. There's a dramatic production of the first chapter of a sword-and-sorcery epic, written and directed by a camper. It plays, beat-for-beat, like a D&D game, complete with a tavern meetup scene and armor/weapon info narrated for each character's description. It's acted out by a bunch of campers who understand its inherent ridiculousness in a way that the writer does not. And yet they love him. So while they don't exactly play it straight, they do try very hard to make him happy, and, I believe, succeed.

Before that there's a baptism, and afterward there's a surprise party for a camper from my cabin, celebrating 9 months of sobriety. And all of this is wonderful, and I enjoy it. But I wave a disappointed goodbye to the day's chance to drift in circles on an inner tube, reeling out my brain to swoop like a kite overhead. And I'm still behind on journaling, yes, and still working on those lyrics too.

Dinner is the final cookout, and the mosquitoes are so bad out there that even though the site has been fogged before we arrive, they're still maddening. I'm wearing baggy nylon pants and boots, and I zip my rain jacket up to my chin and pull on my hood, but I'm still constantly windmilling to keep them away from my face. DEET makes it less bad, but still: it's bad.

Once I'm finally sitting down in a breezier, less buggy area with some food in my belly, I abruptly realize I'm on sensory overload, full-on introvert reaction mode. Too many people. Too much noise. Rather than halfway attending to an adjacent conversation, I space out unabashedly, letting my glazed eyes rest on the trees massed below the hillside. It feels good, but I really, really want to be alone just now, in a quiet place with no mosquitoes.

After a few minutes, teacher Dianne pulls her chair over and says, "You look like you're lost in thought. I thought I'd come and rescue you." Hah. I explain what's going on, and she lets the conversation lag to intermittence, which is a lot more comfortable for me right now than trying to sustain dialogue.

I sit out of that night's Snipe game; I can no longer deal with mosquitoes in quantity. I lie on my sleeping bag, listening to shrieks and footfalls around the cabin, and take deep slow breaths, and feel better. Better enough to recall the calendar, and a projected hormonal shift that may have influenced the evening's mental meltdown. Ah, yes. You'd think after all these years of womanhood I could see these things coming, but no, I never do.

Tonight's devo is the annual tradition of Anointing, which is both less and more scary than it sounds. Once again the table bearing the cross is set up in the middle of the room, but this time instead of bread and juice, there are small bowls of olive oil. Anointing, in this context, is simply smearing a little oil on someone's palm, while speaking a blessing or word of appreciation to him or her. (The best part is that your anointee is not allowed to talk while this is going on, or even reply immediately, which can make for some serious squirming. The worst part is that you can't defend yourself with words while it's being done to you.) Meanwhile the same thing is going on with pretty much everyone in the room at the entire time, which means it's a greasy, teary, huggy scene, messy and intensely beautiful. I do circuits of the crowded room, trying to catch campers I've connected with in class and in the cabin, and as many "lepers" as I can possibly snag, as well as most of the staff. I wish my blessings were more profound, original, or reflected a clearer observation of the person in question, but what I am really saying to all of them is I love you, and I think that at least gets across.

* * *

I didn't write down any of the blessings I gave or received, but two and a half weeks later, pieces of a couple of them are still with me. One was from Joe: I told him how much I had appreciated his steadiness while we were "leprous," how (while still taking it seriously) he had been able to view the situation with a detached eye, even when I was getting all worked up about it. Later, he caught me and said, One of us needed to be emotionally involved, and you were right there in it with them. And I saw that, rather than being the weak link, I had been half of a really well-balanced team, and this made me happy.

The other was a camper who said to me, with great conviction, You are changing the world. It startled tears into my eyes, and I realized, or remembered: that is exactly what I want to do.

Revenge of Camp Stories: Wednesday, July 28.

2010-08-17T21:32:00.001-07:00

Today is a day of recovery from the previous two. I'm terribly groggy until I manage to get a nap in at that free period between classes. Then I wake up ready to rock World Travel. It's time to talk about packing again! Show and tell is popular; my class enjoys squooshing the inflatable pillow and ooohing over the soft travel towel. When I mention that in some countries women are still expected to wear skirts, I'm surprised at how many of the girls groan. "I hate skirts," several of them say. I felt the same way at their age, but thought I was in a pretty small minority. (For me it was a mobility issue: I like to climb things and sit with my legs tucked up under me. Eventually I discovered you can wear boxers or biking shorts under them, and then I didn't hate them anymore.)

Our afternoon activity is camp service projects. Our teams are assigned tasks somewhat haphazardly. Mine starts out pruning back overgrown paths, then joins another team in hauling firewood, and winds up helping to move buckets of dirt and gravel to create runoff channels for future rainstorms. We had another one of those last night, though it was significantly less dramatic. Today the mosquitoes are much worse.

Crickin' sounds pretty good after all of this. I've begun a habit of snagging the smallest inner tube and drifting in a circle down below the rapids. Kick sideways to get into the current near the foamy water (look out for that rock!), ride the fast flow about 50 feet toward the shallows, kick out into the backflow that takes me back toward the "falls" again (look out for that camper!). Once I have my fill of this, I sit down on a shallow sandstone ledge and tilt my head back (upstream) to give my scalp a good pressure-wash. The water is colder today than it was yesterday, and the current's flow is much more powerful, threatening to shove my bum off the ledge until I move farther toward the creek's edge.

Tonight's the talent show! Aside from the usual quota of vocal solos/duets with/out guitar/piano, there are several unique numbers: a spoken word performance (followed by a spot-on spoof of said performance), beatboxing, breakdancing, a two-man military review with "rifles", and three guys threading pine needles in one nostril and out the other (shrug?). The "grand" finale is the song that teacher Dianne and I wrote to the tune of (parts of) the William Tell Overture. Dianne has recruited an improbable number of people into this endeavor; I don't know how she managed it, but now that I think of it, she does every year. There are representatives from each of the major staff groups to carry their designated verses, and counselor Bethany holds us all together with the piano accompaniment. Here's a sample verse, the one for the teachers:

Archery, Juggling, "Ultimate Man",
Take a class, your teachers have a plan,
Fix a bike, play guitar, sing like a lark,
And we'll allllll discuss the book of Mark!

Yep. And that's one of the better verses. The girls' counselors were all about rehearsing elaborate choreography for their verse, while the guys' counselors completely rewrote theirs to say something like "if you want poo, we're the men for you." It's pretty much ridiculous from start to finish, which is so traditional for the annual staff skit that, obviously, it qualifies as a success.

There's more, but I barely jot down the skeleton of the day. Nearly every spare minute is spent catching up on my journal (which I didn't have handy for most of the past two days), and working on the next lyrics assignment: words for the Camp Song to be sung on Friday. This time, I'm writin' it all myself.

Revenge of Camp Stories: Tuesday, July 27.

2010-08-16T22:27:00.003-07:00

None of us sleep well in that tiny stuffy cabin. There aren't quite enough beds for us all; I'm on the floor with my mattress, crammed in at a weird angle between two other bunks and their angled ladders. One of the girls asks me, this morning, if we have to clean it up for the daily cabin check. "Nope!" I reply. "Unclean people don't have clean check."

Yesterday a couple of lepers asked if Jesus was going to come and "heal" us. We laughed at them, but in fact, last time we did this, that was exactly what happened. A minister and two other men visited the camp in the role of Jesus and a couple of disciples. Joe and I have been trying to figure out who might show up to play the part this year. We suspect it might be one of the Cleveland clan, but agree that it's hard to imagine Nate, perhaps the most likely candidate, playing the role without his usual trademark ironic flair. (Try to imagine Bill Murray playing Jesus. There you go. That'd be Nate.)

In Rabbi's Meeting, Joe and I sit on a bench a bit away from the other teachers, but still participate in the discussion. Head Teacher Shane points out that this is the behavior expected of leper pupils in classes today. I'm not really very focused on the discussion until Roger the Cowboy, draped in his green "Rabbi" robe for the simulation, stands up to make a point, then proceeds to remove the strip of cloth from counselor Natalie's face which marks her as mute. Then he tells us all not to reveal the identity of the Messiah. Ohhh. Roger is playing Jesus. Didn't see that coming.

I cheat and lower my bandana to teach my classes. My throat's feeling better today, but there's a lot of background noise, and I just don't project that well. Mid-morning, I see one of the lepers waving to me from across the hill, en route to another class. Her bandana is gone; she, too, has been "healed." I signal congratulations and go on to the next class, relieved to have further evidence we're on the downward slope of this thing.

While everyone (but the lepers) waits in line for lunch, the Pharisees and "Jesus" get into a very public argument. Pharisee Jeff shouts loudly enough that we can all hear him, but Roger's replies are hard to catch from 50' away. The argument appears to center around a "paralytic", who is obviously about to get healed. One of the lepers makes a beeline for "Jesus", pressing straight in through the crowd, which is of course completely inappropriate given his diseased status. I'm proud of him. Jeff ad libs outrage: "You bring a leper among us?!" We can't see or hear much of what happens after that, so we back off to a more comfortable spot to sit and wait our turn to eat (and/or be healed).

After a bit, the leper who forced his way through the crowd comes back bandana-free with another "healed" leper. "Unclean," we mutter at them, but they say, "Come on! Come and get healed!" I shrug and eye the six or so remaining camper-lepers; it's their move. But no one moves. Joe plays the skeptic: "Who is this guy? I don't trust him." The five or so campers sitting with us know this is an act, but their lack of motivation to go surprises me. (I think the biggest reason for this may be loyalty; the experience has drawn this group together pretty tightly, and no one wants to abandon the others. Further, they've all chosen to follow the rules of the simulation, and barging into a crowded dining hall is pretty clearly outside those rules.)

Our inertia clearly baffles these two as well: You could get this fixed now, and yet you just sit there? They waste little time on arguments. One of them grabs a girl and carries her bodily toward the dining hall. The other one, significantly shorter, makes a move to do the same, realizes it isn't going to work, then turns to me, grabs my arm, and drags me after him. It's enough to get everyone moving (and laughing), and we shove our way into the dining hall en masse. Everyone else is there too, and "Jesus" isn't rushing any of his encounters, because magical healing powers aren't really the point here. So there's a significant line, and we have no choice but to wait.

I'm hoping for a batch healing, like the ten lepers in Luke 17 (then we can one-up them by all coming back to say thanks!). But when he finally gets to the first leper, it's clear "Jesus" isn't going that route. Meanwhile, we're all blocking the salad bar. Pharisee Shane tells us to move along: "You're creating a disturbance!" I'm prepared to ignore him (his heart clearly isn't in it; he's as eager to be done with this as I am), but some of the leper-campers leave, so Joe and I follow them out. He and I have to be last anyway, in order to chaperone any remaining lepers through rest period (which follows lunch).

And last we are. The remaining leper-campers eat outside with us, then disappear into the dining hall and disperse bandana-less with friends. We see Pharisees leaving the dining hall, removing their robes with relieved expressions. Eventually Roger emerges, clearly exhausted, and Joe and I make our requests. It's strange to role-play that your friend is divine, but not as strange as it might be; Roger is already someone I think of as being an awful lot like Jesus. I vaguely remember him telling me my sins were forgiven and to follow God all the days of my life. But I don't end up recording any details about this encounter, because by the time I get all of this down it's two days later; in fact what my journal says at this point is "I am SO READY TO BE DONE WRITING ABOUT THIS." What I do remember clearly is the overwhelming relief that now things can get back to normal, which I think is really the opposite of what you'd feel walking away from an encounter with the Son of God, assuming you took his teachings seriously.

Even though there's no need, I put a word in my fellow cabin counselor's ear and take my rest period in the "leper cabin." I don't nap soundly, but for an introvert like myself, having time alone is restful in a different way. And I really, really need rest right now.

* * *

Typically, as we file toward the campfire or into the dimmed Great Hall for devotionals, we are hushed or shushed, preparing to enter a time of focus and listening. But tonight the Hall is fully lit with raised roof: campers not just singing but belting out "Awesome God", beating time with thunderous stomps and claps. The burden of the past 24 hours has been palpably lifted, and the result is an explosion of exuberance. A few of the campers even get up and dance (breakin' and a little swing), which surprises me; I'm not sure if that's frowned upon here or not. It sure would've been when I was a kid. I eye the ex-Pharisees, but they're relaxed, smiling, soaking it in.

After the singing, campers get the chance to speak about their experiences. The stories are many and wide-ranging. For some, the exercise was very painful; for others, even some lepers, it was no big deal (a couple even suggest it should have run longer). Everyone didn't take the same lessons from it, either, but it's far more interesting to hear what they've worked out for themselves, rather than having them just repeat something they were told. It's really lovely that no one ever gives us the authoritative purpose for the exercise, or tells us the Big Lesson we ought to have learned in case we missed it. Because maybe it's not the same for everyone, and that's okay.

From where I sit, it looks like the point of the exercise is to make real to us the impact that Jesus had on his community; more specifically, it creates a camp-wide yearning for things to be set to rights that, in some small sense, echoes a people's millennia-old desire for their Messiah. And that collective yearning is like a kaleidoscope-view of an individual's longing for God:

As the deer pants for streams of water,
so my soul pants for you, O God.
My soul thirsts for God, for the living God.
When can I go and meet with God?
[Psalm 42]

This thirst is as personal and familiar to me as my own pulse, and all too often, as ignored. I can't say if the simulation is worthwhile for everyone involved. I can say that for me, 24 hours of discomfort and confusion are well worth the visceral reminder of that longing's source and purpose.

Revenge of Camp Stories: Monday, July 26.

2010-08-13T21:44:00.005-07:00

Yesterday campers signed up for their second week of classes. I was worried about my World Travel class, because though it got a lot of students, it wasn't the first choice for most of them. So I expected apathy and lack of participation. But they were lively, fun, and very resourceful with today's warmup game, a simple charades assignment (communicating phrases like "Where can I find a taxi?" or "Do you have any soap?" with only gestures and a nonsense syllable).

The exercise is intended to get them thinking about interacting in a country that has a lot of non-English speakers, but the resulting discussion goes in a different direction. I have one student who was born in Mexico and two who were born in Haiti, and one of the latter talks about what it was like to come to the US with absolutely no English education. His experiences speak louder than anything I could say. (My favorite of his anecdotes: "When I saw a girl that I liked, I would say, 'I love you!' But then they told me, 'No, don't do that.'")

I feel a little awkward having them in the class, honestly. I've targeted it at US kids who want to go to other countries, and I know some of the stuff I have to say will sound a little weird or obvious to the ones who come from other countries. I mean, the campers from Haiti don't need to be told they can pack fewer clothes if they wash them by hand and hang them up to dry. That's standard procedure in Haiti. The guy from Mexico already knows it's wise to dress nicely and be respectful when interacting with customs officials. I am concerned about excluding and about stepping on toes, and I'm not sure what to change about my lesson plan to make it better. I hope I don't mess this up too badly. It's okay for me to feel awkward, but I don't want them to feel awkward.

* * *

This afternoon we begin a simulation that hasn't been done at camp for about five years. It's preceded with a speech from head teacher Shane: "Do you want to get closer to God, even if it's painful and difficult?" There is hesitation from the campers before they loudly assent. He explains that they'll only get something out of it if they play along and take it seriously, and for those who know or think they know what's going on, he has only one request: "Shut up. Let other people work it out for themselves."

I know what's going on; five years ago was my first year here, and I remember it vividly. The camp is divided into social groups, loosely based on the culture of Jesus' time. Certain (male) staff are given the role of Pharisees and Rabbis; they wear robes and call the shots. The majority of the campers and staff are instructed to play the role of "righteous Jews." And the remainder are assigned some sort of infirmity or stigma. Some are "blind" or "mute", "crippled" or have a "maimed" hand. A couple are even "paralyzed", unable to move from a stick-and-blanket stretcher. Then there are the outcasts: Gentiles, tax collectors, "known sinners", and lepers.

I'm one of two counselors assigned to the lepers, and I'm relieved to learn that Joe is the other. He was also here last time we did this, so he knows what's in store as well as I do. Also, though outside of camp we don't have much in common, he's someone whose company I enjoy. This is convenient, because we're going to be spending a lot of time together.

Here are the instructions received by all lepers:

Until further notice, you have leprosy. To fulfill your role in society, you must...

Wear this cloth over your face -- be sure to cover everything from your eyes down
Avoid coming within 50 feet of anyone who is clean
When approaching clean people, you must cry out "Unclean! Unclean!" while making sure you get out of the main walkways and allow them to pass
Sit on the fringe of each class so as not to cause a clean person to become unclean
Eat last, outdoors, and only with other unclean individuals
Sleep on the porch or some other area designated by your cabin as undesirable

Frankly, I'm relieved to get this assignment. Last time we did this, I was "mute", which was hugely inconvenient when it came to keeping order in the cabin or teaching a class. This time, as I see it, I've been assigned a specific group to hang out with, and as I look at the 7 male and 8 female campers wearing leper-bandanas, I have a hard time complaining. I like these people.

Still, I'm thrown off by the news that we're repeating this simulation. I remember it being... worthwhile, but intense, and I'm on edge emotionally at the prospect of repeating it again. The leper-campers are uneasy too, not knowing what this assignment will mean for them. Several are confused about what leprosy is. I distract them and myself by sharing what I know of the history and physiology of the disease. Many of them are horrified. I tell them about the lepers cared for by Mother Theresa in Calcutta, and about the remote colony I sort-of-almost visited on Molokai, the time my cousins dropped anchor just offshore for the night.

We've stationed ourselves in and around a couple of tiny play cabins, off to one side of "the hill" where the other campers are spending their free time, but we see them passing by, and shout "Unclean!" through our bandanas when they get too close. Some of the campers look at us sympathetically, or mouth "I love you! Be strong!" at their leper-friends; others throw sticks and pinecones (they were instructed to do this, but some really enjoy it). The level of discontentment varies widely from leper to leper; some (myself and Joe included) are playing cribbage and laughing about being called "leopards", while others chafe against the enforced separation from close friends. One normally docile leper says, "I feel like being a bad leper, and rebelling!"

"How?" I ask her.

"I don't know. I just feel rebellious!"

Dinnertime is when it really starts getting rough. Tonight's meal is a cookout, but we can only approach at the speed of the paralytics (whose carriers keep having to set them down and get them resituated). Again and again we advance a few steps, then halt to maintain that 50' (-ish) barrier. No lepers brought bug spray, so we sit on the trail slapping and complaining, particularly when we notice others going through the food line multiple times.

At last some compassionate campers bring us bug spray, and later, a plate of hot dogs and brats, another of celery, condiments, and bags of chips and buns. Cups of water and lemonade, too. One leper is sulky and tearful, and sits far back on the path by himself, refusing to eat. Others are borderline belligerent and keep trying to push closer to the "clean" crowd. I try really hard to keep them reined in (although, in retrospect, that may not have even been my responsibility).

We're sent back to camp ahead of the rest, as the path is too narrow for everyone to pass us at the required distance. "Where should we go?" we ask, and the reply is "Somewhere on the hill" (the open area at the center of camp activity). So we pick out a nice swing and bench to occupy. One of the Pharisees orders us to move, so we switch to a different swing and take the bench with us. There's a definite undercurrent of rebelliousness among the lepers that, at this point, I sympathize with too strongly to quell. One of the girls starts singing "Well I Feel Good," and most of us join in. It's a blatant act of resistance, but we figure, how can they get mad at us for praising God?

We keep singing, one upbeat song after another. We do feel good, and we sound good, too. Then Pharisee Shane takes us aside and sternly chides us for not taking the activity seriously enough. I'm pretty mad about this. I get out my list of prescribed leper behavior and tell him we've been following it to the letter. I'm about to tell him about how the lepers of Calcutta are by all reports a far from somber people, but somewhere in there I realize that I'm a leper sassing back a Pharisee, so instead I finish off with "...so thank you for explaining how we can do better."

After he walks away, I'm like, fine, whatever, we'll play cribbage out here with the mosquitoes, I've had worse evenings. Then I look over at the other lepers. One girl, who was among the most defiant earlier, is sobbing, so I go and sit with her. After a moment I realize the girl on the other side of me is weeping too. I am a sympathetic sniffler, and this is altogether too much for my tear ducts. Around the small amphitheatre where we're sitting, nearly all of the girls and several of the guys are crying. (The other guys are playing cribbage with Joe.) A knot of lepers is holding hands and praying in broken voices. One of them later tells me: "My normal response to something like this would be to rebel, but we couldn't do that. So my second response would be to make the best of it. But then he told us we couldn't do that either." What's left? No wonder they cry. It's hard not being able to tell them, it's okay, I've been through this and it all comes out right. But I'm humbled by how much more willing they are to put themselves in this painful place than I am, to really confront the situation instead of just gritting their teeth and rolling their eyes until it ends.

A handful of non-lepers wander over to try and cheer up the exiles, but their efforts are rebuffed. "We can't talk to you," sniffs one of the girls. Others avoid eye contact, playing possum until the "clean" ones leave. They are inconsolable, and the tears continue long after I've wiped mine and slid over to watch the cribbage game. I can still hear them talking, though:

"I hate this."

"I just didn't realize how hard it would be."

"I miss camp!"

One of the male lepers, clearly anxious about the amount of crying going on, whispers to me, "They're just making it worse."

"Girls... have a different way of processing things," I say, which is a lousy explanation, but the best way I can think of to say, "It's okay, they need to be doing this right now."

The emotions of female-types are not Joe's strong point either. "Just don't ask questions," he tells him, shaking his head.

At devo, the polyester-robed Pharisees and Rabbis lead songs from Old Testament scripture, such as a minor-key setting of the Sh'ma Yisrael. There is a scripture reading from one of the books of prophecy, one clearly chosen for ironic effect: it is one that foretells the sufferings of Christ. Prayers are self-congratulatory proclamations of righteousness. Seating is segregated by gender, and only the males are allowed to sing. We lepers straggle at the back, guys and girls intermingled, and sing if we feel like it (but not too loudly).

I'd been notified the female lepers would be sleeping that night in an empty cabin, but given no info about when we should go back to the cabins to get our things. When devo ends, I realize that's not going to change. We're the first to retreat from the amphitheater, to allow the "clean ones" to leave, so I tell the girls to run back to their cabins to get their things for the night before anyone else gets there. I thought they'd dally, but I was wrong. They sprint, hoping to avoid contact with cabinmates. One who isn't quick enough comes back crying. "The way they were looking at me was just..." she sniffles, "I don't know... I couldn't stand it."

I let them take as long as they like settling in. Being outcast like this has a silver lining: no one is watching you too closely to make sure you don't fudge the rules. I've spoken to head women's counselor Janet, and she agreed the leper girls could go up to the bathhouse after the lights-out bell. (The leper guys haven't even been assigned a place to stay; Joe takes them down to the Great Hall for the night.)

One of the "clean" campers delivers a forgotten item to one of the leper girls at our cabin. Through the screen door, she says, "I am also unclean," and leaves. One girl sobs, "I don't know if she was trying to make us all cry, but it worked!" Actually, it didn't for me, but I'm the only one, so I keep my mouth shut. This entire episode is one long exercise in not talking for the staff; we've been told even before the introductory speech that we should let the campers figure things out for themselves, rather than trying to lead them to conclusions. Hard as that has been at times, I love this aspect of it. Hearing the leper girls process their experience, particularly this evening in the cabin, is both painful and amazing. By this point they've stopped fighting, stopped wallowing in helplessness, and have started really putting their brains and hearts up against their situation. I let them talk until they decide they're done. Two of my favorite comments make it into the journal:

"Now I know what it's like to be a social outcast. I feel so bad for those kids at my school... and I never did a thing to help them."

"I wish they'd all be mean to us, because this nice thing is just not working out for me."

Thanks to emotional exhaustion, they stop talking (and crying) before it gets ridiculously late. But man, I hate trying to sleep with a stuffy nose. I toss, turn, and finally go to the nurse's cabin for a Tylenol to take the edge off my tension. Nurse Carol is still up, having just dealt with a sick camper, and she sits me down for a chat, as concerned about my emotional health as my physical needs. I give her a brief rundown of leper life and reassure her that we'll all be fine. I realize as I say it that I'm also reassuring myself.

Revenge of Camp Stories: Intermission.

2010-08-12T21:41:00.000-07:00

Will our intrepid heroine overcome her scruples and learn to love singing verrrrry slowly? Will she eat any more Oven Pizzas of Tummy-Doom? Will she ever shut up about Rest Period? Will there be popcorn in the lobby and a long line for the ladies' room? There's only one way to find out!

(Thanks for reading. Camp Stories continue their revenge tomorrow.)

Revenge of Camp Stories: Sunday, July 25.

2010-08-11T20:37:00.002-07:00

We got one new camper yesterday, and today more are arriving all day long, far more than we expected. By the end of the day, enrollment will be at a record high of something like 115. This afternoon, I'm in the Great Hall helping teacher Dianne compose lyrics for a song to be performed by staff in the Talent Show, and we're interrupted at least three times by the arrival of new campers who need to be escorted to someone who can deal with their paperwork. I'm secretly grateful for the breaks. (I'm good at doggerel, but I'm not good at collaborating on it, and Dianne and I have been taking turns being impatient with each other. It's been difficult to convince her that a couple dozen reluctant staffers aren't going to be able to learn a full-speed parody of The Mom Song in less than three days.)

We've honestly had a dream cabin so far, despite having more campers than any other. They may not always be the tidiest or the most punctual, but they're respectful to their counselors and compassionate to one another. And the group was a size we've learned to manage. But today we gain five additional girls (for a total of 23), and it feels like a delicate balance is upset. We have to adjust not only to additional numbers, but to additional personalities. One, in particular, I'm concerned about; there is a low-level sullen resistance that I fear will only escalate.

But we can deal. We can stubbornly love her, and we can stubbornly uphold our standards. God and Janet (the head women's counselor) will take care of the rest.

It's Sunday, so tonight is our second communion service. We are back in the Great Hall, and the long folding table stands in the center of the room, with the slightly-less-than-life-sized cross on it. Counselor Joe gives a few words of introduction; it occurs to me that it's rare (and therefore odd) to see him be so serious about anything. Afterward, there is a long silent pause. Finally, one tenuous female voice breaks it in song, and others join. The song ends, another begins, and campers flow forward toward the cross, take bread and juice, and stand in small groups, arms around one another. Some remain standing together for a very long time. The room is filled with human voices, laughter, sobs.

Dianne grabs me and Joe, and we squeeze forward to a spot near the table. Joe reaches in a long arm for three cups, then tears off a piece of flatbread and divides it with us. There is that awkward moment where I wonder what comes next: is someone gonna pray, or should I just put this stuff in my mouth? Dianne bows her head over her juice, so we both do the same. After a moment, we all eat and drink. I hug them both, and Dianne says, "It's good to share faith with those you love. I think about you two more than you realize."

As we return to our seats, Joe's solemn demeanor finally cracks, and he mutters to me, "I hope that wasn't a matchmaking comment." I agree, chuckling. With Dianne, you never know.

The eddies and whirlpools around the cross continue. The tone and tempo of the songs picks up, and they shed the lag with the shift from meditation to rejoicing. It is hard to write while singing -- I have to write a letter, rather than a word, at a time -- but I must record this. This, I feel, is what communion should be. As Shane says: "Common unity. Comm-unity." Whatever we may be getting wrong here, we are getting this right.

Revenge of Camp Stories: Saturday, July 24.

2010-08-10T21:41:00.002-07:00

I'm lying awake around 3 a.m. when the heat lightning begins, followed by deliciously cool gusts of wind. Cracks of thunder follow, and some give the illusion (through sheer volume) of being very close. The curtains covering the screen above my bed swing out well past 45 degrees from the wall, and I can hear the rain coming before it hits. I lie in my sleeping bag for a couple of minutes even after it starts pelting in, riding the adrenaline buzz while submitting a request for the safety of all present.

Then I get up and tell the girls to move their sleeping bags out of the screened porch into the main room of the cabin. There's plenty of floor space there, but I'm too discombobulated to think to drag mattresses along. Fortunately, someone else thinks of it. I move everyone's stuff away from the inside of the windward wall, and we all settle in on the floor. It takes about 20 minutes for everyone to quiet down again, but no one is terrified. Some girls take the opportunity to snuggle up with others. It's like a slumber party, but without the party.

It's hard to get up that morning. I wake them 15 minutes early to allow for dealing with sogginess, but the wind has dried the room overnight. It's a disaster, though; all six of the campers in this tiny room have brought an incredible amount of stuff, huge tubs of clothing and jewelry and hairdryers, and they can barely rein it in under the best of circumstances. Today, there's no way we can get this room presentable before breakfast. Later, I request a day's exemption from cabin clean check, which is freely granted.

Today is the last of this week's classes; new classes begin on Monday. I'm frustrated with Rabbi's Meeting today (the class in which Bible teachers discuss the text before teaching). A staff member complains about how the campers in his class refuse to condemn homosexuals as sinners, then not five minutes later proceeds to mock some Christians he knows who choose to observe certain obscure Old Testament laws. I catch the old familiar stench of belief that we're the only ones who've got it right. I've known its odor for oh, far too many years: topnotes of ignorance with a deep lingering reek of self-satisfaction. I don't hold my nose, but I hold my tongue. If no one else smelled that -- if no one else sees that these particular beliefs just might be a point on a continuum of human Biblical understanding, rather than an island of Obvious Correctness in a sea of Idiocy -- then maybe I am in the wrong place.

My Bible class has truly been top-notch, and I tell them so. They want to get the same group together for next week's class, but sadly, it's logistically impossible. I let them have free conversational rein for a while today because they keep taking it in such interesting directions. "Will the Jews who died in the Holocaust go to Heaven?" a girl asks at one point. I refuse to give answers (though I do point out the distinction between being racially Jewish and religiously Jewish), but counter with another question: "What about people from other [Christian] denominations? Are they going to Heaven?" Given the perspective I've just heard in Rabbi's Meeting, I'm not surprised that no one replies emphatically in the affirmative. But a couple of them say something to the effect of, "Well, they haven't got everything right, but neither do we," and this fills my heart with hope.

We get an extended rest period to make up for the sleep lost to last night's storm. Afterward, I play washers with some other staff members: Joe, Josh, Whompy, Daryl. It's not the most exciting game in the world, and I'm utterly abysmal at it (or anything involving throwing), but I enjoy their company. I'm still missing some people who should be here this year, and one in particular I wish I could talk with about the stuff that's been on my mind. Even if he didn't get where I was coming from, he'd still listen and respond with respect and compassion. But I bet he'd get it.

I'm headed down to check out the alternate swimming hole being used today (the water is super high after the storm), when I run into a counselor who's concerned about unsupervised campers in the Great Hall, but has no time to deal with it. (No campers are supposed to be in the Great Hall without staff present; it's too out of the way to keep an eye on otherwise.) I check on the Great Hall, but two counselors are there. Cool. Back to my original mission. But I sorta forget how to get there, so I take the scenic route, and just when I'm getting close, who should I find heading the opposite direction but... those same two counselors.

"Hey, is there a counselor with those campers in the Great Hall?" I ask them.

"Yeah, there is," says one, looking a little confused.

"No, we were the only counselors there," the other one reminds her, "but... they're working on a devo skit."

I grimace. "There's supposed to be a counselor present at all times. Otherwise we have to kick them out."

One of them says she'll go sit in the Great Hall, but then waffles: a camper is getting baptized soon, no one knows exactly when, and she doesn't want to miss it. "Okay," I say, "I'll do it, but let me know about the baptism; I'd like to be there too."

So now here I am in the Great Hall, listening to one camper play the piano, while screams ricochet from the next room (from the aforementioned skit). It's cool and relatively mosquito-free in here, and the piano music's all neutral-warm-chords stuff, soothing without being distracting. It's been the perfect opportunity to catch up on writing. But I still feel grouchy. Why? Is it because I found myself in the role of rule-stickler when other staff were willing to let things slide? Or is it feeling stuck down here, away from the fun on the (hot, muggy, bug-ridden) hill?

Aaand now I'm out of things to say. I wish I had that Celine Dion book handy.

* * *

"Shout to the Lord." Is not. A dirge.

I had to pull out my notebook and scribble the above at devo, which was indoors again (in the Great Hall this time, which is bigger and airier than the Lodge). This song sounded great last night at the Serenity campsite, but now was restored to its former slow progress. I had to stop singing for a bit, because, oh my goodness aggghhhh. Ultimately, writing that line was enough to help me vent and get over it, although it also attracted Director Jeff's attention. He teased me about being a "mole," which made me laugh. Later I explained what I was writing and why. He sympathized. Whew, I was starting to think I was the only one who noticed.

Previously! I didn't have long to wait after writing that complaint about boredom in the Great Hall. Counselor Terri came in and chatted with me a bit, then pointed out that it was now nearly dinner-bell time. We chased everyone out and went to eat. The baptism took place afterward; no one had to miss it. On the way to the crick, I openly eavesdropped on twentysomething counselors Josh and Joe comparing notes on relatives who pummel them with invasive questions about their (currently non-existent) dating lives. It was tragically hilarious. I can relate to some degree, but man, I have to admit that even my grandma is a whole lot more respectful.

Revenge of Camp Stories: Friday, July 23.

2010-08-09T21:36:00.001-07:00

At least once a night here I get up, walk to the bathhouse, admire the moonlit campground, and promptly return to bed and sleep. This night, though, my awakeitude is prolonged by the progress of dinner (cheap mini oven pizza) through my digestive tract. I remember this meal having similar effects in previous years; those things seem to have just the wrong combination of ingredients for me. The one I ate Sunday night seemed to cause me little trouble (although in retrospect it may well have been related to Monday morning's extreme grogginess), but this one causes acute discomfort. I toss, turn, and vow to fast from wheat today to give my gut a rest.

(My mom has developed a severe, and I mean really severe, reaction to gluten. While I don't currently share this predicament, I've noticed I'm generally more alert and energetic when I don't eat wheat, which indicates that it does tax my digestive system to some degree. I'll still eat it when someone else is cooking, but in my own home I'm basically wheat-free. At camp, obviously, I'm not.)

Easier said than done. I must pass up most of breakfast, but at least there are scrambled eggs. Lunch is spaghetti, breadsticks, and cookies: wheaty wheat with a side of wheat. I take a helping of cooked peas and, at one cook's laughing suggestion, top them with parmesan. It's actually not bad. I'm grateful for the salad bar, which is uninspiring but consistent, and for my snack stash in the staff fridge. Conveniently, my appetite still hasn't fully returned, so I top it off with a kid-sized milk carton and carry on.

Classes continue to go well. My Bible students make me laugh a lot, and they're eager to talk about nearly any topic you put in front of them. In World Travel class today, guest speaker Amanda talks about her travels in Costa Rica; I talk about packing, a topic near and dear to my heart, and show-and-tell some of my favorite travel gadgets (travel pillow, backpacker's towel, compression bag).

Before lunch, a counselor approaches me to share her concern for a camper who is leaving tomorrow. (Most campers stay for both weeks of the session; a handful are leaving at the end of the week, and we expect a few more to arrive.) The girl in question has a strong and well-educated Catholic background, and has stood alone on some controversial issues discussed in this counselor's class. The counselor is concerned about the girl leaving camp with unanswered questions, which appears to me to be the best possible outcome from a first encounter with a church that's very different from your own. I try to ask leading questions, rather than just point out what I see as dangerous flaws in her reasoning. She says she wants the camper to "have her own faith" (as distinct from her Catholic parents'), but clearly means she wants the camper to have a faith that looks a lot like her own. She mentions trying to get this camper to understand that salvation doesn't happen without good works, a theologically sticky standpoint. And she is disappointed in how "progressive" her students are, saying that they refuse to pass judgment on others' moral choices. Hmm.

I bite my tongue a lot, hear her out, and reassure her that the camper is in God's hands. I'm grateful she's willing to share this, but it's a frustrating conversation for me because it underlines the doctrinal divide between my beliefs and those of so many here. I grew up in the Church of Christ, the denomination sponsoring this camp, but several years ago I left it to attend a community church, finding a more ecumenical and, yes, more progressive approach to be better aligned with my understanding of God's grace. Key members of the staff are aware of my membership, so I'm not really sneaking in undercover here, but I have to wonder: if this counselor knew what I believe, would she even want me here? Do I even belong here anymore?

It's a painful question, but the fact is, there's a lot being taught here that I just can't agree with. I feel cowardly sitting by and doing nothing to counteract it. But I don't know how, or what to say. How am I to speak up to disagree here, in this denomination that taught me my place in the church is to be silent (and if I have a problem, I should ask my husband about it)? I don't even know whether those whose words I've been troubled by are really speaking for everyone. I know I haven't heard many voices to the contrary this year (some who might have provided balance are absent, and others I just haven't heard much from, so far). I don't think the bias has always been this extreme, but I can't honestly tell how much of the mismatch I'm feeling is because camp has changed, and how much is because I have.

Yet these people are truly loving, truly understand what it is to serve, and I am called to love and serve them, the body of Christ, warts and all. But I don't want to be at cross purposes with them. Do I belong elsewhere? Or are these just differences of opinion I'd find in any gathering of believers?

I stew about these matters for the rest of the day, though it doesn't prevent me from thoroughly enjoying, in consecutive order: a "boat race" down the crick (boats are constructed by campers from recycled and craft materials); a lovely shower, after which I promptly get sweaty again; several games of washers; the remainder of Whompy's manuscript; and a nice catching-up chat with head teacher Shane on the hike to the campfire site known as "Serenity." (Shane would be a good person to talk to about my questions, but I don't want to discuss them in earshot of the campers who are close on our heels, and am at this point still not even sure how best to communicate my unease.)

At Serenity (No fireflies, sorry!) we eat dinner cooked outdoors, and I decide I'm done fasting from wheat so I can eat my bratwurst on a bun. Afterward, Roger the Cowboy gives us his annual concert, standing between the campfire and the edge of the ridge, miles of treetops spread out behind him. Roger's songs are plain, sweet, and twang-less, accompanied by acoustic guitar strummin'. He covers songs like "Grandma's Feather Bed," "I Walk the Line," "Red River Valley" and "My Heroes Have Always Been Cowboys," and plays several numbers of his own. It's a pretty low-key show, but everyone loves it.

By the time he's done, it's nearly dark and time for devo. There's no speaker tonight either, but the contrast between last night's singing and tonight's is stunning. Up here in the open air, we stand in a tight cluster beside, rather than around, the campfire; the energy is high and the tempo does not falter, not even three verses into good ol' number 728b.

Revenge of Camp Stories: Thursday, July 22.

2010-08-09T00:34:00.002-07:00

The real downside to keeping an account of an action-packed adventure like this is having to choose between writing/reflection and rest. Today, due to rain, our outdoor activity time is replaced by an extended rest period (the announcement of which was met with loud cheers from pretty much everybody). Even with the extra time, I'm in a rush to get caught up so I can put the pen down. Between this project and the draft of Whompy's novel that I've been reading, I may not finish any of the books I brought on this trip. (On the plane I began Let's Talk About Love: A Journey to the End of Taste. It's an examination of the appeal of Celine Dion, written by a music critic who can't stand Celine Dion but is determined to figure out why she's so popular. I'm fascinated and itching to get back to it.)

It was raining when we woke up this morning, and has rarely stopped since. I'm well prepared with hiking boots, rain jacket, and nylon pants, but most others are not. Both my classes meet outdoors, so we have to scramble for indoor meeting places. It's an uncomfortable but interesting change of pace.

The rain is finally done by the time rest period ends. Campers stretch and proclaim how rested they feel. Awakened mid-REM cycle, I do not. I take Whompy's book out to read during free/swim time, but as so often happens here, interesting people keep sitting next to me and saying interesting things. Kate, daughter of a kitchen staffer who is perhaps 9 years old, provides us with entertainment and pestering by turns -- "us" being whoever happens to join me on the bench swing. Mostly it's Alex, a very patient camper with a homemade didjeridoo that baffles Kate, and Gavin and Joe, two male counselors who egg Kate on to ever-greater feats of feistiness. Kate challenges a younger female counselor to a fight, then hops around with her fists up, unsure how to proceed. Finally she kicks the counselor in the shins and runs away. Later she plays us a song on the guitar (she's quite good), then shouts furiously at an apparently random camper (male, very tall and completely confused) to come and fight her. It's absurd and, I have to admit, very entertaining.

I chat with Alex, Joe and Gavin, and also Roger the Cowboy. Roger is the real deal, no rhinestones. "This is the year of the fence," he tells me wryly, when I ask him what he's been up to. Fencing an open corner of his pastureland has turned out to be a sizeable project. We talk about property taxes and the purifying properties of wood charcoal on the digestive system. I get absolutely no reading done, but I wouldn't trade this.

The evening's activity is Capture the Flag, a well-loved camp tradition. I'm neither very speedy nor very strategic, and have honestly never cared for the game. I stand around talking to Whompy about his novel through the first round, defend the flag through the second, and bail completely on the third. By this point so many other people are tired of it that it's a little tough to tell if there's even still an official game on.

All the campfire sites are still waterlogged, so devo is held in the Lodge, an ancient log structure with a screened porch overlooking the creek. It's muggy and stuffy with a hundred people in there, warm and dimly candle-lit. Perhaps as a result of this, the songs draaaag. (This is a Church of Christ camp, which means that all devo songs are sung a capella. Also, there aren't songleaders so much as song-starters, so it's easy for tempo to decline over the course of a song. But it hasn't been too bad until now.) Every song slows to a plod, drained of vitality by limited oxygen and the mysterious allergy WCYC has to syncopation.

I can't take it. I retreat to the bathhouse, more for the walk than for the toilet. "Well, I hope you like it," I remark to God en route. Of course I know he does. I wish I could hear what he hears.

I return quickly so I don't miss the speaker, hoping for evidence to support my theory that we're done with the sin-oriented devos of Monday and Tuesday. But there is no speaker. Hmph.

Revenge of Camp Stories: Wednesday, July 21.

2010-08-07T22:49:00.003-07:00

The day goes quickly, the first so far to really seem like routine. Our guest speaker in the World Travel class is Whompy; he holds the girls' interest with stories of his cross-country bike trek from Canada to the Gulf of Mexico. He emphasizes that anyone can do this, which I appreciate; I think it may be hard for some of these campers to imagine themselves capable of such an adventure.

I spend most of rest period writing the previous entry. I feel better having pummeled my unease into words. I have begun to wonder who I should talk to about it, if anyone, but I haven't come to any conclusions yet.

The schedule has been getting tighter here and there, and rules are slowly being amped up, nudging us in uncomfortable ways. At meals now, we have to sit with our teams, and crickin' today is split up into separate times for guys and girls (as it is at the camp sessions for younger kids). During these times, everyone now has to go down to the water, even if s/he doesn't want to get in. The reason given for these changes is "honoring camp tradition." There is grumbling in my cabin, but the veteran campers correctly guess it to be an object lesson, so they complain less than I expected.

None of this is onerous, but everyone's relieved when that night at devo, Jeff concludes the exercise and explains its purpose. Parallels are drawn with the elaborate religious traditions of Israel at the time of Christ. In the Gospel of Mark, Jesus gets called out a lot for being a religious teacher who breaks some of the finer points of the Law: healing the sick on the Sabbath, touching those deemed unclean, etc. I admit I am not paying super close attention to the lesson this evening, so I don't catch it all, but it seems to me the previous two devo talks have been part of this theme. I fervently hope that from here on out we'll be able to talk about what Christians should be doing, rather than focusing on the rules they shouldn't break.

Earlier, outdoor activity leaders Ed and Jon hit it out of the park with a new game they called "Snipe Hunt." Willing staff and a few select campers dress up in wacky costumes and hide in the woods, and the campers go out in cabin-based teams to find them and bring them back. Lured by the promise of a Klondike bar, I volunteer to be a Snipe. I forego the facepaint, but deck myself in foam flowers with pipecleaner stems and find a shrub to hunker down behind. When I'm spotted by a team of girls, I flee... straight into the arms of another team, resulting in a tug-of-war in which the role of the rope is played by me. I am eventually returned to the scorekeeper somewhat chafed, but in one piece. The event is hugely popular, and the resulting tales of risk, struggle, and triumph are passed around for days afterward.

Revenge of Camp Stories: Tuesday, July 20.

2010-08-06T19:35:00.002-07:00

I sleep well, waking only once for a brief visit to the bathhouse. The darkened campground is theatrically draped in mist, which I find still lingering after the sun comes up. The weather is delightfully cool, and I feel sooo much better this morning.

The hours pass quickly, with Rabbi's Meeting (a class for Bible teachers to discuss the day's text), my Bible class, the daily staff meeting, my free period (used for class prep), and then the World Travel class. Bible class is always discussion-based, and this week's group is lively and ready to engage. No one has to be prodded to speak; the challenge is keeping on track, rather than getting discussion going. It seems like most of my previous classes have involved an awful lot of shrugs and blank stares, so this is a lovely change of pace.

My World Travel class is made up of six polite young ladies (one addition since yesterday) and two staff members sitting in. I am nervous and talk too much -- they're nearly all experienced travelers and could probably share stories for days. But it's okay. I have four more days to get it right.

The "crick" is still high and muddy from recent rains, but the level has dropped enough to allow a return to the favored swimming spots at "the falls." (Not the precipitous drops down a cliff face that the word suggests: the tallest of them is between three and four feet, and the others look more like rapids, though the lowest one drops off into a deep pool created a century ago by dynamite.) "Crickin'" is a central part of camp life, and yet I feel no real desire to get in at this point. Maybe it's because the weather is cool, and maybe because I'm feeling the absence of dear friends who would, any other year, be part of this fun. But the collective movement draws me down to the water's edge anyway. I perch on a flood-soaked, mossy log, dampen my sandaled feet, and watch.

The falls are caramel-colored, the deep waters brown as Guinness. There is much shrieking and splashing, staggering and shoving, in the deeper part of the swimming hole. A couple of inner tubes float by, skip over the rapids, then float by again. Girls stand in the shallows and shave their legs; boys wade past, politely trying not to splash me as I write. Some give me a curious look, but only one stops to ask what I'm doing. "Oh, uh, I'm keeping a camp journal," I say, instantly self-conscious.

"What's happened so far?" he asks.

I stammer and flip back through the pages. "Uh... you were there for most of it?" I say. He laughs and moves on.

Later, I opt out of the evening's activity, a game in which cabins attempt to dunk each other in waist-deep water. I don't want to deal with contact lenses, fast-moving water, or one-on-one conflict. This year there is no giant red ball to provide a non-combative goal for the exercise. I am tougher than I look, especially when hyped up on adrenaline, and I know I could hold my own. But I have a strong desire to not participate in this, and I go with it, claiming journalistic immunity by taking photos for participants. And I seize a rare opportunity to talk with my good friend Whompy and quiz him about his tandem bike tour with his mysterious girlfriend. (Actually, it's not so much that she's mysterious, as it is that I haven't heard about her before now, considering how long they've been dating.)

The evening's devo involves the testimony of a minister whose life has been changed irrevocably by self-destructive choices. It's heartfelt, and heartbreaking, but it forces me to once again confront the issue I wrestled with yesterday. Thus far, the apparent focus of this year's spiritual instruction around the campfire has been on not sinning. Is this really as far as our faith goes? Are we more concerned with protecting our youth from consequences than we are with their relationship with the Divine? Do we really believe that not breaking the rules makes you a good person?

I am so discontented with this being given the spotlight. It was the same when I was a camper (elsewhere): the big intense firelit talks about sexual purity, not hanging out with bad influences, not drinking/smoking/partying. It was all about not causing trouble. I understand that those who have dealt with the heavy consequences of their choices want to spare the next generation from a similar fate. But is this really what we need to be emphasizing most? (And if we're going to talk about sins, are partying, drugs/alcohol, and premarital sex really the biggest dangers we can think of to warn our teenagers against?)

Yes, we're studying scripture in our daytime classes. We're singing and worshipping together at devo, too. Those are all constructive things. But it seems to me we've brought the mentality of the old-school tent-revival altar call with us into our present-day retreats, and I question its ultimate value in helping us learn to love and serve God better.

As a teen who was pretty good at following rules, I never knew exactly where I fit in with this sin-sational approach. Was it even for me? Like, should I scrape together some confession about having a bad attitude, and offer it up beside dramatic tales of drug abuse and back-seat liaisons? Maybe I should go out and commit some interesting sins so I could relate? Or should I just be conscious that this event, like so many youth group activities, was tailored more to the needs of other people than to mine? I spent so much time wondering where I fit into all of this, when, with a different kind of spiritual instruction, I could have been moving forward. I was eager to move forward. I am angry about this, on behalf of my teenage self, and on behalf of these teens.

So this is the frustration that I bring to the topic. And other factors, I know, affect my ability to see it clearly. I mean I am very self-centered, if the above paragraph didn't clue you in to that, and also I am very good at lying to myself. I have to consider the possibility that I, too, have something specific and obvious to confess and repent of, and I am using this internal conflict to mask it from myself.

Revenge of Camp Stories: Monday, July 19.

2010-08-05T20:22:00.001-07:00

I sleep fitfully, as is not unusual for my first night at camp. I'm itchy, and every skin-twinge might be the brush of a mosquito's wings. My bladder eventually drives me to shuffle across the hill to the bathhouse, thumping my temperamental flashlight to life.

All morning I am spacey, too dull-witted to write. I don't want to be antisocial, so I find conversations to park myself at the edge of, saying little, while my mind drifts. Later, I'm not the only sleepy one as we listen to the entire book of Mark read aloud by a rotating cast of narrators. I have to laugh (internally) as I rein myself in from dozing midway through chapter 14, where Jesus is chiding his best friends for falling asleep when he needs them most. Alas, that would've been me. "Could you not keep watch for one hour?" he asks, and Mark hardly takes longer than that to read through.

Five people (all girls) sign up for my five-day class on World Travel & Missions. I am tremendously relieved. Last year my class on Journal Comics got me three students the first week, none the second. Though I enjoyed that extra free time, the fail didn't help with my insecurities about teaching. I'm lining up guest speakers and have finally, the day before starting, managed to visualize my first lesson activity (yeah, prep has never been my strong suit).

Campers are split up into permanent teams for chore assignments and group games. Each team has a male and female staff member attached to it, responsible for making sure everyone is present and involved. Last year Jeff (now camp director) was my fellow team leader, and he was so on top of everything that I could often just sit back and enjoy the ride. This year, an enthusiastic but frequently oblivious college student is my partner, which forces me to have my act together. This is a good thing (I frequently remind myself).

The latter part of the day echoes memories of old routine: rest period (ahh, blessed naptime), group activity, free time (shower!), dinner, a dodgeball game enhanced with water balloons and the "Death Star", time to clean ourselves up, and evening devotional. This one's outside, around a campfire, with a skit performed by some of the staff. The skit involves a young man who is telling his girlfriend how much he loves spending Sundays with her, attending church, praising God, reading the Bible, etc. "You're my Sunday Girl!" he tells her affectionately, but then inadvertently mentions that he spends Mondays with a different girl, who balances his checkbook and gets his finances in order. She appears, followed by Tuesday Girl who has just leveled up her fifth World of Warcraft character, Wednesday Girl who likes to veg out and take naps with him, Thursday Girl who likes sports and exercise... you get the picture. The obvious message is that we should put God first every day of the week, but I am so delighted by the idea of this fantastical romantic arrangement (my roster clearly needs to include a chef, a sailor, a musician...) that it's hard for me to pay attention to the lesson that immediately follows.

The speaker has a lot of hard-earned wisdom to share, but his emphasis is on staying out of trouble by avoiding the big-ticket sins. I feel strongly that this should not be the core of the message we communicate here, and I disagree with the way he uses fear as a motivator ("I don't think you guys really believe in Hell," he says at one point, as though if we all just believed in it better, everything would be all right). And while I think the morality of violent video games is certainly worth discussing, he sounds out of touch to me when he warns that they desensitize gamers from their own mortality. The gamers I know all have a pretty healthy sense of self-preservation. But frustration with this particular speaker is not new to me, and I grit my teeth, smack at mosquitoes, and wait it out. It'll get better, I tell myself. It has to.

My fellow Merry Breezes counselor, Lorraine, wants to do a confessional cabin devo at lights-out time. I am wary -- as a camper, there's no way I'd open up on the second night -- but I agree to go along with it if our third cabin counselor, Natalie, agrees. She does, and I am amazed: nearly half the cabin has something to share in that darkened room, something they're running from, something that's holding them back. For myself, I can't figure out how to describe my struggles with any coherence ("Hey kids, ever heard of acedia?"), but I conclude the session with a song and prayer, and we tumble into our beds where, mercifully, sleep is not long in coming to me.

Revenge of Camp Stories: Sunday, July 18.

2010-08-04T22:49:00.002-07:00

Against all odds, I managed to keep a fairly detailed journal of my two weeks at Wisconsin Christian Youth Camp. I may or may not get it posted online over the next two weeks (you may recall the early demise of my post-UK-travel journal blog), but I am going to give it a stab. It will be a challenge for me on several fronts, so bear with me.

Here's how it begins:

When I wake, Toto's "Africa" is ringing through my head, probably because Mitch and I were singing it together in the cabin last night. She's been taking guitar lessons and is sounding really good. Mitch drove me the 4+ hours out from Chicago yesterday, but she can't stay for camp. In fact, she's heading home as soon as she can get her stuff to the car. I'm sad to see her go, but I know we'll connect again at the end of this trip.

Jeff, the director of this two-week camp session, invites me to join the rest of the staff (or rather, the select few who have already showed up) for lunch at Culver's. On the way to the tiny town of Black River Falls, I tell him about my recent interest in observing intentional communities in action. Church camp was my first experience with intentional community, I say. I remember, as a kid, thinking how weird it was that we put all this effort into creating this near-utopian setting, only to walk away from it right when it's getting good. I used to fantasize about some disaster that would prevent us all from going home again, and how we could all just stay in the woods together indefinitely, foraging for food and singing 'round the campfire every night.

"What we create here is very exclusive," Jeff weighs in, choosing his words carefully. Unfortunately I haven't brought my notebook, so I don't get them down, but the gist is that while we do a fair job of building the Kingdom of Heaven at camp, the other part of our work is to share it with the world. He draws a parallel to attending church services, where we are revived and prepared to return to our tasks in the world. I appreciate his thoughtful perspective. I also appreciate that he did not once resort to the dismissive phrase "mountaintop experience," which I have heard used to describe camp ever since I was a teen myself.

After lunch, we return to camp, and to last-minute preparation before the campers begin to arrive mid-afternoon. I take a luxuriously unhurried nap on the screened back porch of my cabin, "Merry Breezes," soothed by the liquid white noise of the nearby creek. The peace and free time are delicious. I am torn between reluctance for it to end and electrification at the coming mayhem.

I find myself hampered by diffidence once the campers begin to arrive. It's been a year, and names and identities are hazy at best. I feel I should remember who is expecting a hug, who is wary of me due to past confrontation, who I've met before and who is new to me. Of course it doesn't matter. Today of all days, no one will mind if I invite myself into their little conversational clusters. But I find some errand or other to keep me criss-crossing the tree-spattered hilltop that is the center of camp, rather than settling into greetings and introductions, until I see staff members I recognize. I admit the staff are my clique. It's a strength and a weakness; my allegiance to them is essential, but my attention should be more with the campers. They are why we're all here.

I help with registration, settle campers into my cabin, then shoo them off to a group activity and go attend the initial staff meeting. There I learn to my chagrin that the clunky old staff PC has been eliminated. "A lot of bad stuff came over on Facebook and Myspace," says the camp caretaker by way of explanation. This takes some mental readjusting; I am used to at least being able to check my e-mail a couple of times during the session. There is wireless, but I'd have to track someone with a laptop down in order to use it. Oh well. I've told everyone I'll be offline anyway; might as well really be offline.

Jeff's comments to the staff are constructive and practical. Camp is the opposite of Vegas, he tells us: "What happens at camp does not stay at camp." This is both an encouragement (campers are influenced in positive ways and take that home with them) and a caution (poor choices by staff can result in stories being told back home, and blown out of proportion in the process). He reminds us of our calling to serve rather than to be served ("If you see something that needs to be done, do it"), and speaks about structure and punctuality. He asks us to monitor our own levels of patience and frustration in difficult situations: "If you have a problem with somebody, you need to communicate to them, not about them." And he asks us to keep a larger perspective: "God is going to put us in situations to touch these kids' lives. This isn't just camp. This is Kingdom."

There are more mundane items to be discussed: water conservation, camper supervision, prank suppression, dress code (no bare shoulders or midriffs, all shorts longer than the wearer's fingertips). The head counselors cover these topics; they're long-standing policies, merely review for nearly everyone present. The camp's caretaker talks about first aid kits, the proper way to deal with ticks, and the importance of keeping food out of the cabins (nearly all are porous enough to admit small rodents).

That night everyone gathers for our first of 13 devotionals. On this night, because it's Sunday, we take communion together. Plates of flatbread and paper cups of grape juice are set up around a rough-hewn cross laid on a long table. Shane, the head teacher, invites us all to partake: "Communion means community: common-union. When you take communion, you don't get in your private phone booth and talk to God." Most of us here come from a church tradition in which trays of crackers and juice are passed along the pews in silence, while everyone, eyes lowered, ostensibly meditates on the suffering of Christ. So it's beautiful to hear it described this way, and to see the campers and staff go up to the table in clusters and stand, quiet together or talking in low voices, sharing the feast.

I Wrote This On An Airplane, But Now I Am Not On An Airplane.

2010-07-16T22:19:00.000-07:00

BLORT.

That, friends, is the (inaudible) sound of a Sakura pen dumping black ink on the knee of the only jeans I'll have for the next two weeks.

Oh, it doesn't matter. I'm going to Camp. The only people at Camp who are putting forth much of an effort to look tidy are a handful of teenaged girls (who have to be fended off from the bathrooms before 6:30 a.m, or who knows how many hours they'd spend primping). And I have other things to wear. It's really no big deal.

But. Y'know. ...I had a point to make about this, but it's hard to concentrate when the kid behind me keeps bumping my seat. I'd be mad, but the kid is obviously related to Spider-Man, who is curled up asleep on the seat next to him. Spider-Man! On my airplane! For reals!

I always pictured Spider-Man as being taller by about three feet. And not wearing red Crocs. But whatever. Spider-Man!

My lack of blogging lately has been due more to a shortage of time (and, yes, discipline) than to any lack of things to write about. Last week I had two couchsurfers from Switzerland (lovely people) and I spent a good chunk of my weekend with them (Mississippi Street Fair, Trek in the Park, Marine Drive, and various local eateries).

The weekend before that, I went to Eugene to spend the 4th with family, but before I went, there was a cookout and a sparkler bomb.

And the weekend before that, I went to Olympia to help build a tiny house, which somehow developed into a bizarre adventure involving live Danish folk music around a midsummer bonfire, a stealthy midnight visit to my favorite boat, and sleeping on a 23' yawl under a full moon.

So right now, what I think I would like more than anything is a weekend with absolutely nothing planned. A weekend in which I sit/lie around not doing much of anything, only taking on responsibilities that seem manageable with limited effort and appeal to the whims of the moment. I am going to make a point of having at least one of these in August.

But first: Camp! And a visit with The Mitch.

Highlights from the Northwest Folklife Festival, 2010.

2010-05-31T00:47:00.003-07:00

- Buskers. Buskers, buskers, buskers. Buskers with didjeridoos, buskers with drums, buskers twiddling Labyrinth-type glass spheres, buskers with one-man-band getups, buskers in clusters, buskers going it alone. Incredibly talented buskers and buskers operating on sheer chutzpah. Folklife is buskers, at its heart; the rest is just icing. I noticed accordions were big this year. I didn't see anyone painted all one color holding really still, though; apparently that schtick has gone out of fashion.

- A music/dance performance by the Northwest Korean Arts Center, a marvel of precision and grace... aside from the children's dance number, which was an utter disaster (missing every cue and getting all clustered up and tripping over each other, one tiny girl standing there bawling over a minor injury while the others danced on without her) and which, of course, completely stole the show.

- Watching a guy surprise his girlfriend by showing up from out of town right after her East Indian dance performance. Her response was priceless. (She sort of yelped, and then she stood there for a beat and looked at him, and then she hugged him, and then she shoved him away and yelled, "You are such a liar!" and then she hugged him again even tighter.)

- Coyote Grace: If I were writing ad copy for this band, I would namecheck Old Crow Medicine Show and Martin Sexton. Of course they weren't as good as either of those, I mean come on, but still: extremely listenable.

- I got three contra dances in. Gary (#1) kept telling me "The important thing is to have fun," probably because I was having trouble getting my shoulders out of the "freeway driving" setting, but still, that's really not something you want to hear from your dancing partner. Will (#2) was terrific, though, lively and infectiously cheerful and conscious of the subtleties that make everything go smoother. And Justin (#3) was very patient even though I could not seem to remember for the life of me how a "hay-for-four" works, ugh. Oh, but the band was called Full Moon and they were super good.

- Dinner and catching-up with MikenViv, who were generous enough to put me up on short notice in very comfortable quarters, and even let me snuggle their dog. They are remarkably cool people I could easily have missed the opportunity to get to know, and I'm so, so glad I didn't.

- Saanish (Coast Salish) storyteller Che Oke' Ten cramming a remarkable array of stories, music, and tradition into a half hour. This guy was good. I don't wanna get all mystical on you here, but seriously, his funny story about his mother trying to chase down a dachshund named "Handsome" was a better sermon in six minutes than I usually get at church in forty-five (and my preacher is no slouch).

- Mingushki, a smokin' world music trio with a sinuous trumpet, saucy percussion, and an accordion-shaped heart. The tunes they played were mostly from Eastern Europe and Central America, and their time signatures were insane. Apparently they also play with a larger Balkan ensemble, one of whom was absolutely certain he knew me from somewhere (we couldn't figure it out, and before you ask, no, he wasn't playing it like a pickup line).

- Salmon with cilantro sauce and rice. (Would you like a samosa for $2 more? Um, yes. Yes I would.)

- Eavesdropping on a fortune teller who does divination with toy dinosaurs. She was saying things like, "...but another thing about Stegosaurus is, he has two brains, one in his head and another in his tail, which relates to dividing your attention between two areas of focus," and her teenage customer was nodding his hoodied head very seriously.

- A toddler who waved and said, "Hi!" as though we were old friends. Unclear whether this had anything to do with the knit cap with bear ears I was wearing at the time.

- A brief baptism in the sea of electronic sound at the 8-Bit Showcase. The band I caught, Fighter X, were doing that looping-electronic-performance thing where they twiddle their equipment while bobbing their heads, then jump and flail around wildly, then go back to twiddling. Repeat ad hilarium. The Sky Church has this giant video wall that was looping brilliant blinky patterns. The effect was mesmerizing, but about as far from folk music as you can get. "Scream if you want more bass!" hollered one of the musicians, as if you could even hear the crowd over the music, and then they bumped it way up and the notes vibrated all through my tired muscles. Ahhh.

- Mr. Yuk was there. Mr. Yuk! I thought he was dead! I also thought he was two-dimensional. Shows what I know. I gave him a hug, and he gave me a bright green pencil with WASHINGTON POISON CENTER on it. POISON HELP, it says, with a handy number to call in case I need any help poisoning someone.

URLwarming!

2010-04-28T22:51:00.006-07:00

Well, I... I did it. I think it worked, mostly? Except for the part where the new location says "this blog has moved" and the old one doesn't. But I fixed that with some internet duct tape. I've been tweaking the look, too. I'm no graphic designer, but I know it could be better, so I plan to continue adjusting until I get bored with it.

This is decidedly a downgrade as far as URLs go. But it just doesn't make sense to host my own blog anymore. And I investigated WordPress and yes, there are things about it I like a lot better, but also there are still things I like better about Blogger, and it came down to which was easier at the time, i.e. the grass on this side of the fence. I can still switch. I may still switch. But for now, here I am. Right here at this ridiculously lengthy address.

So if you have an RSS reader, I guess you got the previous post and have switched your feed-tubes so you can still savor occasional helpings of my delicious prose, right? If not, there's a handy little link over on the right (under the moon) to help you do just that. If you do not have an RSS reader, you must be wasting a lot of time clicking on bookmarks! You should really consider letting the internet keep an eye on your favorite sites for you. Google Reader or Bloglines or similar web services can provide you with regular fieldtrips out of the Facebook ghetto.

Although if your web activities are primarily restricted to Facebook, I guess you're not reading this. Carry on!

This blog has moved

2010-04-25T19:28:00.002-07:00

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I Don't Even Know What Will Happen!

2010-04-25T18:40:00.004-07:00

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Yeah, so I spent some time looking at WordPress and thinking about the relative benefits of WP vs. Blogger and hosting vs. no longer hosting my own blog (and by extension my whole dang site, I mean what do I need a site (that I don't update) for if I don't have a blog (that I don't update) on it, except for occasional file hosting and an excuse to dink around with HTML occasionally?).  Also I've got this Amazon S3 account now, and admittedly I still don't know how to use it, but it seems like it might work just as well if not better if I can just get past that little hurdle of ignorance.  So there's, like, a layer cake of decisions to make here and I can't seem to approach it from any angle other than complete haphazardry (yeah, that's a word now). As in, "let's try this and see what happens."
So I'm currently all hopped up on chai and comics and I'm going to click that blog migration link now, which may turn out to have been a terrible idea, but that May 1 deadline is breathing down my neck and it's been eating garlic.  There is a very good chance that all my blog posts will be regurgitated into your RSS feed, or that you will suddenly be unsubscribed and have to readjust your feed to reconnect.  I apologize for any such mishaps in advance.
HERE WE GO

Welcome to the Lair.

2010-03-07T16:46:00.004-08:00

Slowly, slowly I've been picking my way through the artifacts and paper-clutter that have accumulated in my life's wake. The other day I found the three-ring binder containing my notes from the basic web design instruction I took in 1996, at UHSLIS. My first lessons in HTML markup are all there in my own handwriting, tags earnestly written out for easy future reference, reminders like "Don't use tables if you can help it" and "Shrink graphix w/Photoshop - under 25K!!" And there are all these references to things like Lynx and UNIX commands and explanations of what things stand for (a href = Anchor Hypertext REFerence, if you were wondering) and, awww, it's just so cute to see it from the present day, after we've come so far. Like film footage of myself learning to walk or something. Here's the first page. If you were doing web stuff in the mid-90s, maybe you'll get what I mean.

I actually still use HTML tags with some regularity (the content management system at work requires a lot of cleaning up after), so this stuff isn't wholly obsolete. But the whole concept of writing it out by hand has gone by the wayside. If I need to check proper tag usage, I'm not going to reach for a 3-ring binder, I'm going to google the answer. I've adapted to this so thoroughly that it's mind-boggling to think of how completely outside my experience that was at the time.

Behind the seven pages of HTML notes are six pages of URLs. Yes, six handwritten notebook pages full of URLs, 98% of which are (I'm guessing) long since defunct. Because back then, kiddies, there were no websites set up to mind your links for you. And even if there had been, they would have been terribly inconvenient because there was no tabbed browsing, and the more browser windows you had open, the slower your computer ran. So if you found a website that you wanted to find again, your options were limited to a) browser bookmarks (useless if you're browsing in a lab), b) writing it down on paper, or c) e-mailing it to yourself, a strategy I adapted after that sixth page.

What's most interesting about this, to me, is that I had such a hunt-and-gather approach to the Web, like I had to discover and collect it all. I was immediately hooked on the boundless possibilities for exploration, and would think up obscure topics to research just to see what was out there. What does the Internet have about Ben Folds? Celtic folk music? Arthurian legend? At this point in internet history, it was easy to think of an exhaustible topic, i.e, you could conceivably read through all the sites known to Webcrawler/AltaVista/Yahoo on (say) Tove Jansson's Moomins in a single evening. But seeing it all wasn't enough. I had to hold on to that info, to walk away with something to show for it -- even if that was just a line of scribbled characters on a sheet of paper, a ring of keys meant to unlock doors to which I rarely if ever returned.

I'm glad I don't feel the need to do that anymore (or worse, print out all my "important" e-mails... professors actually advised us to do this! I'm happy to report that I gave up on it pretty quickly). But there was something much more active about how I interacted with the 'net back then: it was all me doing the pursuing. Now that I have various online services trained to bring me what I'm interested in, my primary mode is just keeping up, rather than going out on the hunt. In some ways, that's less satisfying.

That class I mentioned required me to create my own homepage, so the other interesting thing in that binder was a set of printouts of its code. My first homepage! I called it "Lindsey's Lair", hah. The bulk of it was a series of links to things like my online assignments, homepages of friends and classmates, and randomly relevant links (another mind-boggler: at the time it apparently seemed like a good idea to link to my credit union?). I tried to include a new quote and a new poem every week (not my own, and with utter disregard for copyright), as well as a small but cheery block of welcome text. Here's one of those, for your amusement:

Welcome to the Lair (or welcome back, as the case may be). Things have been pretty quiet around the old place lately; you'll seldom find me home, because I'm out stalking my prey of Learning and Achievement. (I like them served with Cheese.) Still, the door's unlocked and you're always welcome to wander in.

O Internet! So much has changed! Or has it?

Geek-stalgia Alert!

2010-03-02T22:57:00.003-08:00

I recently learned of the existence of a couple of sites devoted to old PC games: Abandonia.com and DOSgamesarchive.com. Many of the titles listed on both are "abandonware" and therefore downloadable, free and legal, along with whatever copy-protection, manuals, maps, etc. accompanied the original.

[This is the part where I gesticulate excitedly while stammering.]

I can't explain the significance of this discovery without going into a little personal history. If you are not prepared to indulge me in reminiscence, feel free to move along.

My teen years revolved around PC games, from the day my mom and I got our hands on a pile of 5.25" shareware floppies in the mid '80s. Those first games were terribly disappointing. There was the one with the parrot, mostly designed to show off the amazing 16-color capabilities of the IBM PCjr. If you pressed certain keys, the parrot would shriek, "Awk!" and "Don't touch me!" in a jarring digitized voice. Then there was Donkey: you are driving a racecar down a two-lane road, bird's-eye view, no scenery. You cannot alter your speed; the road blips past one slow pixel-chunk at a time. All you can do is change lanes. Left lane, right lane. Occasionally, there is a donkey in one of the lanes. The goal is to not hit the donkey, and also, to not die of boredom.

The old Speak 'n Spell looked pretty exciting compared to these. But better stuff was out there, and it was just a matter of time (weeks, actually, if memory serves) before it would start trickling down to us.

The shareware library of the local IBM PCjr Club brought us many treasures: Snipe and 3-Demon, free clones of Space Invaders and Tetris. And of course there were the text adventures, even the simplest a dazzling improvement on those disappointing Choose Your Own Adventure books. I never solved a one of 'em, but I loved the exhilarating feeling of exploring new worlds.

But things really got exciting when Mom and Dad okayed actually spending money on games. I scoured the computer magazines and studied game reviews like I'd be tested on them. Adventure games were my passion, entered through that blocky King's Quest portal and pursued through numerous clunky titles, all the way to the pinnacle of that lost genre, The Secret of Monkey Island, and beyond. And there were delights and marvels to be found in other genres, countless gleeful hours spent playing Pirates! and Lemmings and Wing Commander.

These games were where I lived, during the endless torturous years of adolescence. Riding the bus, sitting through classes, eating dinner, I was playing them in my head, trying to work out the next puzzle, having conversations with their characters. They eased my teenage malaise, but yes, Mom and Dad, they also taught me some really useful stuff. From SimCity I gleaned rudimentary but valuable lessons in urban planning, and from Where in the World is Carmen Sandiego I learned what the World Almanac is for. Rocky's Boots taught me boolean logic more clearly and memorably than any math class ever did, which saved me a lot of grief in library school. And what I know of Caribbean geography, I owe to that Pirates! map.

But my early experience with computer games always had a flavor of scarcity to it. We had to wait for shareware to trickle down to us through people with modems, we had to wait until the prices of new commercial games dropped, and we had to wait for Mom to soup "Junior" up with yet more power and peripherals to keep up with the software. That machine got more tricked out than its creators ever imagined possible. Even so, the acquisition of a new game was often followed by howls of frustration: "Mommmm! It doesn't worrrrrrk!" ...whereupon she would, more often than not, drop everything and go poke around in DOS until the software would either behave properly, or be declared a lost cause. What with one thing and another, games were, in those days, rarely easy to come by.

And therein lies the irony. Now, thanks to the Internets, I have an endless wealth of games freely available to me, including the stuff I played way-back-when, including the stuff I wished I could play way-back-when and couldn't, including two decades' worth of shinier, newer things. And now, spending time on these things seems not like a welcome relief from a drab existence, but like a terrible waste of precious free time that could be spent on more fruitful pursuits. My adolescent self would not get this.

Seeing as how so many of my old favorites are now freely available, I have finally faced the box of "classic" games and pared it down to a few essentials. Now I have a stack of old PC games that are about to be homeless, and should theoretically run just fine with the help of an emulator. If you're geeky enough to have read this far, who knows, you might possibly be interested in what I'm getting rid of! Or... not. But I hate the idea of throwing old treasures away when there's a chance someone I know could use 'em. So if you want any of these vintage delights, just say the word and they're yours. I might even ship 'em if you ask nicely.

Pirates! Gold 3.5" floppies, DOS, in box w/manual.*
Lords of the Realm II CD, 95/DOS, in box.
The Lost Treasures of Infocom 3.5/5.25" floppies, DOS, in box with maps, guidebook, hintbook.**
(Contains Zork 1-3, Beyond Zork, Zork Zero, Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, Planetfall, Stationfall, Enchanter, Sorceror, Spellbreaker, Moonmist, Witness, Deadline, Starcross, Suspended, Suspect, Ballyhoo, Lurking Horror, and Infidel.)
Monty Python and the Quest for the Holy Grail CD, 95/DOS, in box.
Tropico CD, 95/97/2000/ME/NT4, in box.
Tropico 2: Pirate Cove CD, 98/ME/2000/XP, in box.
Ultima Collection CD, 95/98/DOS. No box, but map book/reference card.*
Grim Fandango CD, 95/98. CD case only.
The Manhole CD, Win?, CD case only.
Goblins Quest 3 (a.k.a. Goblins 3) 3.5" floppies, DOS, no case (manual & discs only).*
SimCity for Windows 3.5" floppies, Win/DOS, no case (manual & discs only).*
Tetris/Welltris/Faces-tris 3.5" floppy, DOS, no case (manual & discs only).**

* This game is available to download for free on Abandonia.com, so yeah, you probably don't need the hard copy either. Sigh.
** Some (not all) of the games in this set are available free on Abandonia.com.

Happy Year of the Tiger!

2010-02-15T22:53:00.004-08:00

For the second year running, the Lunar New Year feels a lot more like a fresh start to me than the, uh, Solar kind. Holiday hassles are a distant memory (the one with the hearts and smooches is not much of a hassle for me), days are getting long enough to have a little elbow room in them, and this whole Way Early Spring thing we've been having in the Pacific Northwest, though it will doubtless have some negative consequences, is really just awfully pleasant.

I put on my beautiful new orange socks and went for a walk on Mt. Tabor today, where I kept running into the same batch of skateboarding teens over and over again. Round another corner, there they'd be, all scruffy and ebullient, scrambling up the hillside or yelling at each other over the rasp of their wheels. It was kind of like my walk in the park had a limited extras budget and so they had to keep using the same people over and over.

My pockets were empty, so I picked a wildflower to leave at the hidden shrine (perhaps you know about the hidden shrine at Tabor? It's appropriate to leave an offering of some sort there, though to whom you are offering is, I think, up to the giver. You can also take something, if you like). There was a baby's shoe there and some pretty stones, but it wasn't as cluttered as usual. I think someone has been tending it. Maybe everybody tends it.

On the way out I crossed paths with my neighbor, the self-designated neighborhood watchman. I quizzed him about his former career as an undertaker while he walked me home. (Apparently the economic downturn has really hit the funeral industry hard. I had no idea.) He also told me about the people who used to live in my house over the years. Seems one of those people was the self-designated neighborhood watchman, years ago; he would sit and look out my front window all day long, just keeping an eye on things. I am grateful for people like that.

In other news, I am apparently one of Blogger's Problem Children, because I insist on hosting my blog on my own webspace instead of at Blogspot, and they don't want me to do that anymore. I'm not super excited about compromising with a redirect URL, as they suggest, so I'm wondering if this is the time to make that switch to WordPress I keep thinking about (you know, so I can gripe about a different service!). I still have a lot more research to do on this, but if you have any input on the usefulness and/or limitations of WordPress, I'd love to hear it.

Been a While, Hasn't It?

2010-01-01T16:16:00.005-08:00

Guys, I am so glad 2009 is over. I didn't really like it very much.

My issues with 2009 directly influenced my blogging (or rather, lack thereof), and I am not going into a lot of detail about those issues here. Suffice it to say that any blog posts I could've written in the last 5 months would have involved a lot of navel-gazing and complaints. Those goals I talked about at the beginning of the year, like getting rid of stuff and learning how to build things? Yeah, didn't get very far with those. I've come to dread the "how are you doing" question from folks I haven't seen in a while. I can lie (yuck), or I can be honest about how I'm not really very happy right now (no fun either). As an added bonus, I feel guilty about not being happy, because I have it so much better than many do. Woo!

This isn't fun to write about. I like to report on exciting new things! Crazy schemes that just might work! Amazing sights I saw or experiences I had! Not on how I'm just kind of stuck in my own bleah and not even really taking notice, let alone advantage, of the possibilities around me.

But, y'know, that's where I am.

So, new calendar year? I'll take it! Maybe things will be different. Or maybe not. But it feels like a change, and right now that sounds pretty good to me.

Camp Stories.

2009-08-14T16:41:00.004-07:00

Last week I went to Camp for two weeks. Two weeks in the middle of nowhere with a hundred high schoolers. Two weeks of uncharacteristically cool weather (highs in the mid-70s) for Wisconsin. Two weeks of saying the Pledge of Allegiance in the morning and singing a capella praise songs around a campfire at night. I love Camp.

Here are some Camp Stories.

***

The day's organized recreation, we were all informed, would involve a 10' red ball, a sandy stretch of the creek about 2' deep, and a no-holds-barred cabin vs. cabin struggle to shove or fling the ball across the opposing side's boundary, ideally while dunking as many of the other team in the water as possible. It was going to be strenuous, ridiculous and probably dangerous. We were sent to change into "crickin' clothes" and then report to the field of battle.

"C'mon, guys," I urged the last two stragglers: shy, awkward girls who reminded me of myself in high school. They lagged behind me with obvious reluctance, much as I would have at their age. I raised my hands dramatically and proclaimed, "Let's get ready to BRING THE MAYHEM."

A polite pause. Then a quiet voice replied, "I don't really like mayhem."

***

There was mist settling on the road as we headed for the farthest campfire site, a mile and change from the cabins. The sky was cloudy, and dusk slid over us as we trudged into the woods, absorbed in after-dinner conversations. Then, nearing our destination, we caught a glimpse of torchlight through the trees -- not firelight from ground level, but firelight from the tops of poles. "What is that," said Gavin or somebody, and I thought of that scene in "Beauty and the Beast" when the townspeople are tromping through the woods with torches. Then we rounded a bend and couldn't see it anymore. It sat flickering in our minds, an unanswered question.

Shane stopped everyone just before the final approach to the campfire site. He said some things I couldn't really hear, from where I stood in the crowd, and then I heard him shout, "And now I give you... the Festival of Lights!" and someone nearby lit a bottle rocket or something that shot up and crackled into flame right over our heads.

Out on the bluff was not the usual tame campfire, but a sizeable bonfire, with cans full of fire on poles surrounding it: some maybe four feet high, some more like twelve. It was a lot of light and a lot of heat, which was not unwelcome on this cool evening. Still, roasting marshmallows was a challenge. I feared for my eyebrows until Whompy hit on the idea of using a piece of cardboard as a shield. Diane ignored our warnings and the smell of petroleum, and toasted her marshmallow over one of the cans-on-poles. Occasionally another bottle rocket went off from a different spot in the bushes. In the distance, thunder rumbled.

The last bit of trail onto the bluff passed through a sort of doorway of trees and shrubbery. The bluff beyond it had become a room delineated by light: inside was the brilliant fire and the s'mores fixin's; outside in the hazy dark was a truck bearing two large containers of water and paper cups. Thirsty after several marshmallows, I went to get a drink and got stuck on the path, looking back into the room of light, transfixed by the scene: silhouettes of clustered figures, laughter and squeals, fireworks; an extravagance of conflagration, framed and tinted by mist.

***

Nobody hangs out on the far edge of the creek. It's the shady side, the muddy side, the side where all the trash washes up. But I was bored. All the other staff present were absorbed in trying to retrieve a lost sandal from the depths of the chilly swimming hole with rakes, and the campers were doing campery sorts of things. I like the campers, but it doesn't seem fair to me to just descend upon their activities uninvited: Hi, I'm an authority figure and I'm hanging out with you now, aren't you glad?

So I walked slowly along the far edge of the creek, just looking. At first my eyes skimmed across the steep overgrown bank, registering only stuff, but I gradually settled into the discipline of seeing: water-weed, empty bottle, rotting branch, sapling; round leaf, pointed leaf, grassy leaf. Water strider, submerged pallet, rock, sand, mud, slime. Watch your step. What's under there? What's behind that? If you were a tiny person in a tiny boat, where would you land it? There? Over there? Mossy log, arching ferns, jewel-colored damselflies...

"Hey!" bellowed Nate, splashing toward me; apparently the sandal-hunt was over. "Hey, you huntin' fairies?"

***

Whisper. Giggle. Thump.

The girls at the far end of the cabin were up to something. Every time someone else moved, they got real quiet. Then, after a minute or two, they'd start again: Giggle. Whisper. Giggle.

What was it, 2 a.m? Should I lie there and wait for them to try to sneak out, or tell them to shut up now? Should I address the situation before or after taking a short walk up the hill to the bathhouse? My head was full of sleepy fog. I wished one of the other counselors would wake up and deal with the situation, but they didn't.

Finally my bladder won out. I sat up, found my slippers, and left the cabin, which was (for the moment) quiet. When I returned, I crawled straight back into my sleeping bag, hoping they had gone back to sleep in the interim.

No such luck. Giggle. Rustle. Whisper. Thump.

I got up and walked halfway across the wide cabin. "There's too much noise going on over here," I hissed. "You need to be quiet and go to slee - "

"Come over here! Come over here!" they whispered frantically.

I took a few steps closer, warily. "What's going on?"

"We heard a scary noise! It was the scariest noise in the world!"

Uh.... "What kind of noise?"

"We can't even imitate it! It was too scary!"

"Now that we're awake," whispered another one, "we think it was just someone sleeping. But it freaked us out, so we all jumped into Christy's bed."

"Okay," I said, reassured by the very lameness of their excuse: surely if they were planning to sneak out, they'd have a more coherent story than that. "Now get in your own beds and go back to sleep."

Much to my relief, they did.

***

A dragonfly spun itself in circles, adhered to the surface of the water. Probably weak and dying, I thought, but why not? I reached for its long tail but dropped it on the first try, startled when it curled around to grasp my fingers. A second try and it stood on my knuckles, gleaming with beads of moisture.

"What is that?" asked Saul, wading over to look. We both inspected it: it certainly didn't look weak. Wide yellow markings splotched its sturdy black body; its translucent wings were wide and unmarred, and its large eyes shimmered like a hologram. "That's a nice one," he said. As we watched, it brushed water from its mandibles, then shivered its wings delicately.

It was in no hurry to go anywhere. We both stood and watched it silently. Though my gaze was fixed on the insect, I became gradually aware of our position in the landscape: golden-brown water cascading over a low ridge, flowing past a tiny island of sand and our unmoving knees; campers sloshing slowly around us or perched on stones; a backdrop of wooded banks. We were standing so still. That's a thing that doesn't happen to me often at camp, to be so still, so focused, so present.

"I wanna see it fly," said Saul, and I directed a light stream of breath at the dragonfly, to dry it up quicker. Soon it tensed its body and, launching itself from my hand, soared off into the trees.

A Tiny Bit More Info.

2009-07-01T22:04:00.005-07:00

RowdyKittens gives her own review of the Tiny House workshop here. I heartily second all her enthusiastic comments.

Also, this month's Small Living Journal (online and free) is titled Bureaucracy, Regulations, and Small Living. It features a series of essays addressing a persistent obstacle to small-dwelling life: local laws and codes. Worth reading if you're wondering what you can get away with. With Portland's recent passing of green building code amendments, it's probably now feasible to make a case for small => green => variance-friendly. (Well, easy for a conventional-looking middle-class white person, anyway. *squirm*)

Remember That Whole Tiny House Thing?

2009-06-30T20:56:00.005-07:00

Well, look, here we are at the end of Jroon already. (By which I mean the month. The domain is not going to expire anytime soon.) I did my Jroon 3rd comics a long time ago, but I only just scanned them right now. Here they are. Other, more punctual comics by others can be found, as usual, here.

This is also your reminder, if you needed it, that the 3rd is coming around again soon.

So last week, while catching up with the Tiny House blogosphere (which is anything but tiny, let me tell you), I read an announcement about a tiny house building workshop right here in North Portland... taking place in just a couple of days. Ai yi yi, I almost missed it! It was with Dee Williams, who built a teeny trailer-mounted house five years ago and has lived in it ever since. Here's a great video about Dee and her house.

The workshop was Super Great. Dee and KT, a professional carpenter, taught us how to safely use a number of power tools, and over the course of a Saturday led us through framing, sealing, and insulating the floor of a little house on a trailer. It was pretty much exactly at the level of learning I needed (i.e, for those with little to no construction experience). Plus it was great to meet some folks who are fairly serious about constructing their own tiny domiciles. And by "fairly serious" I mean "pretty much for sure going to do this thing." I brought my camera to the workshop, but when I realized how vested some of the others were in documenting the process (with way better cameras than mine), I was like, aw, go for it, guys. And they didn't disappoint, either. Check out the impressive photoset collected by tiny house blogger Rowdykittens (she and her husband drove all the way from Sacramento for the workshop)!

A few words about my own plans. I still think this is a great idea, but I haven't got all the logistics worked out, and I'm not committing to anything yet. So you'll all have to be in suspense with me about whether or not I actually wind up living in an oversized dollhouse on wheels. The workshop shifted my understanding of the building process from nebulous scariness to specific kinds of scary, which, though it may not sound like much, is a significant step toward making it happen.

Dee's house is like a little chapel, airy and cedary-smelling. The narrowness of the walls makes the open ceiling seem really high. It actually has the feel, to me, of a sacred kind of place. But no plumbing, very few possessions. As much as I love it, it's not quite what I want. I really want a sink and shower in my home, and I have no desire at this time to reduce my belongings to quite that few. (It's taken me almost six months to get rid of 1/3 of the 300 books I plan to part with before the year is out.) And my lifestyle is unlikely to look quite like Dee's. I need a little more space, a little more clutter, a little more "cush." But seeing how someone else does this tiny house thing makes it easier to visualize how I might do it.

Which is, um, pretty exciting.

About Freakin' Time.

2009-05-28T22:56:00.004-07:00

I finally scanned my comics!

Whew. Just in time. That other short girl is my roommate alissa, by the way.

More comics here.

The Wake.

2009-05-03T19:59:00.004-07:00

[This is not the post with the comics.]

This weekend I went back to my alma mater to say goodbye. It was the final commencement before Cascade College closed its doors, fallen victim to Tough Economic Times after only 15 years of existence.

Cascade was my employer for nine years, my first post-grad-school job and the longest I've ever worked anywhere. But before that, Cascade College was the school I graduated from, striding down the aisle between tall House and taller Hill, all of us proud members of the first graduating class of our institution. And before that, it was a dream realized, the reincarnation of the well-loved but financially disastrous Columbia Christian College.

Columbia was where I lived my first year of college life. It was a magical place, and I don't mean that hyperbolically. What I mean is, things happened there that defied my understanding of how the world works. Big things, beautiful things. Oh, it was doomed even then; we were warned before we showed up to campus that the school might lose its accreditation that year. But people still came, such was the reputation of the place. I believe there were around 100 students that year, which is quite a few if you consider that the total student body never got much above 400 at the best of times.

And the people who came... well, they weren't ordinary people. Most of the staff and faculty were pretty much volunteering their time at that point, waiting on deferred paychecks that they knew might never come. The quality of instruction varied, but more than a few of the professors were remarkably gifted, and every last one of them cared deeply about the students. And the students were talented, passionate, funny, warm and radiant people who welcomed all 10 or so freshmen with open arms. It never would have occurred to me that people who were that cool would want to be my friends. But that was never in question. Insightful as these people were, they were apparently blind to the heavy cloud of social stigma that seemed to shadow my secondary school years. They didn't recognize that I was a born outcast. As far as they were concerned, I belonged.

And for me, that changed everything.

The students were why Cascade happened. They were determined that this was not the end, and their enthusiasm, commitment, and hard work fueled the process that led Oklahoma Christian University to take a gamble on a west coast campus. While I went off to a year of school in Nebraska (which had a similarly profound effect on my development, but that's another story), many of my colleagues set aside academic progress, stayed on campus, and worked to rebuild, recruit, and give life to the dream we shared. And the next fall, when I came back, O mirabilis, there were classes on my campus again, and all the employees got paid.

The story of the next fifteen years is more or less the story of any organization that begins with high ideals and pure intentions. People came and went, some of them the better for their time there, some of them not. Decisions were made that had good and bad repercussions. Cascade was many things to many people; it was even many different things to me. It was a cause to which I rallied, an experiment in the unlikely, an ongoing collision of ideals and reality, a place to grow, a place to struggle for and against, a place that meant so much to me that when it was time to leave, it took me years to see it. The one thing it was not was a failure. We all wanted that institution to grow, thrive, and bless the lives of generations. But in a decade and a half, it managed to do an awful lot of good.

I was not at Commencement, but I was there for many of the weekend's events. There were so many amazing people, so many kinds of relationships represented: my professors and my students, my classmates and colleagues, acquaintances and close friends and used-to-be close friends, and an embarrassing number of people whose names I could not for the life of me recall. The buzz of so many greetings, so many hugs and how-are-yous ran counter to the aching awareness that we were there to close a book, to put a body in the ground. Several people told me things like "It doesn't seem real" or "It hasn't hit me yet." I nodded. During the last chapel, in an auditorium packed with people singing old hymns and new in rich four-part vocal harmony, I was conscious of the distance I put between myself and what was happening, of choosing numbness over being really present and open. Sometimes I forget how good I am at this. Curious to see if the emotion was still there or had dried up completely, I eased open the tap just the tiniest bit, and spent the next several minutes feverishly trying to shut it off again. It will hit me when I let it.

There is a thing I believe about God, though it is not a thing I have found anywhere in the Bible. It is that no service done for him, no sacrifice made in his name, is wasted. It may be flawed in a thousand ways; it may be more ridiculous than useful; it may be an utter failure or even cause real harm. (I am not describing Cascade with any of this.) But I believe the gifts we offer to God are received by him in their imperfection, as we also are received by him, with infinite grace, with welcoming compassion, and with a joy beyond our capacity for it.

Nerds and Gentlenerds!

2009-04-12T17:41:00.007-07:00

WHUT WHUT WHUUUT

Hey, this weekend is STUMPTOWN COMICS FEST. And now there's a for-reals 3 on the 3rd zine, released just in time for Stumptown! It has comics by twelve 3 on the 3rd participants. They are all really different and cool. If you have ever posted a 3 on the 3rd comic to the wiki, a copy has been set aside for you.

I love this time of year.

09a.

2009-03-31T20:02:00.005-07:00

Now that I'm at a fixed address again, I am back in the Mixchange, the quarterly mix CD swap organized by ashley. This time around I did something new: instead of getting all theme-y, I just used what I'd been listening to lately. Like everyone else does all the time, apparently. So this is kind of a snapshot of my recent favorite discoveries, or rather, my favorite discoveries a month and a half ago, when I started this project. I listened to it again the other day while I burned discs and folded little paper envelopes to put them in, and I have to say I found it pretty listenable. So I thought you might enjoy it as well.

MIX 09a
1. tUnE-YaRdS - FIYA
I wrote this song off as merely annoying, and then I listened a couple more times and realized I was an idiot.
2. Oren Lavie - Her Morning Elegance
Thanks to Operaman for pointing me toward this gem via the awesome video.
3. Ra Ra Riot - Ghost Under Rocks
I don't know what they're singing about, but it's very exciting!
4. The Hylozoists - Smiley Smiley
Aw, I just realized I've been spelling their name wrong the whole time.
5. Jeff Hanson - This Time It Will
Mostly I love his voice.
6. Mates of State - My Only Offer
MoS do shouty-happy really, really well.
7. Styx Tiger - String Strikes
And now, a moment of chill-out.
8. M. Ward - Never Had Nobody Like You
Hokey and sweet.
9. Woven Hand - Kicking Bird
Saw this guy live earlier this year, and man, he was intense.
10. Calexico - Absent Afternoon
Music to space out to.
11. Silver Jews - Party Barge
"Send us your coordinates, I'll send a Saint Bernard."
12. The Deadly Syndrome - I Hope I Become a Ghost
Oo-oo-oo-oo....
13. Jib Kidder - Windowdipper
I'll never hear Windows sound effects the same way again.
14. My Brightest Diamond - Inside a Boy (Son Lux Remix)
Satisfyingly overdramatic.
15. Sister Suvi - The Lot
I like the interplay of the vocal parts especially.
16. Bon Iver - Blood Bank
Cold and warm at the same time, like a heated convertible on a chilly evening.
17. Esau Mwamwaya w/Radioclit - Tengazako
Can you handle one more "Paper Planes" remix? How about an African "Paper Planes" remix?

Pick a few, or collect them all. Several of these may be familiar to you if you follow my shared Google Reader posts (and you should). Links good for seven days after posting. Play at your own risk; tracks not vetted for cussin' or what-have-you, although nothing jumped out at me. All tracks provided for promotional purposes only, etc.

P.S.

Eureka!

2009-02-23T20:48:00.004-08:00

Did you know that if you accidentally dump way too much salt into your smoked cheddar omelette,* it comes out tasting like delicious sausage?

Well, I didn't.

* Maybe you have also added some garlic powder, because you are too lazy to use real garlic, and also some rubbed sage that you're trying to use up because it's so old you can't even remember which of your former roommates left it in your cupboard. I'm not sure if those things are important or not.

Tiny Steps.

2009-02-16T20:31:00.004-08:00

Last summer (as some of you may remember) I wrote a post gushing about tiny houses. I am still totally sold on this idea, and the New Years' resolution I didn't tell you about was to research it further: investigate options for tiny-house living, develop skills and resources to make it happen, and figure out how to prepare for the transition.

This is a progress report.

How Tiny? The fine folks at Tumbleweed have finally posted images of my favorite model: the Fencl. At 130 square feet, it is the most spacious of the trailer-based options. I have yet to actually set foot in a tiny home, but the layout of this one seems both practical and comfortable.

Where To Put It? Even though it doesn't look like something you'd take camping, a house on wheels like this one is classed as an RV pretty much anywhere in the United States. I have learned that it is illegal to live in an RV in the city of Portland (outside of a trailer park) for any significant length of time. On the one hand, this is daunting; I like to do things the legal way, and I'm certainly not interested in exiling myself from my favorite city on the planet. On the other hand, this law is enforced only when neighbors complain, which rarely happens, so it would be easy to, um, ignore it. Which I am not above doing, especially not in the case of a law that seems to be doing more harm than good at a time when housing costs are soaring out of control. But if you have previously made noises about possibly letting me rent a corner of your property, this is something you should be aware of.

(Technically, trailer parks are also an option, but one I find it hard to get excited about, for reasons that may be obvious if you've ever spent any time in a trailer park. Besides, they're expensive, and pretty much all located east of 205, which is really not where I want to be.)

To Green or Not to Green? I recently took a class via PCC about water management options. Most of what I ended up learning about, while interesting, was not at all relevant to tiny house construction. However, in the process I did get a clearer idea of what might be readily applied to a small mobile dwelling (e.g, composting toilet) and what might be a little too tricky for me (rainwater catchment, graywater reuse).

Which End of the Nail Do I Hit, Again? While reading up on women who have built their own homes, I discovered that Habitat for Humanity has a volunteer program for women called Women Build. This sounds like a great way to gain some construction experience in a supportive environment. I located the H4H area schedule (which was hard to find, and you have to sign up to view it), and I'm monitoring the RSS feed faithfully. WB events fill up fast; so far I haven't been able to get into one that fits with my schedule. But I will. If spending a Saturday building a house appeals to you too, and you possess the requisite set of ovaries, let me know and I'll give you a call when something opens up.

How Will I Fit? I have a lot of stuff. I don't think I have as much stuff as the average American woman of my age, but I definitely have more stuff than I need, and a lot more than would fit into a tiny house. Some of this stuff will be easy to let go of when the time is right: utilitarian stuff that I haven't put a lot of thought or effort into acquiring. Other stuff is going to be trickier. I'm going to need some lead time to minimize the trauma.

I have about 600 books. I also have a library card (and I work in a library), so I really don't need to own anywhere near that many. I expect to eventually whittle the collection down a lean core of around 100 volumes, but this year my goal is just to cut it in half.

That's all. Just get rid of... 300 books.

Oh boy.

A goodly number of these books will go to PaperBackSwap, and LibraryThing's Member Giveaways program, and the nice ladies I swap clothing with once a month. But lately it has occurred to me that I'd be a fool to give all of them to strangers without letting my friends have first dibs.

One thing I've noticed about letting possessions go is, it's a lot easier if you know it's going to benefit someone else. So if you're into books, have a look at the contents of my shelves and let me know if I have any titles you wish you owned. You'll actually be helping me out. Some of them I'm not ready to part with, and if you request those I'll tell you as much. (Also, if I tagged the book "borrowed" or "@wpc" or "family treasure," I can't give it to you.) But others I'll be only too happy to place in your hands. Or mail to your hands, if necessary.

Being an Account of Recent Events.

2009-02-03T23:39:00.005-08:00

Hourly Comics Day was a success, but you are going to have to wait a couple more days before you get to see the output. (You can go read some other people's in the meantime if that helps.) To avoid taxing you with undue suspense, I will reveal that the surprise guests mentioned here were my old sidekick Mitch and my young sister Ashley. Mayhem ensued. The weekend had a nice symmetry to it, with the three of us hanging out for three days, all three together, and getting one-on-one time with each of the other two, and also all three parting ways to hang out with other people for oh, three hours, give or take. There was tasty food, plenty of dancing, parties of varying types, quite a few YouTube videos, multiple thrift store shopping sprees, and more hilarity than I can adequately describe. My Hourly Comics don't really capture it. Mitch's do a better job, but they're hard to interpret if you weren't there. I'm sure Ashley's would have if she had done any.

I did not do Three on the Third today.

On the technology front, I'm pleased to report that Asus has agreed to send me a hard drive and let me ship the old one back to them, rather than have me send back the whole dang netbook. Despite the hard drive problem, I'm pretty satisfied with the machine. The major design flaw, as far as I'm concerned, is the placement of the touchpad; it's too easy to bump with your right hand as you type, and then your cursor ends up in the wrong place. This weekend, as other people consistently ran into the same problem, I realized that I've adapted by holding my right hand differently, possibly non-ergonomically. Hmm. Well, the next model will be better, and I can put up with this little quirk until then.

Who knows? Maybe, after my system is back to whatever the new normal is, I'll blog about something besides my computer and comics.

gripe gripe whine whine complain

2009-01-29T20:53:00.005-08:00

Alas, I have spent a goodly portion of my precious free time these last couple weeks troubleshooting my computer (trying to fix the OS, installing a new version of the OS, trying to fix the new OS) before whittling it down to a hard drive issue. I have not dealt with many hard drive failures in my day (knock wood), which may have affected my slowness in figuring out the problem. Also, Linux has some really powerful diagnostic tools that give elaborate results that I have no clue how to interpret. But the experts at the Ubuntu-Eee boards have spoken: send it back to Asus and get it fixed. (I am so not used to having that option.)

So that's why, even though I drew my January 3 on the 3rd comics (admittedly a couple weeks late), I still have not posted them. Or blogged, or commented on your blog, or shared Google Reader posts. I have been over here in the corner, gnashing my teeth and feeling sorry for myself.

In related news, February 3rd is on the horizon. While gazing toward its noble silhouette, you may have overlooked February 1st, which is Hourly Comic Day. On Hourly Comic Day, everybody draws one (1) autobiographical comic for every hour they're awake. This inspires some really streamlined comicking; the veterans tend to whittle it down to a couple of frames with minimal dialogue, and make the most of mundanity. But still, I won't kid you: it's a lot of work. It really puts the whole 3 on the 3rd challenge into perspective.

Which is why I'm doing the Hourly Comic thing again this year. It's on a Sunday, so there will be no comics-on-the-sly at work. There will be some churchgoin' and some special out-of-town guests visitin', and some other things that will be a surprise to me too!

If you think I'm crazy for doing this, get a load of John Campbell, who does Hourly Comics all January long, as he has for years. Other people try this, but they mostly do not succeed. Here is my favorite attempt.

(I read a lot of John's hourlies before I figured out that his girlfriend (cleverly aliased as "Kate") is Kate Beaton who draws history comics! It makes me inexplicably happy to discover that one of my favorite obscure comic artists is dating another of my favorite obscure comic artists, even if they do live in different countries. Here are a couple portraits Kate did of the two of them last year. The second one is especially lovely.)

I think I accumulated a few more things to blog about over the course of this month, but I can't remember them anymore, so I'll just belatedly wish you a happy Year of the Ox and sign off.

2008 in Books.

2009-01-02T17:14:00.005-08:00

As promised, here is a list of what I read last year. This time the re-reads are asterisked. Ratings are equally subjective, but I guess they're a little different for books. Hmm, maybe something like this:

(1) - It was an utter waste of time.
(2) - I can't in good conscience describe it as a "good book."
(3) - It was fun and/or useful to read.
(4) - It delighted and/or educated me.
(5) - It crawled inside my head and moved things around, or burrowed inside my heart and made a little nest there.

What I Read in 2008

Traveling Mercies: Some Thoughts on Faith by Anne Lamott (5)
Lamott always challenges me: to dare to hope, grieve, trust, live harder, laugh louder, and be recklessly honest.

Kindred by Octavia Butler (5)
What would antebellum slavery look like firsthand to an African-American woman from the 1970s? A beautiful and painful book.

Living More with Less by Doris Janzen Longacre (3)
A Mennonite compilation of ideas about how to make the world better in small, practical ways. Not as good as I was hoping.

Water: Tales of Elemental Spirits by Peter Dickinson & Robin McKinley (4)
Fun fantasy fiction. McKinley's stories are more accessible, Dickinson's more challenging, both plenty entertaining.

The Djinn in the Nightingale's Eye: Five Fairy Stories by A.S. Byatt (3.5)
Fairy tales by a modern author. Worth it for the fifth story alone, in which the djinn finally gets some love.

Moomin: The Complete Tove Jansson Comic Strip vol. 2 (5)
I grew up re-reading Jansson's kid lit, but the comic strips are new to me, and I think they're pretty much the best thing since sliced fjords.

Moomin: The Complete Tove Jansson Comic Strip vol. 1 (5) *
Had to reread after getting my hands on the second volume. Gorgeous, humbly brilliant, further adventures of old friends who haven't changed a bit.

Sorcerers & Secretaries vol. 1 by Amy Kim Ganter (4) *
Shamelessly mushy Ameri-manga. Shy business school student is distracted from secret fantasy fiction project by... a flirtatious boy!

Sorcerers & Secretaries vol. 2 by Amy Kim Ganter (3.5)
Not as good as the first one, but still cute.

Woman: An Intimate Geography by Natalie Angier (4)
A remarkably readable exploration of the science, history, and anthropology of the female body.

Titus Groan by Mervyn Peake (2.5)
First in the Gormenghast trilogy, and the wrong book to take to Hawaii with me. Really slow and wordy, and I didn't like the characters much.

Put Your Life on a Diet: Lessons Learned from Living in 140 Square Feet by Gregory Johnson (3)
Practical thoughts on simplifying your lifestyle: why and how. Not a lot new here.

Radical Simplicity: Creating an Authentic Life by Dan Price (4)
Entertainingly illustrated journal by a guy who's obsessed with living in tipis, tents, and hobbit-holes.

Fugitives and Refugees: A Walk in Portland, Oregon by Chuck Palahniuk (4)
Made me want to explore my city more, and ask more questions. And document everything in a gossipy, sensationalistic tone.

Stranger Things Happen by Kelly Link (3.5)
Link is so weird. So weird. Sometimes in a really, really good way, and sometimes just in a weird way. Loved the one about the Snow Queen.

Archer's Goon by Diana Wynne Jones (3)
Good goofy kid-fantasy fun. Well-done and (for me at least) forgettable.

Fight Club by Chuck Palahniuk (2)
Ugh. I am so not the target audience for this.

Heartland: Short Stories from North-Western Wales (3)
The ones translated from the Welsh just didn't work for me. Cultural storytelling conventions are apparently way different here.

Pirateology by Dugald A. Steer (2)
Again, I am really not the target audience. A special-effects book with text apparently designed to be ignored.

Destiny: A Chronicle of Deaths Foretold by Alisa Kwitney (3.5)
Graphic novel. Decent Sandman spinoff about Pestilence, as in the rider of the apocalypse.

Perfect Example by John Porcellino (2.5)
Graphic novel. If Chris Ware says a book makes him happy, you know it's gonna be a downer.

The Dance of Anger: A Woman's Guide to Changing the Patterns of Intimate Relationships by Harriet Lerner (4)
Not actually about anger so much as asserting yourself responsibly. Some good lessons here.

Action Philosophers! vol. 1, by Fred Van Lente & Ryan Dunlavey (3)
Graphic novel. Cute, wacky, irreverent, and educational!

The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen, vol. 1, by Allan Moore (3) *
Graphic novel. I enjoyed it a little less on this second reading, but it's still Moore, which means it's still top-notch storytelling.

The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen, vol. 2, by Allan Moore (3)
Of course, that also means parts of the story are going to be hard to stomach, and he saved most of those for v. 2. Eww.

And that's it, kids. I know, you'd think a librarian would average more than two books a month, but this is actually about on par for the last several years. I would like to have read more than 25 books by the end of 2009 (already got one under my belt: Gaiman's The Graveyard Book, short and sweet). But that's not a resolution, just sort of a vague inclination.

A Resolution, and a List.

2009-01-01T20:16:00.005-08:00

The weather looks suspiciously similar to yesterday's, but I have it on good authority that this is an All New Year. That's kind of an exciting thought, isn't it?

Traditionally this is a time when people blog about their resolutions. I think resolutions are kind of like birthday candle wishes: the more you talk about them, the less likely they are to come true. However, there is one resolution I would like to make public. In just two days, I am going to return to the stoic discipline of Three on the Third.

Yes.

Another bloggy tradition for this time of year is end-of-the-year lists. I have actually compiled two of them for your amusement and mine, one for all the movies I watched in 2008, and one for all the books I read. I have also rated them in a completely subjective manner. Here is my rating system:

(1) - I hated it.
(2) - I'm not sure if I liked it.
(3) - I definitely liked it.
(4) - I loved it.
(5) - I'm sort of obsessed with it.

What I Watched in 2008
(italicized titles indicate movies I've seen before)
The Truth About Cats and Dogs (1996) (2)
The Water Horse (2007) (2)
Darjeeling Limited (2007) (4)
Across the Universe (2007) (3)
Paprika (2006) (3)
The Other Boleyn Girl (2008) (3)
Charlie Wilson's War (2007) (3)
Horton Hears a Who (2008) (2)
In Bruges (2008) (3)
Juno (2007) (4)
I'm Reed Fish (2007) (2)
Hellboy (2004) (4)
Indiana Jones and the Crystal Skull (2008) (3)
Once (2007) (3)
Master and Commander: The Far Side of the World (5)
3:10 to Yuma (2007) (4)
Sex in the City (2008) (1)
Dan in Real Life (2007) (3)
Super Troopers (2001) (3)
27 Dresses (2008) (3)
Fool's Gold (2008) (2)
Hellboy II: The Golden Army (2008) (4)
War (2007) (2)
The Simpsons Movie (2007) (3)
Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid (1969) (3)
How to Lose Friends and Alienate People (2008) (2)
The Fall (2008) (4)
Sweeney Todd (2007) (3)
Wu Ji (The Promise) (2005) (3)
Shi Mian Mai Fu (House of Flying Daggers) (4)
Cutthroat Island (1995) (2)
Whale Rider (5)
Nick & Norah's Infinite Playlist (3)
Ravenous (4)

The above list accurately indicates that I'm a sucker for pretty pictures. Check in tomorrow for the somewhat underwhelming list of books I read in the past 365 days, which I have padded with annotations to disguise its shortness.

Party Alert: IMMINENT!

2008-12-27T19:13:00.006-08:00

Now I am back (thanks to Amtrak and Tri-Met) and this thing is totally on.

Merry Christmess!

2008-12-25T23:02:00.003-08:00

Christmas with my family is always an experiment in barely controlled chaos, what with four generations, the oldest of which can't hear anything and the youngest of which you can't hear anything over. There are a thousand possible pitfalls, gifts that may be triumphant or disastrous, offenses that may be unintentionally given, and treasured objects that may be destroyed when you put 4 children, 9 adults, and a dog together into a small space with a tree and a giant pile of presents and a CD of Christmas carols sung by a German boys' choir.

Yet somehow, with everybody pulling together (and with Mom, as usual, doing more than her share), it all worked gloriously. It always does, more or less, but this year was one of the better ones. We have spent a lot of time congratulating ourselves on this today, rehashing all the highlights and awkward moments while snacking on delicious food. And we have played games, taken naps, watched various things on various screens, and hugged each other.

And now we have used it all up, every last bit. There is no Christmas left.

Party Alert: Elevated.

2008-12-23T13:22:00.023-08:00

[Written the 23rd in Portland but, due to Blogger balkiness, posted the 25th from Eugene]

Due to the Unusual Quantities of Solid Precipitation around these parts, I have been increasingly uneasy about the trip south to Familytown, originally scheduled for December 24. It's only a two-hour trip, and I'm told the latter half of it has no snow at all, but the first half -- especially the getting-out-of-Snowyville part -- well, I wasn't sure how that was going to work. It was just going to have to all melt today, was all.

It doesn't look like that's going to happen. No, my Christmas Miracle has taken another form, the form of a gleaming white snow-beast with high strength and agility stats, and also some magical powers. Yes, the Mighty Thor is taking me back to my hometown for Christmas, which is even better than hitching a ride in Santa's sleigh! No, really, look:

ADVANTAGES OF RIDING WITH THOR
- enclosed cab
- heater
- upholstered seats
- nice stereo system
- two hours of conversation with two good friends
- direct route, no stopping at every house along the way
- arrive early in the day instead of in the middle of the night

ADVANTAGES OF RIDING WITH SANTA
- reindeer-powered flight
- bragging rights
- ...

See? Really, the only down side to this is that I don't know exactly how I'm getting back to Portland. At this point it looks like I'll be able to hitch a ride back north with somebody else, and bus/train possibilities are also an option, at least until they sell out. But if this "snow" madness continues, well, who knows.

So the real reason for this post is to alert you, well in advance, that there is a faint possibility I may have to reschedule the party on Sunday. I really think I'll make it back in time, but if by chance I don't, you might not think to check my blog in the (possibly minimal) amount of time that I'd be able to give notice. So keep it on your calendar, but stay tuned for further updates.

Okay, This is a Tricky One.

2008-12-21T21:33:00.003-08:00

What has two thumbs and...

...has another snow day off from work tomorrow?

...finished getting the living room ready for party guests today?

...turned the chairs toward the front window for more convenient watching of passers-by on skis, snowshoes, snowmobiles and snowboards?

...is looking forward to the end of the cold snap and the return to regularly scheduled rain, especially if that happens in time to get to Mom and Dad's for Christmas?

You got it. This girl.

Tracking.

2008-12-18T22:13:00.005-08:00

To the pedestrian wearing large boots who, while passing northward on my street, paused late this afternoon to leave me a message, I offer the following reply: (o_O)

Of Winter Weather and Penguins.

2008-12-17T20:25:00.003-08:00

You know how people from places with Real WinterTM tsk-tsk about how just the slightest amount of snowy/icy weather sets Portlandia on her bronze arse because she doesn't have the road-clearing equipment in place to deal with it?

I suspect she's doing it on purpose. Because sometimes it's not an entirely bad thing to have everything just -stop- for a day or two.

Sunday I broke out the heavy-duty winter gear (which, incidentally, was mostly also my watch gear on the Chieftain) and took the bus downtown and back. The wind was face-bitey cold. I growled at it as I waited and waited and waited for the delayed buses.

Monday I got the morning off, and then when nobody showed up to use the library and the furnace went all feeble, I also took half the afternoon off.

Tuesday was a full workday for me, but today was a false-alarm snow day. Storm warnings gave me the day off, but the weather warmed up this afternoon and melted a lot of this week's snowfall.

Needless to say, I'm feeling pretty spoiled. It's been one of those pajamas-all-day days, I have food in my fridge and a fully operational furnace (with insulated ducts!), most of my gift shopping is done, and there's plenty indoors to amuse me. Unpacking boxes of stuff from storage serves the triple purposes of entertainment, practicality, and reminding me of how thoroughly all my needs are met. Now I am sitting by my mouse-proofed heater vent, listening to StG Sean's Best Songs of 2008 on the Eee and drinking belly-warming ginger tea.

I wanted to follow up on that post where I said I hadn't used the Linux command line yet. Well, I have now. I'm a little deeper into the OS at this point, though not much; I've run up against some problems, and figured out how to fix most of them. So I can give you a more detailed review.

Linux, even Ubuntu Linux, is still not for everybody. If you're not interested in rolling up your sleeves and figuring some things out for yourself, your experience with it right now would be that it's kinda like having a PC, but without the nice software. You'd be keenly aware of the disadvantages, but completely oblivious to the advantages.

Someday in the not-too-distant future, Linux will be for everybody. Right now, however, it is very much for me. There are a number of things about it that still don't work the way I want them to, but when I muster up the discontent to fix something, by golly it gets fixed, and I learn a ton in the process. Finding answers in the uncharted maze of internet message boards, for someone in my ignorant state, requires dogged determination and internet-searching savvy. But the truth is out there. I find a kind of fierce joy in the hunt, and deep satisfaction when I've succeeded.

This is not much of a sales pitch for most of my readers, I know. Most people would rather interact with their operating system in much the same way I prefer to interact with my car: most of the time it works just fine, and on the rare occasion that it doesn't, I take it to some nice guys who know all about it and they make it work again. It's just that my early experience with computers was analogous to the kid who grows up tinkering with cars.

For me, the huge advantage of an open-source operating system running open-source software is that this car is continually being reinvented in better and better ways, by people who do it just because they love to invent and fix things. It's collaborative, not controlled by a commercial interest, so it's more chaotic but also richer. And while you may be on your own for the labor, the parts are free.

I still haven't explained the appeal very well. Maybe that's because it's bedtime now, or maybe it's because it's less about practicality and more about attitude, which is harder to translate into rational arguments. I recently saw a spoof of the "I'm a Mac/I'm a PC" commercials with a perky female "I'm-a-Linux" added to the original duo. I won't link to it here because she didn't present any kind of compelling argument for Linux, objectively or subjectively (she was actually pretty annoying). If I were filming this kind of spoof, the Mac/PC guys would be joined by a big ol' emperor penguin, which would waddle up and just stand next to them and make penguiny noises, and they would look confused and slightly alarmed.

Any Excuse Will Do.

2008-12-14T11:37:00.004-08:00

I know, I know. It's not news anymore that I'm back in Portland to stay. But it's not such old news that we can't use it as an excuse for Fun Times. Therefore:

This is your invitation to the Lindsey's-Back-In-Town Party!

When: Sunday, December 28, 1:30 to 9:00 p.m. Come when you like, leave when you're ready.
Where: My house. If you don't know where my house is, e-mail me. If you don't know what my e-mail is, leave a comment with yours.

SEE how barren my place is without the Chainsaw Famile (who recently moved into a house of their very own) !
MARVEL at the amazing midget computer !
MINGLE with other cool friends of mine !
GIVE me a deadline for getting my stuff out of cardboard boxes !

Here are some (optional) things you can bring to enhance the party fun:
- Tasty food or beverages to share.
- Your friends and relatives.
- A board or card game you've been wanting to play (sorry, no Risk).
- Unwanted women's clothing of any size. There will be a swap pile, and leftovers will be passed on to women in need.

Don't RSVP, just show up. See you ~~there~~ here!

Information = Love.

2008-12-05T23:10:00.004-08:00

I haven't yet made the effort to locate a Linux driver for my scanner. So no comics tonight. However, I did discover some things on the internet that are currently blowing my mind, and I thought you might want to know about them:

1. Google Reader's shared items function. Are you using Google Reader? If so, did you know about this, how you can annotate blog posts you find worth passing on and make them available for friends to view? Because I have recently discovered that this is incredibly cool, and I'm surprised that only 4 of my friends have seen fit to share what they're reading with me.

2. Kiva.org, which works like this: you make a small loan (as little as $25) to a struggling third-world entrepreneur. S/he uses it to invest in, say, pigs for a farm, or supplies for a store, and then pays it back to you within a specified period. Then you can choose to either take your money back, or loan it to somebody else. The system is really well thought out and has a great track record. I don't know many people who can spare $25 right now, but when you have enough to share, here is a way to do it that is both worthwhile and fun.

3. Esau Mwamwaya's reinvention of the Vampire Weekend song "Cape Cod Kwassa Kwassa", which I found here, and which might be the most purely joyful thing I experienced this whole craptastic week. The song is not for sale anywhere, so download it quickly before it goes away!

News Flash!

2008-12-02T21:27:00.003-08:00

The Third of December is the last Third of 2008!

New Computer, New OS.

2008-11-26T22:04:00.003-08:00

So I bought the tiny computer, and I installed Ubuntu Eee on it.

The computer is indeed cute. Combined with the cutest of the new Gmail Themes (Tea House, awww), it is almost criminally adorable. Overall, I am quite pleased with it. It is both more powerful and more portable than the laptop it replaces. Its only flaw, as far as I'm concerned, is the increased eyestrain I get from trying to read smaller fonts on its screen. I suspect there are ways around this, but that will take a bit of research and experimentation. In the meantime, I'm quickly losing what little love I had remaining for tiny-fonted websites like Yahoo! Mail and Bloglines (and am already making the transition to Google Reader, though I'm not ready to invite all the clutter at my Yahoo account over to Happy Gmail Land).

Figuring out how to install Ubuntu was a challenge -- not because of any flaw in the software, but because nobody mentioned that the default Windows CD-burning software won't burn you a bootable disk. Hmm. Wonder why Microsoft left that feature out? Also, Windows booted so dang fast on the thing that I kept missing my microsecond of opportunity to get into the BIOS. So my weekend went kind of like this*:
*highly abridged

ME: F2! F2 F2 F2!
WINDOWS: Hello!
ME: Look, I'm trying to boot to an external drive here, do you mind?
[REBOOT]
ME: F2 F2 F2 F2 F...
WINDOWS: Hello!
ME: What am I doing wrong here?
WINDOWS: Where would you like to go today?
ME: Hush, you. Maybe I was using a faulty CD?
[BURN NEW CD AND REBOOT]
ME: F2 F2 F2!
WINDOWS: Hello!
ME: Augh! Maybe the new burner I got is not working. I'll try burning this on the old laptop. Good thing its keyboard is miraculously working again!
[BURN NEW CD AND REBOOT]
ME: F2 F2 F2!
WINDOWS: Hello!
ME: Borscht! Frarble! I sure won't miss you when you're gone, Windows. But you seem awfully reluctant to say goodbye. Could it be that you are secretly foiling my attempts to burn a bootable disk? I wouldn't put it past you.
[TO GOOGLE] How do I burn an ISO disk?
GOOGLE: Different software you need. Here, free it is.
ME: Ha! Now we're talking. Take that, Windows!
[BURN NEW CD AND REBOOT]
ME: F2 F2 F2 EFFITY TWOOOOO it's not working why isn't it working aaaOH MY GOSH IT'S WORKING!
UBUNTU: Hi! I'm your new best friend!
[ANGELS SING]

And we all lived happily ever after.

Some of you might think I must be super geeky to be using Linux now, but I confess I have yet to use the command line. I haven't needed to yet at all. The graphic interface is super intuitive, and also, really pretty. So far, it's been a lot easier to use than Windows -- and it lets me call the shots, instead of getting all Gates knows best on me.

Granted, I'm still in the early exploratory phase, but the only sign of geekiness I've really encountered so far is the screen savers. Sooo many screen savers. There is one for almost every flavor of geek. There are 3D models of engines and gears for the engineering geeks, molecular structures for the chemistry geeks, Matrix-themed screensavers and flying toasters for the retro-geek-culture geeks. Fractals for the math geeks. Chess-themed screensavers, Moebius strips, galaxies spinning outward, cells that divide and die. Mesmerizing patterns with names like "3D Hypertorus" and "StonerView." I am particularly enamored of the one with the fireworks with colors that glint off the ground and overcast sky as the camera flies around and through them. Remember those first fireworks screensavers, the ones made of monochrome ASCII characters? Yeah. That's why it's so great.

Agh agh agh.

2008-11-12T18:01:00.003-08:00

My stove is fixed, but my laptop is broken. I mean, more broken; not only does it run hot and slow and have a broken hinge that makes it hard to keep the screen upright, but the keyboard has mostly stopped working.

If anyone still needed confirmation that I was not meant to be writing a novel this month, well, there you go. At least it waited until I was employed to break!

At this point the top contender for replacement* is the ASUS Eee PC, which is very small and lightweight, and also not very expensive. I am currently evaluating different models, of which there are approximately one billion? (That part is a little confusing.)

One of the most appealing things about the Eee is that there's a version of Ubuntu custom-designed for it. I've been meaning to make the switch from Windows to Linux for years, and now seems like as good a time as any. I've never actually used Linux, but the command-line interface is an old friend of mine, and if I have to change my OS, I'd much rather go open-source than Vista. Much much much rather.

Of course, this will mean a few dramatic changes in the way I compute: using an external DVD/CD drive, relying more heavily on an external hard drive for media storage, giving up some software I'm used to. I'm trying to determine all these changes ahead of time so there aren't any unpleasant surprises. The Eee isn't as powerful as standard-sized machines, so I won't be doing any video editing, for example, or multi-track audio editing, or playing newer games. But I wasn't doing any of those things anyway, so it's only the potential that I'd be missing. And if I really get an itch to do that kind of computing, I could assemble a desktop with a minimum of expense, rather than trying to get a laptop that will do everything.

So this is where I confess that the real purpose of this post is to tap into the collective knowledge of my friend circle(s). Do you, gentle reader, know anything about the Eee PC? Any reviews, caveats, prophecies of delight or doom? Know anybody who's got one? Have any ideas I haven't considered? Tell meee [Invader Zim voice]. I want to collect as much information as possible before committing to anything.

_____
*Naw, I'm not going to buy the next-generation XO. They're super cool, but the computing needs of a third-world child are substantially different from those of a first-world adult.

I Fail at Internet. Also: My House Hates Me!

2008-11-02T17:52:00.004-08:00

I am having some trouble readjusting to the 40-hour work week. How do you people get anything done? Actually, I know how I got things done in my last 40-hour-a-week job. I stayed up too late, and I ate a lot of instant food (which wasn't necessarily meeting my nutritional needs). Now I am trying not to do those things anymore, and between that and the 40 hours, my internet output has dwindled to zeroes (without any ones).

This bothers me. A lot. Besides the several things I have recently promised (and then neglected) to share with you here, there have been several events this week I have felt a dire urgency to write about. Having the desire to write, and then not writing, is really bad for someone who fancies herself a writer-type. It's like being in the mood to get some exercise, but not doing anything about it: you miss opportunities and discourage good habit-forming, and your muscles atrophy.

Also! I have not caught up on your blogs, comics, and other creative internet-based output. Still. So please, bear with me while I struggle with realigning my priorities. Time management has always been the hobgoblin of my little mind, and...

Stop the presses: my stove just up'n died. Which reminds me that the third of the month is the official day for things to break in my house (I'm serious, it's uncanny). So the stove is several hours ahead of the game. This makes me angry enough to give up my posture of penitent self-blame in favor of a rabid conspiracy theory involving not only all the appliances in my household, but also the U.S. Gummint (which has given me a big fat homework assignment due Tuesday).

Maybe I'll make a comic about it tomorrow. Because the third of the month is also the day for making comics. In case you forgot.

Intermission.

2008-10-23T23:42:00.001-07:00

Dear readers,

I ask your indulgence as I put the travel narrative on hold until Saturday.

Thank you for reading.

Lindsey

17 September: London.

2008-10-22T14:17:00.002-07:00

It is impossible to close the door to the hostel room quietly; it's got one of those misbegotten spring-loaded things that prevents you from manually pushing it shut, but grabs it out of your hand at the last minute: CLANGK. The reading woman (the same one we tried so hard not to bother the day before) leaves her extremely bright reading light on most of the night. The girl sleeping in the bunk below me comes in late, tosses and turns and mumbles in her sleep, and packs up noisily to leave in the early a.m. She also has such strong body odor that, even three feet above her, I keep wondering if it's me.

Given all that, I sleep surprisingly well. We leave the hostel late in the morning and swing by a pastry shop for breakfast. I sample a hot cross bun, which is not at all hot but fairly tasty.

We wander around Notting Hill and the Portobello Market. It's pretty, and mostly pretty expensive. My favorite "shop" is an old man with a table full of antique clutter: old glass transparencies, miscellaneous keys. We don't buy much; the knowledge that we have to carry whatever we buy for the next ten days has blunted our acquisitive instincts.

The next step is to get back to the Underground. We've walked quite a distance already, so rather than backtrack, we get directions from the map posted at a nearby bus stop. After a while we check another bus stop map. Later we start asking people for directions. This is not immediately helpful. I privately wonder if we are close to the world record for longest series of navigational errors.

Our next destination, which we reach approximately two hundred years later, is the Tate Britain (the national museum of British art). Mitchey's friend JT works there, and he is delighted to see us. I'm puzzled; in my current state of surly fatigue, I certainly wouldn't be delighted to see me. JT treats us to lunch at the museum cafe and answers all our questions about his life since we last saw him in Iowa City. "I've traveled around the world and lived in half a dozen countries," he says, "but London is the most foreign place I've ever lived." Communication here involves subtleties and nuances and secret codes that he is only just beginning to glimpse, let alone comprehend. We nod sympathetically.

When we have eaten at leisure and talked at length, he asks, "What would you like to see?" I want to see stuff by the Pre-Raphaelite brotherhood; he leads the way. The Pre-Raphs are colorful and dreamy, for the most part. I like them because they are art that tells stories, which is about half a step away from illustration, which is really my favorite kind of art. Mitchey's favorite of the Pre-Raphs is The Fairy Feller's Master-Stroke, which exhibits a level of detail suggestive of utter barking madness. I have a soft spot for Burne-Jones, and am fascinated by the story JT tells about the giant, melodramatic "Death of Arthur" that occupies one wall. Apparently this sort of thing was looked on as quite gauche for some time; no British museum would take it. "And now it is considered to be representative of British culture," JT says, grinning.

Would we like to see one of JT's favorite exhibits? We would. JT is a fan of J.M.W. Turner, an extraordinarily prolific painter and printmaker whose work proves to be well worth our inspection. JT tells us about the process of making engravings from watercolors. There is an interactive area where you can try to copy one of his drawings by hand. I try the simplest one. It's a lot less simple than I thought it was when I started.

Meanwhile, JT is talking to Mitchey about the toxicity and decomposition rates of various pigments. JT is interning in the Department of Conservation Science, where he devises and tests ways to preserve great works of art. He is currently testing a sealed frame designed to protect art from further decay.

Now JT wants to take us to the Print Room. Oh, we say, to see thee prints? No, says JT, there are no prints in the Print Room. There are originals in the Print Room. You can hold them in your hands.

Really?

As we wash our hands, JT introduces us to Lucy, who works in the Print Room. Lucy is vivacious, quick-witted, and as eager to bestow large amounts of knowledge on us as JT. Lucy gets out a box of original Turner watercolors. We hold them by their protective mats and ooh and ahh over the richness of detail and color. After the Turners, JT recommends we look at something by William Blake. The Blakes are mostly illustrations for Dante's Inferno; they are dark and flaming and tortured, and they are right there on the table, the very same lines and colors laid down by Crazy Blake himself, with not even a pane of glass between us.

One more, says JT. How about Beatrix Potter? And this is better than the Pre-Raphs: Lucy brings us illustrations. She brings out a box of original art from The Tailor of Gloucester. The watercolors are barely bigger than the books we are used to seeing them in. Otherwise, they don't look all that similar. Oh, the teeny tiny brushstrokes on the mouse whiskers! Oh, the colors of the fine clothes! There are some pages from the book stored in the box with the watercolors, and they're appallingly dim and blurry next to the originals. Why hasn't anyone re-scanned and republished these books? Everyone would want to upgrade!

The part of this account I am not doing justice to is the sheer amount of time JT and Lucy spend just talking and talking. They are extremely entertaining, so Mitchey and I don't mind. We are learning about how great works of art are transported between museums, about book preservations and how most materials marketed as "archival" are a joke. By the time we finish admiring the Potters, they've agreed that the next thing they need to show us is the death mask of ol' Turner. It used to be on display, but some museum official was creeped out by it, so now it lives in storage.

We follow Lucy behind the Prints Desk into a back room. She pulls out a wooden box and removes from it a whole head in shiny white plaster, toothless, sunken-eyed. It is so incredibly morbid that we have to say irreverent things about it out of sheer discomfort. Still, we're thrilled: nobody else gets to see this.

JT and Lucy continue to talk and talk, revealing gaping holes in museum security, making dark allusions to museum politics, and I am seriously dying on my feet but I don't want to end this adventure. Finally JT tells Lucy, We'd better get going. To us he says, I'll have to show you out, because at this point you are locked into the Tate. And we say, Cooool.

JT has to go back to his lab to get his bicycle, so we get to see the oven and the freezer and a few of the trays of test tubes he uses for his research. He invites us to join his wife and him for dinner, but warns that it may be difficult to get back from his part of town after the Underground quits running. We decline, reluctantly; we're supposed to meet our host for dinner tonight.

Our host is delayed. There have been computer problems at work (he's a history professor at what we would call a high school), and tons of important data have been lost. He was supposed to get off work early today; instead, he spent hours and hours of his own time trying to reconstruct what was lost. We go back to Earl's Court, retrieve our stuff and a pub supper, and head for our host's place; by this time, he is finally home.

The Canuck is gone, so it's just the three of us here tonight. Our host apologizes for being unable to show us around. He seems eager to talk to us, and I start to feel like maybe that whole thing the other night wasn't personal after all. We ply him with questions about English culture and the things we saw today. As a history professor, he is well prepared for our interrogation. He tells us he is currently teaching a course on the American Civil Rights movement, about which he knows a heck of a lot more than we do. Apparently all the major players we learned about in school were just figureheads, while the real work went on in the background. Huh. I wonder if the same thing isn't true about pretty much all of American history.

16 September: London.

2008-10-21T12:40:00.000-07:00

It's noon. I am lying on my back staring at my watch, trying to comprehend where and when I am, when the Canuck taps at the living room door (he slept on our host's bedroom floor last night). "Come in," I hiss, so as not to bother Mitchey, who is still inert. "I just woke up."

"Me too," he mouths.

"I'm awake," mumbles Mitchey. We are awake, it is noon, we are in England. We had plans to do a bit of sightseeing with the Canuck today, but he has some prep to do for his presentation tomorrow, and we have a hostel to locate. So, given the hour, we agree to part ways. Our host offered to let us leave some of our stuff at his place, so we cram overnight essentials into Mitchey's pack and head for the station.

Mitchey secures us two beds in a hostel via pay phone. Then we find a cafe which serves a decent Traditional English Breakfast. Have I mentioned what a brilliant meal this is? The other amazing thing is tea served English style. It is the nectar of the gods. What does America think it's doing, playing around with bags of Lipton in tepid water? Bah!

The hostel is in Earl's Court, a lot closer to London than where we've been staying. We check in and secure the pack in a locker. I like the hostel; it has a good vibe, looks clean, and the lady at the counter is patient with our one million questions. Our room has six beds; a woman is lying in one of them, reading. We whisper so as not to bother her.

Now it's time to See London, quickly, before we run out of daylight. We've been told that Bus #11 will take us past most of the major sights of downtown London. We take a bus to a very confusing bus depot, where the 11 is supposed to stop. There's a man in a kiosk who appears to be there for the purpose of assisting people. Mitchey approaches him and starts to ask a question, but before she can finish, another man pops up in the booth and says, "I'd like roast beef on rye. And a diet drink."

"Wha...?" says Mitchey.

The man points to her shirt. It's hot pink and has a dinosaur on it. The dinosaur is saying MAKE ME A SAND WICH. Ohhh, right. He and his co-worker proceed to dizzy us with hilarious banter for the next four minutes, while simultaneously answering all our directional questions. There is a lag between the moment they say something and the moment we comprehend their obscure, heavily accented wit, so we must come across as fairly dense. This only makes the whole thing more entertaining for everyone involved. We'd probably stand there being confused by them all day if it weren't for other people wandering up with questions of their own.

So we get on the 11, and we get off at Westminster, which has closed for the day. We take pictures. I take pictures of people taking pictures. It's late enough in the day that mine mostly come out dim and blurry. I want Mitchey to see the stuff she wants to see, but I'm pretty apathetic about The Sights, about photographing things that are photographed thousands of times a day. I follow her over a bridge, which is scenic and probably famous, and from which we have a nice view of the London Eye, Big Ben, and some really pretty stone lions. I realize I'm apathetic because I didn't research any of this beforehand, so I don't know what I'm looking at or why it's important. This is probably terrible, because I know that everything here is important and historic and laden with weighty meaning. But right now, I'm really just along for the ride. Been here, done this.

Mitchey wants to see Trafalgar Square. The first time she mentioned it, she called it Traffle-gar, and I thought it was so cute I almost didn't correct her. It's pretty dark by the time we get there, so we take underlit pictures of fountains and statuary. Mitchey's camera is better at this than mine, fortunately. Kids are climbing on the big lions at the base of the monument; we want to do this too, but we're daunted by their sleek shiny sides. It's just an awful long way to fall.

Neither of us really know what this whole Trafalgar thing is all about, to be honest. Having consulted her guidebook, Mitchey informs me that's Lord Nelson at the top of the giant column. Oh, I say, I've heard of him. What did he do? Mitchey asks. I wrack my brains. I guess he won the battle of Trafalgar, I finally reply. Mostly what I know is that Russell Crowe spoke of him reverently in "Master and Commander." Note to self: skim a few Wikipedia articles when I get home.

We go back to Earl's Court, get dinner at a little Indian place and drinks at a pub that closes just as we're emptying our glasses. I'm glad we're staying at Earl's Court; it has all the resources we need within a few blocks, and it feels good to be self-sufficient tonight.

15 September: Manchester to London.

2008-10-20T06:41:00.000-07:00

It' s my birthday. I'm really confused about when it started being my birthday, because I'm on an airplane. The airplane arrives in Manchester at 8am. Mitchey and I know we're in England because, first thing off the plane, we find ourselves in a queue.

It's only the queue where they check your passport and ask you questions about what you're doing there. You may argue that the same thing would happen if we were flying into the US. But no, if we were in the US, we'd be standing in a line.

I am always paranoid about this part, when they ask you point-blank why you're here and where you're going, but they don't lock us up for further interrogation, just say "Cheers" and wave us on. We get ourselves some pounds sterling and go looking for a way into town. There's an airport bus to the bus stop, and then it takes us a long time to figure out which bus to take, and how to get on it, to get to the town center where our third bus will be. Fortunately, we have planned our schedule to allow for this. We elicit help from a couple of police officers who are loitering around the bus terminal. One of them stares at the departures screen for a while, then grabs an employee who has walked past us several times, blind to our confused and helpless expressions. Information is exchanged, and we finally get on the bus to the town center.

The route winds through picturesque residential neighborhoods, tidy little streets and brick row houses and big old trees. I sort of thought Manchester would be grubbier, but I'm not sorry. The bus drops us in the general vicinity of our next connection, and we go in search of food.

The pub we settle on is shiny-new, spacious, and mostly empty. We're confused about how the ordering works here, and we sit in our window booth for quite a while before Mitchey goes up to the counter. That, it turns out, is how ordering works here: you go to the counter. At least we don't need to leave a tip when we order that way. We know this because we just looked it up in Mitchey's travel book.

I order a Traditional English Breakfast. I'd hate to eat it first thing on waking up, but it is pretty much the best lunch ever: fried egg, sausage, "bacon" (prepared like a slice of ham in the US), mushrooms, baked beans, toast, and a grilled or stewed toe-mah-toe. So basically what you have here is some protein with protein and a side of protein. And a couple of really happy Americans.

We kill the rest of the time waiting for the bus by people-watching. We observe that a neo-'80s look is the fashion here right now; that various kinds of dressy boots are the footwear of choice for women; that English people of African descent dress and behave nothing at all like African-Americans. Mitchey thinks we kind of blend in here because we're white (most of her overseas travel has been in Asia). I think we stand out because a) she's wearing a very colorful outfit, and people here all wear neutrals with maybe one color if they're feeling adventurous, and b) I'm wearing hiking boots, and no one else here is wearing any kind of outdoor adventure-type shoes. Also, we have bulky backpacks and fresh-off-the-plane expressions.

Our bus driver to London is in a foul mood. He storms out of the bus and opens the luggage compartments, yelling something we don't understand in an accent we don't recognize. People stand around looking confused. Some of them put their luggage into the compartments. He yells some more, takes them back out and shakes his head. One guy who sounds like he's from India mutters, "Well what the **** am I supposed to do then?" The driver overhears this and gets in a shouting match with the guy. Nobody is happy about it. Two guys behind me are muttering about racism.

Finally the driver gets over himself and lets us all board. The bus is full and quiet. I prop my head against my inflatable neck pillow and sleep most of the way to London. I know you're not supposed to do that, take naps while jetlagged, but I'm just too darn tired to care.

I'll never be a huge fan of London, but I find on this second visit that I don't hate it anymore. Perhaps that's because my luggage doesn't get rifled through, nor my camera stolen, nor am I locked out of a hotel room with no one to let me in. Perhaps it's because I'm not there with a group of college students from Oklahoma. Still, this city stresses me out. It's full of people who are in a hurry to get to someplace they don't look at all happy about reaching.

Mitch and I agree that our wisest course for this first day would be to just find our way to our host's neighborhood, so we can meet him there when he gets off work. He lives a good distance southwest of London. We take the underground and the train to his station, then call him, and after a little while he pops up smiling. He smiles a lot. At first we think he's really happy to see us. While that may well be the case, we realize later that it's his reflexive response to everything.

Our host's home is a tiny one-bedroom flat, which we will share with a fourth person that night, a Canuck who's in town for a conference in French Literature. He arrives shortly after we do. We three travelers are very hungry, but our host is recovering from a bout of food poisoning. He tells us where to find restaurants and we leave him in peace.

It's my birthday, so I get to pick. Unfortunately, the options we're aware of are all in a shopping center. We were hoping for a quaint little pub or something, but the closest analogue seems to be... Tony Roma's? Oh, no no no. I pick sushi.

The sushi wasn't bad, I insist as we leave the restaurant; bad sushi is sushi that leaves you spending quality time with a toilet. It just wasn't good sushi. Nor was it cheap sushi. But hey, it's okay. We're in London, and we have a place to stay and a couple of new friends, sort of, maybe.

The Canuck is a cutie; we're both a little crestfallen when he mentions his girlfriend. (Not like anything would happen; it just, you know, removes a variable from the equation, so that you can't pretend you don't know what the answer is anymore.) When pressed, he tells us about the presentation he is making for the conference, which I think has something to do with narrators who refuse to narrate, or who say things by not saying them. He is extremely polite and a little tense. We like him, but we don't really click with him. At the time I think it's culture clash (we're doing it all wrong, we're too American); looking back later, it seems to me it has more to do with travel fatigue than anything.

Our host is happy to sit and talk with us when we return. He has hosted over 200 people in the past three years. I press him for stories about terrible guests. His best one involves a huge Icelander who sat around watching TV all day, and was grumpy because the host didn't have time to show him around the city. The host loaned him keys to the house and flat, which the Icelander put in the wrong lock and broke off, so that the main entry door to the house couldn't be opened at all. Then he banged on the window of the neighboring flat (in the same house). The neighbor lady opened it, and he tried to climb through. He got stuck. The fire department was called to extricate him. In the UK, you pay out of pocket for a visit from the fire department, so after that and the locksmith, this guy was quite a costly guest.

Then he went home and wrote a bad review for his host on the Couchsurfing site.

Mitchey and I are trying really really hard to be good guests. We are in kind of a spot, though. We had planned to stay somewhere else tomorrow night, then come back and stay with this host again. But our in-between host got confused and gave our spot away to someone else. We ask our present host if we can stay the following night as well. He won't answer directly. This obviously means "no," even though he's smiling for all he's worth. Okay, we say, we'll find ourselves a hostel, no problem, don't worry about it.

Later, we overhear him invite the Canuck to stay tomorrow night. We spend the rest of the evening trying to convince ourselves not to take it personally, while wondering what we did wrong. To be fair: three guests are obviously more stressful than one, and we have no right to expect more than the original hosting arrangement. But. It's all just very weird and uncomfortable. Or is it we who are weird and uncomfortable? We're probably making too big a deal out of this. Or aren't we? Are we? Aren't we?

We can't get to sleep. We toss and turn on the sofa cushions laid out on the floor, and they slide out from under us. The night drags on and on, but at some point I find myself blinking at my watch in a sunlit room, and it's not my birthday anymore, not anywhere in the world.

New Start in the Old Place.

2008-10-19T21:52:00.003-07:00

I am back in Portland now, as of yesterday. It feels good. The amazingly gorgeous weather that has followed me all the way from Maui to Chicago to the UK to Nashville continues to dog my steps. (I'm bracing myself for the backlash.)

So I've decided not to write a novel this November. I have a lot of catching up to do in pretty much every area of my life, including unpacking half my possessions from cardboard boxes, including starting a new job, including hanging out with you, if you live in Portland. Including books I want to read, events I want to attend, local places I want to visit, projects I want to resume. NaNoWriMo requires you to put your normal life on hold for a month, and I've had mine on hold for the past four. Right now, I just want to work out what the new normal is.

Chris Baty sent me an e-mail letting me know I'm letting down the entire human race, especially him, by not participating. I hate to disappoint the guy... but since I have pretty much sat on the past three completed manuscripts, I suspect my non-participation will dismay no one else except those who are participating in NaNo. To you, my friends, I apologize, and salute you.

I am currently in the process of writing up a day-by-day account of my trip to the UK, which I will publish here, starting tomorrow. Fair warning: if you're reading my blog on LJ, these posts will clutter up your friends page with giant blocks of text.

This week I also plan to begin catching up on blink twice (I'm still taking photos every single day, just not posting them), and also my regular ol' photo collection which resides on a popular photo hosting site. (If you don't know about the latter, e-mail me for the link; I'm still leery of putting it here.) It's kind of a big project. Heh. I do not miss the old days of being stingy with film at all.

Oh yeah, and comics, of course!

Nudge, Nudge.

2008-10-02T08:30:00.003-07:00

I hope you don't think that just because I'm away having adventures, I forgot what tomorrow is.

I hope you don't think that just because I missed a month, I'm out of the game.

I hope you don't think that I'm going to let you off the hook.

Tomorrow, some things will happen to you, or maybe you will make some things happen. You need to record those things in words and images. You really do.

At least three of them.

And I will, too.

Five Items and Two Lists.

2008-09-30T18:39:00.005-07:00

Item the First.
I have returned from the UK. It was beyond awesome, and difficult to leave. I took several hundred pictures and a lot of notes, both of which I intend to share after some editing. I am now hanging out in Chicago and enjoying myself a good deal.

Item the Second.
I also took a lot of pictures at the Feast of the Hunters' Moon last weekend, which will also be shared in due time. I was expecting a sort of Renaissance Fair with pioneers and injuns, but it was about 78 times cooler than that. It is more authentic than SCA events and more relaxed than Civil War reenactments. I am really jealous that we don't have anything quite like it in the Pacific Northwest, because I would be So Into It.

Item the Third.
After the weekend, I got to witness two of my favorite sailors getting married to each other, and that was also extremely wonderful.

Item the Fourth.
So, remember that interview I kept mentioning? Today I found out that I got the job. As of October 21st, I'll be the Instruction and Electronic Services Librarian for Warner Pacific College. It's a position I was eyeing with envy way back when I was working for Cascade, and it is probably the only one that could have even motivated me to apply for a long-term library job at this point, so it's very gratifying to have actually landed it.

This means I'll be able to walk to work from my house. It also means a lot of other things, one of which is not being available for as much travel and crazy jobs and boat adventures, which is sad, but another of which is being present for a lot of wonderful Portland events that I've been missing out on, which is happy. For example, it probably means I'll be doing NaNoWriMo this November.

Item the Fifth.
I learned a lot from living out of a backpack for almost two weeks in the UK. I made some lists about packing, and I am putting them here mostly for my own reference, but perhaps also for your amusement.

Things I Wish I'd Brought:
- A more comfortable pack. Mine was plenty large and plenty sturdy, but the straps weren't padded enough for carrying it around all day, and my shoulders let me know about it. For some reason this bothered me a lot more than it did when I carried the same pack across Europe in '95.
- Chamois travel towel. I brought a thin, lightweight towel, but as we were staying in a different place almost every night, there were just too many times that towel got packed away wet. Near the end of my trip I invested in a synthetic chamois towel; it's tiny, effective, and wrings out nearly dry. Genius.
- Plastic shower shoes (flip-flops). I left them behind because I thought both flip-flops and Tevas would be overkill. But I don't dare use public (i.e. hostel) showers barefoot, because I pick up foot diseases way too easily. As a result, my Tevas were so funky by the time I got back to Chicago that, in my exhausted post-flight state, I convinced myself that putting them in the dryer would be a good idea. It wasn't. I am really missing those Tevas.
- One more t-shirt. I thought I'd buy thrift store clothes once we got there, but their thrift stores were really uninspiring. Lots of American labels, prices weren't great, and also the UK is going through this big 80s-retro phase right now. Ugh. So I spent more time than I wanted to in laundrettes (UK laundromats), when an extra shirt or two wouldn't have taken up all that much room in my pack.
- Google Maps printouts of all the towns we were going to. Easier to hand one of those to a local and ask them to point out your destination, rather than try to remember a rambling list of directions followed by the fateful phrase: "You can't miss it." Whenever we heard that, we knew we were doomed.
- Contact info for a couple of hostels in all of the cities/towns we went to, in case our host didn't work out. We had this for some places but not others. Once we were really glad we had it. Another time we really wished we had.
- Travel sized toiletries. A full sized toothbrush is just an awkward thing to have in a backpack. So is a half-empty full sized tube of toothpaste. Two tiny tubes would have been better.
- Melatonin pills. My travel buddy shared hers with me a couple of times, and it seemed to help with the jetlag, though it may be that I just like a good placebo now and then.

Things I'm Really Glad I Brought:
- A compression-type bag. Not the kind with the buckles and straps, but one that you can force all the air out of. I'm used to having less and less space in my luggage as laundry day approaches; with this thing, I actually had more.
- Inflatable neck pillow. I may never travel without one again.
- A book of short stories. Great for distracting myself from my immediate surroundings without getting lost in an extended narrative.
- Alarm clock. We didn't set it the first night in London, and we woke at noon sharp.
- Mom's iPod Shuffle. With its several limitations came the significant advantage of taking up basically no space at all. Thanks, Mom!
- Extra earplugs. Easy to lose, hard to sleep in strange places without.
- Extraordinarily compatible travel buddy. Have to admit I got really lucky there.

A Letter from Busyland.

2008-09-11T22:00:00.003-07:00

Thank you to all of you who sent me screenshots of your feedreaders. I used several of those today in my presentation. They were the most effective and interesting part of it. I apologize to Mac users for assuming that screenshots were just one of those things all Mac people know about. But, really, come on, a little frolicking is never a bad idea.

The presentation was for an interview. The former wasn't really great, but I think the latter went all right anyway. However I am not too sure of anything right now because my brain is sort of cooked.

So, interview, check. Heating duct insulation, check, and boy am I glad to have that nightmare behind me. Now that I don't have to make myself crawl under the house anymore, I can come out and admit to myself that it was really, really horrible. Disgusting, and excruciating, and full of health hazards. The fact that I actually finished the job is evidence of my incredible stubbornness, if anybody needed that. (My parents didn't.)

The third task (aren't there always three?) remains unfinished: packing for the London/Chicago trip. So I am officially behind schedule now, because I had hoped to be in Eugene hanging out with the fam by this time. But, as I said before, my brain has already decided to call it a day. (Good thing brains aren't a requirement for blogging!) So I think the best I can do tonight is to find most of the stuff on my packing list and throw it on the floor in a big pile, and then throw myself on the bed in a little pile.

It has been really good to be back in Portland again for a little while, even though I spent way too much of that time rolling around in cobwebs and mouse poo. I am extremely grateful that staying with my renters, the Chainsaws, has not actually been at all awkward. "It should be, but it isn't," I told them, to which Mr. Chainsaw responded, "We'll have to work on that." See what I mean? So accommodating.

Aggregators in Action!

2008-09-06T20:56:00.003-07:00

An odd request: If you use a feedreader other than Bloglines (for example, Google Reader, or whatever else the kids are using these days), could you send me a screenshot of your aggregator doing its thing? Please make sure the active content is family-friendly and, er, preferably not my blog. The resulting image will be used for educational purposes, and you will remain anonymous unless you wish credit to be given.

How to take a screenshot (Windows):
1. Push the Print Scrn button. (On my laptop keyboard, you have to hold down Shift to activate it.)
2. Open Windows Paint.
3. Paste (Ctrl-V).
4. Save the file.

How to take a screenshot (Mac):*
1. Think happy thoughts.
2. Frolic.
3. Lick the screen.
4. Isn't life grand?
*All Mac users were born knowing how to take screenshots.

How to take a screenshot (handheld):
1. I have no idea, but if you do, that would be awesome. (Come to think of it, a photo would work, too.)

This request expires the morning of Wednesday, September 10th. Mahalo!

Argust is Over, and On to September.

2008-09-01T20:38:00.002-07:00

It's the first of September! Soon to be followed by the Third! (Hooray for airport comics!)

Today may or may not have been my last day of work, depending on whether or not we get a charter tomorrow. There are a few hours left, but... we probably won't. As last days of work go, this one (if it was indeed the last) was pretty nice. We had three passengers (you can see two of them on this page, yes, I'm serious) who were very mellow and pleasant to have on board. And they all caught some fish. Yay! And then they didn't want the fish, so I didn't have to clean them. Double yay! ...because the ride home was bumpy, and I am always a little skittish about using a sharp knife on a cutting board that keeps jumping around.

Also, Cousin K in his great mercy decided to forego the long-standing tradition of shoving harbor employees into the harbor on their last day of work. Good call, Cousin K.

Mitchey and I have been planning and planning for our UK trip. Our current itinerary looks something like this:
9/15-17 London (perhaps you've heard of it?)
9/18-19 Portsmouth (home of the HMS Victory)
9/20-21 Cardiff (capital of Wales)
9/22-24 Machynlleth (at the edge of Snowdonia National Park)
9/25-26 Manchester (where the relevant airport is)

We plan to stay in homes rather than hostels, which will allow us to connect with locals instead of just the backpacking subculture. We're setting most of that up through an international hospitality network called Couchsurfing, which seems almost too good to be true. (You didn't think we'd stay in hotels, did you? Pfff! That would be way too normal for us.)

In the meantime, my brief upcoming stay in Portland just got further congested by the addition of an all-day job interview. I am not going to say any more about that until I have something definite to tell you (but that doesn't mean you can't speculate).

In the Future, Everything's Smaller.

2008-08-25T20:06:00.004-07:00

I have been obsessed with an idea for half the summer.

Back in July, hhw mentioned that Jay Shafer, the designer of Tumbleweed Tiny Houses, was passing through Oregon with his own tiny house. I clicked on the link and was mesmerized. I really wanted to see it! But the best I could do from Hawaii was to talk ah and colorfulveggies into going to see it for me. To their credit, they not only went, but documented the visit and even purchased books on my behalf (thank you so much!).

The initial appeal is obvious: It's sooo cute! And it's super efficient! And it goes places! I like to go places. I sought out and consumed as much information as I could about these houses. I looked at other tiny lodgings, too, and found that Tumbleweeds were my favorite by far. I was delighted and inspired by the story of tiny house dweller Dee Williams (video, article), even though her lifestyle is a little more stripped-down than I would want. But as much fun as this research was, I expected the charm of the daydream to fade after a week or two.

It didn't. I just kept thinking about it and thinking about it. What would living in a tiny house be like? How would it make my life better? What would I have to give up? Where would I want to park it? And: If I decide I'm serious about this, how could I make it happen?

That last question is the most vexing one. I lack both the funds to purchase a tiny house outright, and the skills to build one myself. I mean really, I am not even good with a hammer. I have a major asset in the form of a house, but I believe it would be unwise to sell it -- it's an unbelievably great investment, and the market is terrible right now anyway. Then again, I put an awful lot of money into it for the amount of time I've spent there in the past couple of years. And I'm not tired of traveling yet, oh no.

So... I haven't made any decisions. But I have mulled it over to the point where I'm pretty sure that, if I could find a way to acquire a Tumbleweed without selling my "big" house, I would. My reasons include:
- save money on cost of living
- save time/effort on housekeeping
- simplify and streamline my lifestyle
- be nicer to the planet
- can leave it empty for months at a time at no real loss
- can pick it up and move to other interesting places (and back again)
- can live in community with others, yet maintain personal space
- can move on-site to assist parents if they get all feeble on me someday
- still have room for guests, if guests aren't claustrophobic

It's just an idea. But that's where everything always starts. So don't say I didn't warn you.

And if you think you might be interested in renting out about 100 square feet of your yard for any period of time, let me know!

Better Than a Day at the Office.

2008-08-24T20:57:00.002-07:00

Bottom-fishing here works like this:

1. Position the boat juuust right.
2. Drop the lines (to depths of 180 feet or more).
3. Allow the current and/or wind to move the boat over the fish (visible on the depth-finder).
4. Wait for nibbles.
5. Reel-reel-reel the lines back up again.
6. GOTO: 1.

Today was about as nice as it gets out there. The waters were calm, and we got a couple peaceful hours in before the wind found us. The fish were biting slow but steady, maybe averaging one catch per drop (six passengers fishing). And they were nice and big. The state record for the blue line snapper (my old friend the taape) is about two pounds, and most of these were at least 3/4 of that. And there were several sizeable soldierfish, and a big pink goatfish, and a sizeable triggerfish (sorry, boot-boot).

The triggerfish is always a good thing to catch, because you can say "This is the guy who was stealing your bait" and show off the trick with the trigger. The trigger is a stout dorsal spine which the fish can lock into place; right behind it, there is a second spine which unlocks it. So the fish can lock itself into a hole in the rocks, and no other fish can pull it out. The trick is to show the passenger you can lower the first spine without letting him/her see you touch the second spine, and then ask them to push down the first one. Nobody can.

The passengers were decent, too, and that always helps. Sometimes you get people who are rude without meaning to be, and sometimes you get people who are rude on purpose. Sometimes you get guys who think that because they've fished for other fish in other places, they already know how to catch these fish in this place. (The real fishermen know that techniques are different for different fish and different waters.) Most people are pretty nice, like these were. They also followed directions well, and they seemed to enjoy themselves, which is really all you can ask for.

So, you know, not a bad way to spend an August day.

A Birthday and a Tournament.

2008-08-23T20:14:00.004-07:00

Today is Alfhild's birthday. In celebration of this event, I am finally getting around to posting the comics she e-mailed me, and I thought I'd share them with you here. They indicate (accurately) that she leads an Eventful Life.

July #1 & #2
July #3

August #1 & #2
She outsourced her third August comic to her cousin Hans. I sincerely hope it's fictional.

* * *

Last weekend was the Lanai Rendezvous fishing tournament. This is an annual event that draws sport fishermen from around the islands. My cousins compete every year, and place frequently, as did their father before them.

We set out before dawn on Friday, trolling lines out, heading on past Lahaina, past the farthest point I'd ever been on any charter. That first day was 12 hours of motoring, amazing scenery, amazingly smooth water... which still amounted to a bit of bouncing around.

We hooked a marlin that morning, our first this summer. I got to reel up the line while Cousin K sweated it, taking in and taking in whenever the fish gave him the opportunity. (That's legal in this tournament.)

Cousin M and Cousin K gaffed and clubbed the fish. When they smacked it in the head, its dark sides turned iridescent, instantly. The two of them hoisted it onto the swim step (a low platform behind the stern of the boat) and lashed it there. I stared at it for a long time. It had a strong smell that was nothing like what people mean when they describe something as "fishy-smelling." It smelled wild and salty and clean.

We went on, north and then west, around the east end of Molokai, looking for fish or indications of fish: birds or things floating on the water. Any sizeable piece of trash in those waters, say a broken styrofoam cooler, attracts microscopic sea life, which attracts larger sea life which, ultimately, attracts very large predators. We caught one more fish, an aku (skipjack tuna), that day.

The northeast shore of Molokai is steep and green. There is a tiny island there, a jagged rocky tooth sticking high out of the water, topped with a grove of a kind of palm tree found nowhere else in the world. There is a house perched high on a cliff that can only be reached by boat. There is a village called Kalaupapa, in a national park, which is inhabited by about 25 patients with Hansen's disease (leprosy), and about 25 park caretakers. Kalaupapa is accessible by air, by sea, or by steep mountain foot trails. It is off limits to anyone who is not a federal employee unless you have an invitation from a resident.

Could we use the mooring ball in the tiny harbor at Kalaupapa? With the gift of our one aku, and the proper name-dropping (sometimes I think my cousins are only two degrees of separation from anyone in the state), we could. It's not everywhere you can trade a fish for a parking space.

We didn't set foot on shore, but camped on the boat: Cousin M, Cousin K, Cousin K's girlfriend, and me. I lay on the afterdeck across from the marlin, which had been zipped into an insulative fish bag with a lot of ice. It was quiet on shore, but the wind and water and boat conspired to make little slappy and clunky noises all night. Half-aware of my surroundings, I dozed until I heard a splash and loud breathing next to the boat. We all jumped up to see what was going on: Had someone fallen overboard? Did we have a visitor from the shore? No, it was an inquisitive young monk seal: a rare sight.

Zooming away from shore as the sun came up, we continued west around Molokai, with a detour by the appealingly named O Buoy. The buoy has the same effect as a piece of floating trash: it attracts things, and other things that like to eat them. The waters around the buoy were rougher, but we caught several more aku and a couple of ahi (yellowfin tuna) there. Farther on, we caught a small mahi mahi. Now we had four out of the five fish recognized in the tournament, and we crossed our fingers for a clean sweep: all we needed was an ono (wahoo).

But time was short. We had to get the fish in and weighed by 5:00, and the ono felt no such pressure to take our lures. So we swung out around the west side of Lanai and pulled into Manele Bay, already crowded with other contestants, vessels rafted together, fishermen calling to one another. For many of them this is an annual reunion. Here we were met by Cousin M's girlfriend and by my Auntie, and by Cousin K's girlfriend's folks. After weighing the marlin (191 pounds, and not smelling so good anymore), K and M were lost in the crowd, greeting old friends and comparing stories. I walked down the road to the beach, where I scrubbed my crusty self under the cool trickle of a beach shower. Even with low pressure and limited privacy, it was one of those transformative showers, where you feel like a completely different person afterward. Maybe you know what I'm talking about.

Later there was a dinner, and awards. Our marlin, which I had been assured was not really that big for a marlin, turned out to be big enough to win second place. "The evening is just beginning," a stranger with a few beers in him told me, and I nodded politely. Then I picked my way back across the obstacle course of boats, unrolled my sleeping bag on the deck, inserted earplugs, and closed my eyes while the party shifted into high gear around me: fireworks, voices talking and shouting, competing stereos, bright lights, footsteps back and forth across the boat. In the morning we would get up and take the last leg of the journey home, but now, floating on the din, I set my consciousness adrift and was at peace.

Here It Is, It Is a Post.

2008-08-23T01:13:00.003-07:00

oh man why did I say I was gonna post every day for... whatever, WHATEVER

Today was a day I thought I would have a lot of free time and it did not work out that way at all, and now it is late and I am tired. So instead of a long post telling you about the fishing tournament last weekend, I will give you my itinier... itineri... schedule for the next couple months:

- On September 3 I fly back into Eugene. That is really soon! 12 days to be exact.
- Then I will drive back to Portland for maybe almost a week. During that time, I plan to finish insulating my heating ducts while infringing on my renters' privacy. I am sorry that I will probably not have time to hang out with hardly any of you, Portland friends.
- Then I will drive back to Eugene (my parents are really good car-sitters, plus it's an excuse to see them) and fly from there to Chicago!
- Then I will fly from Chicago to England with my friend Mitch!
- We will be in England for almost two weeks, during which time we will see London, Portsmouth, Wales, and a lot of buses. Then we will fly back to Chicago.
- Then I think we will go to the Feast of the Hunters' Moon in Indiana. I have a friend who blacksmiths there every year.
- Then my friend who blacksmiths will marry my friend who left Starbucks for the sea.
- Then I will go to Nashville and spend a week with Nashvillainous types (the Bombadil family).
- Then I will go back to Chicago and hang out with Mitch and some other old friends.
- Then I will come back to Portland via Eugene. It will probably be the middle of October by that time.
- And then... I don't know. I might look for work in Portland, or I might try to get work picking cranberries near Gray's Harbor. *shrug* Right now I'm just happy to have this much planned out.

Hawaiian Chieftain vs. Marjorie Ann.

2008-08-21T23:54:00.002-07:00

HC: 65' square tops'l ketch (steel hull)
MA: 25' cabin cruiser (fiberglass hull)

HC: 8-17 crew, up to 42 passengers
MA: 2 crew, up to 6 passengers

HC: primary activity = sailing
MA: primary activity = fishing

HC: 3 hour trips
MA: 4 hour trips

HC: usually wishing for more wind
MA: usually wishing for less wind

HC: reveille at 7 or 8
MA: alarm clock at 5

HC: commute a few steps
MA: 1/2 hour commute

HC: shower every 1-3 days
MA: shower 1-3 times a day

HC: sleep in small bed in large compartment with other crew, on the boat
MA: sleep in large bed in spacious private room, off the boat

HC: heads are fixed, peeing over the side is discouraged (in daylight)
MA: head is removable, peeing over the side is encouraged

HC: very particular ways of doing things just so
MA: entirely different ways of doing things just so

HC: the one right way to do things changes with different officers
MA: the one right way to do things changes with different officers

HC: whistling on the boat is bad luck
MA: bananas on the boat are bad luck

HC: get paid less to work more hours than any other job I've had
MA: get paid more to work fewer hours than any other job I've had

Resolution.

2008-08-20T18:42:00.002-07:00

I am going to post every day for the next four days. That's [counting on fingers] five days in a row.

No, really. I'm gonna!

Three on the Third: Earlier Than July's!

2008-08-05T21:03:00.003-07:00

I made some comics (and I even posted them before the 10th this time). See many more wonderful August 3rd comics at the Three on the Third Website, including (ohmygoodness) three brand-new talented artists!

Now that I've offloaded the Three on the Third info on another site, I should probably blog more about other things, like my life and stuff? Hmm.

Let me get back to you on that.

Three on the Third: BIG SUPER-SPECIAL ANNOUNCEMENT!

2008-08-01T00:06:00.002-07:00

Have you been wishing there was one site you could go to, one URL you could link to for all the info about Three on the Third, and all the links to all the comics since the beginning? And have you also wished you could see the comics as soon as they're online, instead of waiting for me to get around to posting links to them? Man, me too. Totally.

Well, guess what? POOF! Our wishes are granted!

Now there is an official Three on the Third site! You can add your own comic links as soon as they're ready, and see comics as soon as people post them! (Your existing comics are already linked there; let me know if that's a problem and I'll make them go away.) You can also help us improve the site, if you wanna, 'cause it's a wiki.

Guys, I'm excited. I think the site is pretty dang awesome. But I also think there is room to make it way more awesome. So please let us know what you think of the site (here or there, positive or negative)! And especially, tell us if you have any trouble posting your comic link on the 3rd. We want to make that as easy as possible.

Multitudinous thanks to Sanguinity, who did the heavy lifting in making this site a reality, and grateful pats on the back to those who gave us feedback in the early stages (you know who you are). Arigato also to Patchwork and Alissa for giving me permission to use their original artwork (above and on the wiki, respectively).

Oh, and if you've been waiting for the right month to participate in Three on the Third: THE TIME HAS COME.

BONUS MATERIAL: Here are three comics by Meep from June 3rd. She mailed them to me, and then I didn't get them until after July 3rd, and then I didn't post them UNTIL NOW. They are a paragon of simplicity and a clear demonstration of Murphy's Law at work!

MORE BONUS MATERIAL: Here is a diagram of a manual transmission, drawn for me by Cousin M. It is action-packed! (He is not dyslexic. He was trying to write the numbers upside down.) This might be the closest thing I get to comics out of him, so I thought I'd better post it. That's me in the driver's seat at the upper right. Maybe you had to be there?

Better Late Than Later.

2008-07-10T19:30:00.003-07:00

It actually isn't the scanner that I'm having trouble with. It's the mouse that belongs to the computer with the scanner, which makes it really hard to do anything at all on it. And I didn't want to connect the scanner directly to my laptop, because then I would have yet another batch of clunky, annoying HP software on my hard drive (yicch).

But it turns out that you can't put attachments into your gmail using keystrokes alone. So then it took me another whole day to remember that I brought a thumb drive I could use to transfer files between the scanning computer and my laptop. Without a mouse, it was an exercise in patience. And tabbing. And then I got to edit the scans in MS Paint. But do you care about this? No, you do not care. You are all "Hurry up and get to the comics already!"

Fine. 1 2 3

The third one actually applies to several days following the Third as well. I am a bad example! Do not be like me.

I also updated the previous post to include patchwork and alissa's comics, in case you missed it.

Three on the Third: It Came!

2008-07-05T00:16:00.003-07:00

I am not quite done with my comics but I can't wait to show you everyone else's! We had a lot of extra cool stuff happening this month that I can't keep to myself any longer.

Sanguinity warmed up with Two on the Second before drawing Three on the Third! Nice followthrough, Sang!

Recoveringmale fit four comics into one day, and also his comic blog is now sort of syndicated! Hooray Bu!

Upsidedown cat somehow managed to draw her comics while deep-cleaning and re-organizing her room. Clearly, she has superpowers.

Evannichols created an animated comic, and also a comic from Outer Space, and also one that outlines his entire day. It's sort of like a logbook comic!

Ashley made her comics all arty and summery at the same time. Ashley stop being so awesome it's not fairrr.

I also received some blurry cameraphone comics from Alfhild, but you can't really read them, and she promised me a better copy when she can get to a scanner. So I will post them later, and mine sooner. Okay?

EDIT: also! Patchwork and alissa did comics too! They just posted them a little bit later. (Alissa's website is not working right at this moment, much like the computer I'm trying to scan my comics with. Technology! Why must you toy with me so?)

Reminder:

2008-06-30T22:43:00.000-07:00

THREE ON THE THIRD
(it's coming)

Boot-boot.

2008-06-20T01:08:00.000-07:00

Today I went with Cousin K to see Uncle Lou. "Uncle" is a term of respect for older men in Hawaii, so while Cousin K is my real cousin, Uncle Lou is not my uncle. Uncle Lou is a retired fisherman, a laid-back, loquacious Portagee with a white mustache and a twinkly smile. He used to fish with Cousin K's dad, my real uncle. I first met him a week ago, when he gave me a bottle of aloe vera spray for the sunburns he predicted I would get. I have been vigilant with sunblock and hats, so my burns have been minimal, but the gesture and the ironic charm with which it was given ("There, now don't say no one in Hawaii ever gave you anything") won my heart.

Cousin K has come to look at a lure Uncle Lou is making for him, but also to talk story. They have got past the initial negotiations, and now they are talking about me.

Ask her what her favorite fish is, says Cousin K.

Uncle Lou looks at me, his smile skeptical: What's your favorite fish?

Taape! I grin.

Taape?!

You hear that? Cousin K beams.

The taape is a fish that no local fisherman respects; it is an introduced species that crowds the native fishes, and most locals think its flavor is substandard. It's a pretty fish, though, and easy to catch, and there are plenty of them, and tourists don't care. So my cousins have made the taape the primary target of their bottom fishing business. This means their overall impact on the local fish population is positive. Makes sense to me, but most locals think they're crazy.

Well, that's all I've caught so far, I shrug. That and one triggerfish.

Triggerfish? says Uncle Lou. Everyone will know you're a haole if you call it a triggerfish.

Yeah, they'd never know otherwise, I mumble. The color of my skin gets comments from every fisherman I meet; it's like having a tattoo on my forehead that says NOPE, NOT FROM AROUND HERE. But I don't tan well, and there's enough skin cancer in my family tree that it's not worth the risk just to get slightly less pale.

Not a triggerfish, Uncle Lou continues. Locals call it a humu, or duk-duk, or boot-boot.

Duk-duk I've heard, but boot-boot? says Cousin K.

You pull him up out of the water, what does he say? Uncle Lou asks me. What does he say?

I pause to picture a triggerfish freshly dragged up from the ocean floor, spitting out white goo and gasping audibly... Boot-boot! I answer.

You see? says Uncle Lou. He and Cousin K begin an anecdote-filled debate on which kinds of triggerfish are good to eat, and I inspect the latest batch of lures. They are sparkly and smooth, a variety of shapes and iridescent colors, so pretty that even I want to put them in my mouth. Uncle Lou is a master luremaker, but since he closed his shop downtown he only makes them for friends. His garage workshop is filled with the sweetly chemical smell of heated plastic.

The discussion of triggerfish ends with much skeptical head-shaking on both sides, and we walk back to the truck. Just wait, I'm gonna bring you some fillets, says Cousin K.

Bye Uncle Lou, I say, waving.

Don't catch anymore triggerfish, he calls after me. Catch boot-boot.

My Life Gets Awesomer.

2008-06-14T16:51:00.001-07:00

You guys, I can't even bring myself to blog about the last few days because it would just sound like an extended bragging session.

I am so lucky, it's not even fair.

Three on the Third on the Eighth?

2008-06-08T20:47:00.000-07:00

I didn't forget! I've just been a little busy. sorry everybody

Comics by me: 1 2 3

Comics by Alfhild: 1 2 3

Links to excellent comics by: evannichols, grrlpup, alissa, upsidedown cat, patchwork, recoveringmale
Tell me if I left anyone out.

The last week has been sort of epic. The tragic part of the epic is that I spent the better part of two days in the crawlspace, and, well... Alissa said I should scan my diagram to show you how much of the ductwork is now insulated. So here it is. The done parts are the scribbly parts.

It took me a very great mental effort to acknowledge that there was no way I was going to finish applying the insulation before leaving for the summer. I kept thinking it couldn't possibly take as long as it was taking. It's not like I was having so much fun I didn't notice the time passing. It could be that negotiating and re-negotiating every movement in such tight quarters multiplies the time involved. Or there could be some kind of weird time-warping field under my house (I wouldn't be surprised, this place is so wacky). Anyway I am not very happy about having this project waiting for me when I come back.

On the other hand, I did get the ducts completely mammal-proofed. There will be no more tiny whiskery visitors popping in through the vents. Gina it is totally safe to come over now. Also I got a constellation of bruises on my hip in the shape of a snowman-style smiley face! How's that for a souvenir.

Anyway the awesome part of the epic week was all the help I got from friends! While I was working in slo-mo under the house, Alfhild was zooming around packing my stuff into boxes and cleaning things and cooking amazing food and completing giant to-do lists like a sparkling whirlwind of AWESOME. Then sanguinity and grrlpup and alissa cleaned up my back yard! Sanguinity wielded Plumbane, Chainsaw of Legend, and lo the plum trees fell before her like mown corn. Grrlpup wasn't even supposed to help and then she totally did anyway, because she is An Unstoppable Force of Kindness. Alissa transformed herself into a Mecha Yardbot and worked furiously for I think about 8 hours, most of them without a break. She is not actually human you know. Then my yard debris and mousey old insulation were transported to the dump by none other than the Mighty Thor himself! (It took two trips. Thor may be mighty, but he is not omnipotent.)

So today there is some time for breathing and for saying goodbyes and for doing laundry. And tomorrow is going to be nonstop craziness while I try to get myself packed and cleaned up and cleared away without actually staying up all night (this is a little joke I have with myself). And then the next morning I fly to Maui! So this is the last blog post in Portland for a while.

Jroontime!

2008-06-01T23:39:00.000-07:00

Hey, it's Jroon again! By now you might know that with a new month comes a reminder: the Third is nearly upon us. It's time to locate your favorite pen (or other medium) and prepare to draw three comics about whatever happens to you on Tuesday the Third. If you've been meaning to try this but just haven't got around to it, Jroon is a really good month for trying new things! I wouldn't have named my domain after it otherwise.

So I suppose you're wondering what happened when I went back under my house. (If not, just pretend you are for a sec.) I have now spent a total of at least 10 hours just sealing up the air intake ductwork with metal tape. That's where the mouse problem was, and it was pretty easy to see where they got in. I am very disappointed with whomever installed the original ducts. They went to all the trouble of providing a very spacious, convenient entry point for small mammals, and then forgot the cute little porch light, mailbox, and welcome mat.

The best part about this was that the intake ducts are all on the north side of the house, which is slightly downhill from the other side, and therefore I had a few more inches to maneuver. After finishing up most of the taping on Friday, I was lying there looking out at the driveway through the vent in the foundation and wondering if it would be such a terrible idea just to doze off for a sec, when the phone rang. The phone was on the other end of the crawlspace, so even as I was inching over toward it, I knew I wouldn't catch it in time. But when I finally got there, I found a voicemail notifying me that there was still lots of room on the 8-11pm fireworks sail.

I wasn't planning to go sailing Friday night; I was going to work until dark and then clean up and wearily fall into bed (and then go help out all day Saturday). But... but...! I'll spare you the inner debate; I went and watched the Rose Festival fireworks from the Lady Washington.

It was really, really weird to go directly from breathing through a dust mask in the cramped crawlspace to climbing the Lady's foremast over the Willamette at dusk. Likewise to go from spending hours alone in the dark to being surrounded by people who were ridiculously happy to see me. But the transition was as welcome as it was disorienting.

Even though (as the weekend was booked full with weekendy things) that means I won't actually get around to installing any new insulation until Monday. BOO TO THAT.