In Which Wishes May or May Not be Granted.

I've been working on the previous Sunday Scribblings prompt off and on since last weekend, and finally finished. This story is a little more ambitious than the other stuff I've posted, as well as longer, and a bit darker. So it took me more time to finish, and it gets a page of its own. You can read it here if you wanna: Three Wishes.

(Just for the record, if I had three wishes: flight, time travel, and invisibility.)

In Which I Say Some Stuff About Stuff.

It's almost the end of J weeks, isn't it? Hm. Hmmm. Well, I saw an old J friend today. And... um... yeah, that's about all I have to report. Wouldn't you think J would be an easy letter? I did. But then I didn't eat any jam or Jell-O, watch any films by Jim Jarmusch, or learn to juggle. Oh well. Maybe I'll do better with K.

Stuff I've been up to lately:

I bought some stuff from a virtual yard sale, which is worth checking out if you live in the Portland area. Dan and Annika are leaving their apartment to live in a biodiesel bus while they share their neo-medieval music with the rest of North America. So they're selling most of their possessions. Note also that they're really nice people, and that this is a fun and efficient way to decide whether you want someone else's possessions before actually driving to their house.

I've signed up for a month of Bikram yoga, which is essentially yoga performed with great intensity in a sauna-like environment. I've only been to three sessions so far, and they say it starts getting much less torturous after that. I sure hope so. I know I'm a wimp, but I hate being reminded of it so vividly. The carrot on the end of this stick, of course, is that at some point I will become somewhat less wimpy. In the meantime, it's kind of throwing everything else off. I'm really, really tired right now, which is why I'm home blogging instead of at Bee and Spider's cookout with ah.

Speaking of the latter, I have a new roommate, and she has just painted her bedroom orange. Excellent.

And guess what else? I've been doing some creative writing lately! And posting it here! On my blog!!

What's that? You already knew?

Oh. Okay.

(Thanks for all your positive feedback. I'm overwhelmed and honored.)

The Decemberists - July, July!

The Books I Would Write...

Complete this sentence: "The books I would write..."
Notice it isn't "the books I WILL write." That would be too much pressure. No, this is a daydreaming exercise, pure and simple: Ask yourself, if you were to write books, what kind of books would they be?

The books I would write would require call numbers that haven't been invented yet.

The books I would write would float like balloons on a string.

The books I would write would reach into your skull and turn your brain around backward, so that you would speak in esrever and wear your shoes on the wrong feet.

The books I would write would make clocks obsolete.

The books I would write would scream when they were burned.

The books I would write would make you dream in color.

The books I would write could be chopped up and planted like potatoes, to grow a fine crop of new books.

The books I would write would ambush you in a dark alleyway and demand all your pocket lint.

The books I would write would be printed on seaweed, in luminous ink.

The books I would write would read you.

My Shoes

Of course I would rather have picked out my own outfit. But she did very well, considering. Not this year's fashion, I suspect, but certainly presentable enough. Who knew she had such good taste? You certainly wouldn't guess it to look at her. Not that I can boast much of a wardrobe myself, but I imagine she has more... resources.

I ran in to the house for a glimpse in the old mirror before I left, so I know that the corset slims my figure down unbelievably, that the neckline plays a flirtatious game with my bosom, and that I don't look like me at all anymore, or not like I'm accustomed to looking -- rather, like someone who has stumbled out of a storybook. She did something outrageously intricate with my hair, involving a lot of pearls and ribbons, that I'm not sure is possible by natural means, and there seems to be a bit of extra color around my eyes and lips. As I said, the effect is not like me at all... and is all the more pleasing for that.

So here I sit in this coach that isn't a coach, bumped and jostled about by the heavily rutted road into the city, trying not to bite my very round, very smooth fingernails. I can't recall the last time I saw them so clean. If only she could have smoothed over my nerves as well. She did a fine job with the clothing, I admit, but I can't help but feel that all of this is a terribly bad idea: dressing up an uncouth country girl like a fine lady and sending her off to crash the biggest party of the decade. What could possibly go wrong? Everything.

I think I can fake the dancing, at least. I don't know the dances of rich folk, but I'm a quick learner and light on my feet, as nimble with a jig or a reel as any farmer's daughter. I expect the banter will be more of a challenge. I'm afraid all the time I spend with swineherds and milkmaids will show in my manner of speech and choice of idiom, just as all the time I spend with books makes it obvious that I'm not really one of those people, either. But I have an alias ready, and I know enough to smile and keep my mouth shut whenever possible. Most people are more than happy to provide the talking part of a conversation, so long as you appear to be doing the listening part.

I think she had it in her head that tonight would be some sort of husband-finding mission, which I found incredibly funny. The party is a matchmaking soiree for the Crown Prince, I gather, and certainly my stepsisters were all in a tizzy imagining that he'd fall head-over-heels for one of them (and in a jealous rage at the thought that he might fall for the other of them). There will be far too many hopeful young ladies there tonight for him to give more than a word to each, and I can't imagine what I would say back to him even if he could spare one for me. Oh, there might well be some eligible noblemen hoping to pick up the crumbs that fall from the royal table, so to speak. There are possibilities there, I admit, but the possibility of... unpleasantness seems far greater. I must keep in mind that a fine lady doesn't reward a frisky-handed gentleman with a hard right to the jaw.

The dress definitely helps my courage, though. I rearrange its generous, shimmering skirts over my legs and, in doing so, catch another glimpse of my shoes. Oh dear. My shoes. What was she thinking? She seemed so very proud of them. I've never seen anything like them before; I can't decide if they will be the envy or the scorn of every woman there. They look like they're made of brook ice, swirled and bubbled, but you can see my feet right through them. It's a strange effect. There are my toes, lined up in a neat diagonal row, already getting a little clammy under the smooth, cool surface. The shoes look like they could crack as easily as ice, too, and I wonder how practical they really are for dancing. It's a good thing I won't be doing any running this evening.

In Which I Explain the Previous Post, and Some Future Ones.

I've been doing this thing for a couple of months now called Illustration Friday. It's a website that introduces a new theme (like "robot" or "feet" or "under the sea") every Friday, and people create visual art based on the week's theme and post it in their blogs, and then put a link to their site on the IF page so everybody else can see. I love the idea of it, but I'm not much of a visual artist (and I hate messing with scanners), so I just doodle something into a notebook and then feel slightly more creative for the rest of the day.

Illustration Friday always made me wish there were some sort of writing equivalent... and now there is! Sunday Scribblings offers a prompt every Saturday, so you can post some writing and then send your link to the site to be read. (I think the idea is that you'll have it ready by Sunday, but I doubt mine will be done by then, most weeks. I just did last Friday's illustration today, too.) This kind of low-key weekly writing challenge appeals to me quite a bit, even though (or perhaps because) as I look at the other submissions for this week's prompt, I notice mine doesn't quite fit in with the rest.

Note: If you're concerned about getting my fiction confused with my reality, Sunday Scribblings posts will not begin with "In Which".

Why I Live Where I Live

Write the story of why you moved to the place where you currently live.

I moved here after my parents divorced. That was two years ago. My mom said she was tired of taking care of me, and now it was Dad's turn to be a parent. I wasn't supposed to hear her say that, but I did.

I didn't know what to think about moving here. I used to live in Chicago, in an apartment on the fourth floor with Mom, and with Dad when he was around. At night I fell asleep to the sound of traffic. In the daytime it was always easy to find other kids to hang out with. I liked it pretty well, I guess. I didn't know anything else to compare it to, so I couldn't imagine whether living somewhere else would be better or worse. I wasn't all that excited about moving. Some of the other kids said they were jealous, but I didn’t believe they really meant it. Chi-town was my town -- we used to say that to each other, all proud, like we lived there by our own choice or something. When kids said that, they said it like they meant it.

We could have gone to live with Dad a long time ago, but Mom didn't want to leave. I guess Chi-town was her town too. I used to wish my dad was a lawyer or a policeman or a trash collector, so he could be around all the time like other dads; but now that I know him better, I can't imagine him ever being anything but what he is. Mom used to say he is a man with a one-track mind, and then she would shake her head like she does when she doesn't want to talk about something anymore. Now I can kind of see what she meant. When I see them together now, I can't figure out why they ever got together in the first place. Sometimes I wonder if the distance wasn't the only thing about their marriage that worked.

One of the first things I remember, when I was a little kid, is my dad taking me outside at night and pointing out the constellations. "That's where I work," he said. "Up there." Back then I thought maybe he was responsible for taking care of the stars, like keeping them in the right order and working properly, maybe like some sort of electrician for the night sky. I was just little; I didn't know any better. But now I do, of course.

Now I eat dinner with Dad every night that he doesn't work late, and sometimes he helps me out with homework, and sometimes we play chess or racquetball or watch a movie. He is a pretty good guy, my dad, but he gets distracted a lot, like he's working out problems in his head even when he's off work for the day. He really loves his work a lot. Sometimes when he explains it to me I think I can almost understand what he's talking about, but mostly what I understand is that it makes him really happy. Our apartment is a lot smaller than the one in Chicago, but it's still pretty nice. And I have a rabbit now. I could never have pets before, because my mom's allergic.

Instead of a whole neighborhood of kids, there are only eight of us here -- ten if you count Rosa, who is three, and Gaurav, but we never see him. So when you get in fights it kind of messes everything up, because you can't just go find some other kids to play with. And some of the other kids hold grudges for a long time, especially the girls. Especially Monique. At night -- well, we call it night, but we're really on East Coast time, no matter if we can see the sun or not -- at night it's very quiet in our apartment, so quiet that I have to play music to fall asleep. When I first got here I had trouble sleeping, even with music. I had dreams about falling through space with nothing to hold on to. So I would get up and push back the window screen and look out at the earth, and try to imagine houses and cars and playgrounds and grocery stores in that big blue smear. I couldn't really do it, but after standing there a while staring into the blue haze, remembering what it was like to live there, I could usually go back to sleep again.

We went back last Christmas to visit Mom. It was weird to be back on Earth again, and to know that I was walking around on the big blue thing I used to watch out my window. Mom lives in a different neighborhood now, in the suburbs with her boyfriend, so it didn't really even feel like going home at all. Nothing looked quite like I remembered it, not even my old street in the city. And I got this weird feeling when I looked up at the sky at night. It's hard to explain.

I'm from that place, but I don’t have a place there anymore. But the weirdest thing is, my home now isn't really a place either. It's basically a big box that floats in circles around the planet. It's all right, living here. I like the pool and the gardens and the zero-g room, and even Monique when she's not mad at me. But it doesn't feel like a real place to live in, a place I that can tell people is my place. I don't think this is a real story either, so I guess I've pretty much flunked this assignment. Sorry Ms. Baranski.

In Which It Came to Pass...

You people were right about that Irish book. Cahill makes history very readable. I don't agree with all of his conclusions, but I'd much rather read this sort of colorful, opinionated account than some dry factual record. I've had several ideas for other I books (not to be confused with iBooks), but the latest one to catch my attention is Indecision. The author is doing a reading at Powell's tomorrow night, which sounds to me like a fairly entertaining way to spend a Monday evening.

It's been quite a weekend. (Shoutout to my contra homies: tomorrow's forecast, 100% chance of ibuprofen.) I guess the most remarkable thing to happen was that my church had its final service today. I've been going there for about eight years, sometimes (I readily admit) more enthusiastically than others, and for me, the strongest emotion accompanying this closure was relief. Central had become a mere shadow of the church I joined in '98. I felt like we had all sat vigil by its hospital bed for ages, praying for some sort of miraculous revival, owing it too much to want to let it go. Now, at last, the plug has been pulled. There is great loss to be dealt with, and grieving to be done; but also, we can finally stop hanging out at the hospital and get on with our lives.

For others, though, the loss was more devastating. There were a lot of tears shed this morning, a lot of voices breaking with sobs. It was hard to see these people I love in so much pain. But to watch them offering praise to God out of the midst of their grief was one of the most beautiful things I've witnessed in a long time.

Indigo Girls - Reunion

In Which I Post About H Before It's Too Late.

The three books I've been reading over the past couple weeks are all historical in nature. The one I'm reading now is How the Irish Saved Civilization, and the one I started out with was The Hyphenated Family. The latter was written by Hermann Hagedorn. How's that for H cred, huh?

Hagedorn's book was a memoir, both of his family and of his own life as the son of German immigrants, in the period leading up to WWI. It's long out of print, and so obscure that I believe I am the first person to ever blog about it. I must have picked it up way back when it was discarded by my high school library. The immigrant experience is one of the few areas of U.S. history that I find truly compelling; all my immigrant ancestors died before I was born, and I often wonder what America meant to them, how they reconciled the old life with the new. In this book, the Hagedorn family never really severs their ties to the homeland, and is wealthy enough to visit frequently. It made quite a contrast with the other story about immigrants I read a while back. The title and author escape me, but it was about a poor Scottish family. The adults were so happy to have reached the land of promise that they taught their American-born children very little about their roots, speaking of Scotland only occasionally, in such tones as one would speak of an old love who broke your heart and whom you never quite got over.

The book in the middle was historical fiction: Catherine, Called Birdy. It was what they call "young adult fiction" these days, about the daughter of a minor noble in the middle ages who is quite unhappy about her father's efforts to marry her off. I would describe it as good fiction but poor history; though the author had clearly done quite a bit of research, collecting authentic factual tidbits about medieval medicine, cuisine, and hygiene, she never seemed to have a handle on the medieval worldview. Birdy was a lively and interesting character, but she seemed far more like a twenty-first century American teenager than a product of the Dark Ages.

So that leaves Cahill's book about the Irish, which I've only really just started now, at the end of H fortnight. But fear not: the letter I comes right after the letter H. No beats will be missed.

Hamburgers? Herbal tea? Hugs? Hospitality? Yes. Health? Sometimes. Homestar Runner? Absolutely.

Imogen Heap - Hide and Seek

In Which My House Smells Much Better, Thanks For Asking.

I may have fallen off the blogwagon for a while there, but at least I remained firmly aboard the ABC-wagon. Maybe it was just too hard to stay on two wagons at the same time. Or maybe I'm fishing for excuses. Be that as it may, F had its share of fun and frustration, family, friends, finishing projects, and fondue.

And G is for game, right? So I finally dipped my toe into the world of MMORPGs, which proved, as I suspected, to be a quicksand of the most vicious sort. Sucked me right down, it did. But when you combine pirate-themed adventure with game art reminiscent of my childhood toys... well, let's just say they've got my number.

But G is also for groups, so I tried a writer's group last week. It turned out to be one of those deals where people share things they've written and critique each other's work. I'd never been to a group like that before, and really didn't know what to expect, so I didn't bring anything to share. It was a diverse bunch, with poets and essayists and one other fiction writer, and several of them read things of varying genre and quality, and then everyone talked about what they thought worked and/or didn't. And I sat there thinking, oh duh, I forgot this is what real writers do and still somehow being terribly surprised and even a little put off by the whole thing. Nearly all my writing thus far has been for specific people, professors or gaming buddies or e-mail recipients, and my measure of success has been how well those particular people liked it. But airing my work before a bunch of people whom I don't really know... man. That's serious.

As strange and uncomfortable as that experience was, it would be good for me to have an incentive to write (or dig out and polish) something worth sharing on a regular basis. So I'll go back. But there's another kind of writing group I like better, the kind where you get together with other writers and drink hot things while writing in silence, and then you all take a break and talk about writing, and sometimes you end up talking about other things besides writing, and sometimes you end up doing more talking than writing. All of which is less counterproductive than it sounds. And all of which I did this afternoon.

* * *

One G tune before I go. You have to be careful with this one, because it will stick in your head and you'll find yourself wanting to yowl out the chorus at the most inopportune times.

Gnarls Barkley - Crazy

Which Concerns Dead Things, and Is Not for the Squeamish.

Generally, when I am going to visit my parents, who live a couple hours' drive away, I underestimate the amount of time it will take to get ready to leave my house. There is always at least one thing I have to do before I leave that takes longer than expected, so when I say "I'll be there about 3" it usually means I'll be there about 4:30. Give or take, you know, an hour.

But this time, I was determined, would be the exception. It was the time I had said I would leave the house, and I was going to leave the house right then, by golly. Only the dishes weren't washed, and I hate to leave dirty dishes when I go on a trip. But see, I knew that if I washed them, I would somehow lose another hour.

So I left the dishes. And when I got back, a few days later, the house smelled terrible. Well, you see, I told myself, that's what happens. Now you know. And I was so tired that I walked right past the kitchen sink and went to bed, and as I fell asleep, I thought, man, this house reeks.

Of course, the next day I washed the dishes, and they were definitely icky. But the day was nice enough to open some doors and windows, so I aired out the house, which made everything much better.

But the next day, when I got home, there was still that smell. And it had evolved into something I actually recognized: it smelled like dead things. Also, it was now discernably coming up from the basement.

I don't have a real basement. I have a crawlspace under about 2/3 of my house, and the other 1/3 is a sort of cellar, with a hot water heater and furnace in it. It's not exactly a place you'd want to hang out in. Many guests, when I point it out to them, refuse to even enter. I think it's cool, in a creepy way, but I still don't go down there unless I have to.

But now I had to. I had to go under the house and find out what was rotting down there. I hoped it was just a mouse, but a rat would be okay. Squirrel, I could handle. What I really didn't want it to be was a cat or a possum or even a raccoon. And I didn't want it to be way back in the crawlspace, because even though it has "crawl" in the name, I am not convinced it is a good place for crawling. At all.

I had time to think about all this as I gathered rubber gloves and plastic bags, put on my boots and grabbed a flashlight. I lifted the hatch in the back porch, edged down the ladder, swung open the basement door slowly... and grimaced.

There were five mice on the floor, sprawled in full view, as though passed out after a particularly wild mouse party.

Five! Why so many? What were they all doing there? None showed signs of injury, and I've never put out poison bait. A further search of the basement revealed another one higher up, at the edge of the crawlspace near the furnace. Six dead mice. I bagged them, counting them off aloud as I did so: "That's three, and three left to go. Only two left..." trying to distract myself from noticing what they felt like in my gloved and plastic-bag-covered hand.

I still don't know what killed them. I suppose it must have been poison. Maybe the neighbors put some out; I don't know. I'm just hoping this takes care of most of the odor. I'm pretty sure I didn't get them all; the last couple days when I got home from work, my house smelled like someone had been cooking meat. This probably means that there is one on (or in) a heating duct somewhere, slowly turning to mouse jerky.

But I don't intend to go hunting for it.

* * *

My cousin has an art show here in Portland this Thursday that you should know about. The show features three artists, and "will include encaustic paintings of abstract landscapes, and mandalas, sensual photographic works, botanically inspired, functional steel sculptures, art books that unfold like flowers, glass jewelry, wearable textile designs, and much more." I know she's responsible for at least the encaustic paintings, mandalas, and flower-like books, and that they are wondrous and well worth seeing, but the rest of it sounds pretty interesting too. The show is from 5-9pm at Rust, 1600 NE Alberta St.

I think my cousin may also be playing the violin at this show, as it is supposed to involve "flamenco guitar and gypsy violin." So here is some gypsy violin she recorded with a band she plays with:

Ginggang - Mercury Vapors
Ginggang - The Numbers
Ginggang - Zodiac City

Which Has an Awful Lot of F Words.

F, man. F is a really great letter. Fact and fiction, formulas and freestyle, feebleness and fortitude, flying and falling: F has them all covered.

I've decided that the two weeks of F are a time for finishing things, which is something I'm generally not very good at. I get a charge out of starting a new endeavor, but if it outlasts that inital momentum, I all too often abandon it. That means there are plenty of finishable things to choose from! Other F adventures include...

Fatigue: Most nights this past week I came home feeling like my brain had turned to stone, and it was all my neck could do to keep my skull up. For this I blame the (unblogged) events of the previous week. Frequently when I get this drained, I keep pushing myself and get sick. But not this time. I totally vegged out! Take that, germs!

Fruit: ORGANIC BANANAS. I've had some good bananas in my day, fat little apple bananas freshly cut from a sun-drenched, mosquito-ridden patch on Maui. Nothing else is that good. But these are close -- way closer than I thought a store-bought banana in this part of the world could get. Why didn't anybody tell me? I will never purchase those chalky, flavorless Dole things again.

Flash games: In Flow, you control a simple aquatic organism. You get to swim around and eat stuff, and avoid predators. And as you grow and mutate, you can hunt down and devour those same predators. Mesmerizing, and very pretty. Check it out.

Feist: is playing at the Wonder Ballroom on March 31st. The 31st is actually well into G territory, but that doesn't mean I can't fork over my fourteen dollars (post-service charge) for a ticket this week. Drop me a line if you want to join the fun.

Feist - Inside & Out

In Which Even E Must End.

I really wanted to do right by the letter E. But it's a tricky letter; you can't just accidentally do a bunch of E things, like you can with B or C. You have to put some effort into it. So most of the past two weeks has not been particularly E-ful.

I think I made up for it last night, though. I was trying to fit as many Es into one evening as I could, so I invited Evannichols and, um, Sanguiniteee over to watch an Eddie Izzard video. And then I thought there should be some kind of snacky food involved, so I found a recipe involving eggplant and eggs, and pretty much didn't follow the directions at all, and to my surprise it still came out more or less edible. The whole evening was extremely entertaining. Eddie is hilarious, that's a given; but the interaction between Evan and Sanguinity was a whole different kind of live comedy. They are both funny people, but when you put them in the same room, you get funny squared.

I already said some things about Eddie Izzard a while back, so instead, I will post some audio files from another pretty funny guy who also cusses sometimes:

Eugene Mirman - Being Jewish, Poetry, the Sci-Fi Channel
Eugene Mirman - Russia, the Atari, Obey Your Mom

If you like it, you can get more clips and video and stuff from his website. I can't vouch for all of it, but this one in particular makes me cry.

In Which The World Loses One of Its Oddest Inhabitants.

Dear blog, I am neglecting you this week, as my attention has been taken up with matters unbloggable. But at this moment I want to pour one out for my homie Ivor Cutler.

Two spoken:
Five or Seven
Picking Your Nose

And two sung:
Get Away from the Wall
Little Black Buzzer

(All of these tracks came from here.)

In Which My Neighbor Deserves A Batch of Cookies, At Least.

I've been reading this blog called And They Will Know Us By Our T-Shirts for a while now. Some guy in the midwest began it with the intent of recording the ironies and absurdities of working in a Christian bookstore. I appreciate his wit and writing ability, but I appreciate even more the tension he expresses between his commitment to the Christian faith, and his exasperation with the stupidity and ugliness involved in the culture that has grown on Christianity like barnacles on a boat's hull. I share that tension, and I know we're not alone, but it's not something I hear acknowledged by others very often. His posts have ranged from the deliciously sarcastic to the insightful to the moving. And then came the other kind of moving: his wife got a job in Portland, and almost two weeks ago the two of them packed up and came out here, starting a new blog to record their adventures.

So this afternoon, that t-shirt blogger and his wife, Ben and Nikki, stepped out of the internet and into my 3-D real-time world. We went to Stumptown for beverages and conversation, and strolled the more densely interesting part of Hawthorne, and cruised Mt. Tabor, and I got to tell them about my favorite places and how they have just moved to the coolest city in the world. I have to admit, though, it is even cooler now that they live here.

I like to show people a good time when they come to visit, but I saved the best for last. After all that sightseeing, we went back to my house to hang out for the half-hour or so until Nikki and Ben went to meet someone for dinner. But there we were stymied, because I discovered I had locked myself out when I left the house. Now when I've been locked out in the past, I have generally just gone to get the spare key from friends who live about 10 blocks away. So that's what I did, with Ben and Nikki in tow. (At least I wasn't locked out of my car, too.) Only when we got back to my house did I fully comprehend that I had locked myself out in an especially complicated way, by turning a bolt that I don't usually turn and don't carry a key for. So I had gone to get a copy of a key I already had in hand, and was still just as locked out as I was before.

Ben and Nikki took all this with good humor, yet somehow managed to refrain from laughing at me. I'm telling you, these are good people. Also good people: my next door neighbor, who, when I asked to use his phone to call a locksmith, offered to use his ladder to get in through an open upstairs window. Miraculously, he was able to remove the screen without damaging it, and then replaced it when he was done.

Of course, that about ate up my last half hour with Nikki and Ben. But it also pretty much guaranteed that they won't forget the day they met me. For the record, I would like to assure them and anyone else reading this that I'm not usually so airheaded. Just on special occasions.

In Which A Car Is Grit.

The New Orleans Public Library wants any books you can spare. New ones, they can put on their shelves; used ones can be sold or given to families without any. Ship them library rate (cheaper than media rate!) to:

Rica A. Trigs, Public Relations
New Orleans Public Library
219 Loyola Avenue
New Orleans, LA 70112

Because this information wasn't given up front on the NOPL website, but came from another source entirely, I wondered if it could possibly be a scam of some sort. I mean, what kind of name is Rica A. Trigs, anyway? But I googled her (him?), and turns out it really is legit. Which made me feel kind of mean for figuring out that the name is also an anagram of "tragic airs."

* * *

Last October I wrote here about recording some sounds with Piri and her "Arrowwood" project. Piri is now completing the album, assisted by several people with actual recording experience, and it's being produced by Pythagumus Toadstool and indie label Circumstantial. She has a myspace site up with some song samples. (Yes, they start playing automatically.) I'm not on those tracks, but I am credited as a "contributing member," which is pretty cool, considering my total contribution to the effort took less than two hours. Piri has also joined another band called Leoðsong Guild (another myspace link) which is going to perform live starting in a month or two. I can't tell you how to pronounce that, but I can tell you that I'm a little jealous and a lot in awe of all this.

* * *

Two movies that start with E: The Emperor and the Assassin was a two-and-a-half hour Chinese epic, the kind with lots of bloodshed, beautifully composed shots, and a tragic ending. I really like this sort of thing. China does epics a lot better than America does. My one complaint: too much emperor, not enough assassin.

Egg was a strange little Dutch film, less than an hour long. It was about an illiterate baker, a tad on the slow-witted side, who strikes up a correspondence (via his friends) with a woman from a personal ad. He is a simple man, and she is not; when she finally meets him, she looks for romantic cues, and he doesn't have any to give her. Just a wide, innocent smile -- which makes her acutely uncomfortable.

* * *

Your E track for the day:
Bishop Allen - Eve of Destruction

In Which Reggae May Be Found.

I finally finished Blue Highways. I have to quit reading big books at the beginning of the year, because I bog down easily in the winter months. Last year I started Dorothy Dunnett's Game of Kings early on, and I ended up reading it twice in a row because there was so much I didn't understand the first time through, and that took ages. I keep a yearly list of all the books I've read, and so far 2006's list is embarrassingly short. Meanwhile, I noted with some chagrin that pagefever had read 18 books by the end of January. She must take public transportation, I reassured myself, and then, less charitably, Maybe they were really short books!

But back to Blue Highways. The author, William Least Heat Moon (no relation), went on a road trip in the early '80s that roughly followed the perimeter of the continental U.S. He took notes and photos, and thought about everything a lot, and then went home and kneaded it all into a book. It's a nice snapshot of America, focusing on small towns, backroads, and people who've lived long enough to have more than a few stories to tell. Heat Moon is an insightful narrator, but I inevitably found my attention wandering after a chapter or two (and the chapters were generally 1-6 pages). I think this may have been because, when I am in the passenger's seat of a car, even when I resolve to pay attention to where we're going, my mind inevitably wanders and I stop seeing what's rolling past the window. You definitely get that feeling from this book, that you are sitting in the passenger's seat of Heat Moon's van (which he named Ghost Dancing), seeing America with him.

I told Truck this, last night, and he wholeheartedly agreed with that last comment. Truck is the fellow who loaned me the book. He is a connoisseur of the American Road Trip narrative, and this one is his favorite. I think his first book published will also be a Road Trip story. I think it will be a good one. I'll let you know when he does a reading at Powell's. Truck and I went to see a documentary (you knew there would be D's in here somewhere, didn't you?) called The Real Dirt on Farmer John. I really enjoyed it. I wanted less biography and more about the organic farm, but still: it was a worthwhile and entertaining film.

I haven't done an awful lot of D things this week. I haven't done an awful lot of anything this week, to be honest. I did get the roof patched, and I did do my taxes, in the hope of acquiring funding for more comprehensive repairs. On Monday I had dinner with Aaron, who has been my friend since before I knew that "friend" meant something other than "giant stuffed camel." (No, Aaron doesn't get an alias; he has an eponymous domain.) We reminisced about 1980, when St. Helens blew and we played "Jaws" with an end table standing in for the shark and a bunk bed for the boat. He was on his way to Mississippi, and after some months there, will be heading to Afghanistan for a year. I am happy to say that he fully intends to blog this Excellent Adventure.

So today I'm trying to fit in a few last-minute D activities. I went to the Daily Grind and bought some dates and dried figs, and to Movie Madness, where I rented Dear Frankie. And later in the evening, I will dust off my cardboard harp and play some songs in the key of D dorian.

This song is not in the key of D dorian:
Desmond Dekker - Israelites

In Which the Novel is Revisited.

D for Dad, whom I spoke with a while on the phone yesterday, and D for dare: yesterday I met up with fellow writer recoveringmale (who also starts with D) in order to re-read our novels for the first time since November. You wouldn't think you'd need company for an activity like this, but honestly I don't know when I would have got around to it otherwise. I'm not sure I can explain why it was so hard (and it isn't always; I didn't feel this way last year), but I know that to some degree it was getting more difficult the longer I waited. Knowing that somebody else was doing the same thing nearby made it easier.

I got about 1/4 into the story before the coffeeshop started pre-closing activities. I have not yet returned to it, but the verdict is: boring! It's so tedious. It doesn't move. I haven't finished it yet, and I think it gets livelier eventually, but I have a vague feeling that if it has any future at all, it might be better to reduce it by about half and use it as Part I of a larger story.

D for deals: if there's anything more satisfying to my stingy Scottish blood than getting good stuff for cheap, it's getting good stuff for free. And also, finding good homes for stuff I don't need anymore, because I hate to throw things out. So I want to share something with you that makes me very happy indeed: the swap.

It pops up in various places and under various names, and it has different forms and rules, but what it comes down to is that you have stuff to get rid of and stuff you want, and so do other people, and thanks to the internet, you can pool your unwanteds and everybody wins. It's good for your wallet and good for the planet. Here are three of the best-realized swaps I am currently aware of. May their tribe increase.

PaperBackSwap: Step 1: Mail your old books to people who really want them. Step 2: Other people mail you books you really want. Step 3: Rejoice! This is a credit-based system, where every book you send earns you an opportunity to request not only paperbacks, but hardbacks and audiobooks as well. There's a friendly database that keeps track of your offers and requests, and a customized mailer you can print out and ship your books in. Nice.

Portland Petite Clothing Exchange: If you are a small woman, and you live in Portland, you can clean out your wardrobe and restock it at these well-attended monthly events. (Rumor has it that a medium-sized swap is also in the works.) If you don't fit these qualifications but you wish there were something like this for you, consider that all this was begun by one very determined (and very tiny) person.

Freecycle: Oh, surely you've heard of this one. Every town on the planet has one now. (Yeah, I'm exaggerating, but not much.) The way it works is, you post stuff you don't want, and you keep an eye out for stuff you do. Any kind of stuff: furniture, appliances, toys, records, fill dirt, you name it. Maybe you are one of those people who watches the list like a hawk for things you might want. Or maybe you are one of those people who only uses it to get rid of things. Either way, you win. Craigslist also has a free section which works the same way, and (in my town at least) gets quite a bit of traffic.

Which Contains a Word I Can't Spell.

One of those things I did during C weeks that I didn't tell you about was get a caller ID box. Now when I come home, I don't have to wonder how many people called me and didn't leave a voicemail; the box tells me NO CALLS. THAT'S RIGHT, NOBODY CALLED YOU, it says. QUIT CHECKING ALREADY. Today I had 1 CALL and I was kind of excited about that, but the person who rang me up is apparently named UNKNOWN CALLER. Huh. I can't recall meeting anyone by that name. Well, if you're reading this, UNKNOWN CALLER, you can call back now; I'm home!

I just got back from the last session of my chigong (or chi kung, or qigong, or xlrqmdv) class. This is what I was referring to when I said I was getting an early start on a C activity. Actually, tonight marks the end of the first of two sessions, the second building on the first, but I am not going back for more. At least, not from this teacher. Don't get me wrong, I really liked her; like, I think if we had gone to school together, we probably would've hung out. But her instructional style just wasn't working for me. What I really wanted was either a) a sense of progress toward a definite learning goal throughout the course, or b) to walk away from most class sessions feeling really good (energized and/or relaxed). But I didn't get either one of those. I mostly just felt confused, stupid, and/or bored. I spent a lot of time trying to figure out why, and though I won't bore you with all of the possible reasons I came up with, part of the problem may have been that this was the first class she had ever taught. I am sure she will improve, but I don't want to be her guinea pig.

The xlrqmdv was cool, though. She talked a lot (a lot) about the amazing benefits it can have for your body, and I could see how that could be true. Some of the movements are really neat, all flowy and centering and challenging without being painful. I have heard/read that it is dangerous to try and learn this stuff from a book or video; you need an instructor to make sure you aren't learning it wrong. But I am not a good kinetic learner. I am good with stuff on paper though.

Hmm.

Well, there are lots of other tj!ckuongg instructors in this area, even just at different community centers, and I will likely try another class later this year. I probably won't even wait for the Fortnight of Q. I may take another yoga class first though. In yoga you always get to just lie on the ground and breathe for a while. I am pretty good at that.

In Which D is for Drowsy.

One thing I like about watching movies with Spider is that we always end up close. Not snuggling, just sort of subtly leaning in, shoulders or knees brushing or pressed together, in such a way that it always seems like an accident neither of us are willing to back down from. We have a tacit understanding that we are neither of us romantically interested in the other, for half a dozen really good reasons, so that's pretty much as exciting as things get between us. But it does make for a cozy movie experience.

Last night he rented Broken Flowers (which turned out to be my favorite movie I've seen yet this year), and we started it sitting a good yard apart on the wide leather sofa. Over the course of the movie we tilted sideways toward each other like two halves of a drawbridge, so that by the time the credits rolled, we were both lying flat with the crowns of our heads touching. I inhaled the scent of his weird papaya shampoo and watched the names scrolling by sideways through half-lidded eyes.

"Is that Ethiopian music putting you to sleep?" I asked after a while.

"Kinda." His voice sounded strange, echoing through both our skulls. "Why, is it doing a number on you too?"

"... Yeah."

See if it doesn't make you drowsy as well:
Mulatu Astatqé - Tezeta (Nostalgia)

In Which C Concludes and D Descends.

I think the definitive word for C weeks was cantankerous. I mean when I had an evening at home in the last two weeks with time to sit down and blog, and I wasn't caught off guard by that darn bedtime alarm, I found that I was just too cranky to write for public consumption. I had some good stuff to write about, but every silver lining had a cloud, y'know? I admire people who can spin a readable blog post out of a foul mood, but I didn't have the guts for it.

Anyway, I hope that's past now. Today certainly felt like a fresh start, what with sunshine and happy music and a good sermon (the heartening kind, not the kind that makes you feel kicked in the shins), and some laughs with ah over hotcakes and milkshakes, and then a good nap. I had forgotten how delicious it is to fall asleep in any random spot in my house when sunlight is pouring through the windows.

And just for the record, there were a lot of C activities that I could have written about. There was a slightly surreal episode of cleaning, with children and chemicals. There was the day I went to two different churches and found them a study in contrasts. There's the chigong class I've been attending, which has actually been kind of a disappointment, though I think I would really like it with a different teacher. (If you've never heard of chigong, think tai chi; they're not the same, but they appear so to the casual Western observer.) I also went to Cosmic Monkey Comics, and also back to that neat CD store (though I didn't buy anything this time). And I got some basic instruction on how to use this cool old Canon SLR that I've had for a while now, a grown-up camera from the early '80s, and I went to a concert, not the classical kind but the kind where the kids stand around bobbing their heads. (It was Stars, with the Elected. At the Aladdin. If you were wondering.)

So now it's time for D. Hmm, my list of D ideas is a lot shorter than the C one. Which is probably good. Yesterday I took a tour of the west half of my attic, inspired by a brown spot in my living room ceiling, and found that the roof on that side is pretty much done for. Subsequently, the roll bar on my vacuum cleaner quit spinning, and one of the buttons on my alarm clock popped out and slid deep into the body of the clock. If this keeps up, I'm definitely not going to be bored.